Four days ago
These women dreamed in the sunlight
And now there are babies
Wriggling at their breasts.
Four days ago
These were babies crying
And now they are running everywhere
Playing huntsman.
Four days ago
These were boys playing
And now they practice shooting
And ask about their father.
Changing Woman said:
Such a dream I had.
The Sun himself took me as I slept!
I would not have thought him
Such a careful lover.
White Shell Woman said:
I slept, and as I slept
Old Sun, that sly fucker,
Came down and slipped it in me.
I woke still wet.
There they go again, stupid birds.
They’ve been flying up and down the Ridge
All fall.
As if that would bring him back.
If you believe in fairies, they will show up sooner or later.
However, because fairies do not believe in Time,
They may come long after you have stopped believing in them.
In fact this is the most likely thing.
Fairies are both curious and easily bored.
They are fascinated by objects of all kinds.
For example, they are fascinated by clothes, although
It is a fact that fairies do not ultimately care for clothes.
However, because they are curious,
They may try on all of yours,
Then discard them on the floor next to the hamper
Or maybe somewhere else
Which is in fact the most likely thing, because
Fairies do not believe in Order.
Very few people know this about fairies,
Mostly they assume that fairies are just very hard to please.
Veery and Vole and the Vinegar Fly
Decided to go to the top of the sky.
But Vole couldn’t fly, though of course he would try;
“Do not think us unkind,” Veery said with a sigh,
“We must leave you behind!” And they bade him Good-bye.
And then Vinegar Fly – though of course he could fly –
Couldn’t fly very fast; couldn’t fly very high.
He grew weary, and cried out to Veery, “Please try
To go slower, and lower!” But Veery said, “I
Am a high-flying bird, and I cannot comply!”
And so Veery went on all alone — which is why
Veery and Vole and the Vinegar Fly
Do not get along.
And that is my song.
Woodman, spare that tree!All right, fine, I’ll harm it not!
Although it’s clearly got the rot.
You needn’t threaten me–I’ll go!
But first, there’s something you should know:
When comes a storm, this tree will fall
Upon your house, and crush you all:
Your mother, father, sisters too,
Will all be dead because of you.
Continue reading
(a found poem, from the works of Washington Matthews)
It has lasted eight days before
the four singers,
after long and tedious instruction by the shaman,
come out
to sing this song.
Five hundred people are, perhaps, assembled
to witness the public ceremonies
of the night;
some have come
from the most distant parts
of the wide
Navajo
territory; all are preparedto hold their vigil until dawn.
A score or more of critics are in the audience
who know the song by heart and are
alert to discover errors.
It is a long song,
and consists almost exclusively of
meaningless
or archaic
vocableswhich convey no idea to
the mind of the singer. Yet not
onesyllable
may be forgotten
ormisplaced.
Ifthe slightest error is made,
it is at once proclaimed by the assembled critics,
the fruitless ceremony comes to an end, and
the five hundred disappointed spectators
disperse.
But
fortunatelythey are not as particular with all their songs
as they are
with this.
When a baby meets a baby
Coming through the rye
Says the baby to the baby
I must poke you in the eye.
When a baby meets a baby
Walking through the wheat
Says the baby to the baby
I must tread upon your feet
When a baby meets a baby
And the baby says Hello
They may play until the baby says
It’s time for you to go.
When a baby meets a baby
Coming through the corn
Says the baby to the baby
You will wish you weren’t born
When a baby meets a baby
And the babies start to play
They will play until the baby says
It’s time to go away.
So when a baby meets a baby
Coming through the rye
Says the baby to the baby
Better pass the baby by.
Q: What do you see as the future of poetry?
A: Oblivion.
Ever since I first noticed “my blood
setting out on its long journey beyond the skin”
I have been pondering that line.
I wrote it, sure, but
What the hell does it mean, you know?
Must be part of the dark speech of silence,
I guess.
But it’s here, and so are we.
So I keep rephrasing the question
Endlessly,
Hoping the answer might somehow change,
Becoming accessible.
Or at least that, you know,
It might make sense
One day.
I’ve seen you out there by the barn,
surreptitiously tucking away your meditative, image-driven lyrics
Between hard covers,
Thinking that absolves you, that it’s enough.
Well, no, goddammit.
I mean, really, I don’t have to explain it to you, do I?
God damn it, get out there and sell us some poetry!
Are you with us, or against us?
Bag of Anything 