i watch
and wait
and wish
we could talk
of more
than day
to day
trivialities
tongue-tied
and remote
by nature
my words
fall fleeting
like dust
or butterflies
ephemeral
instead
i whisper
these poems
to you
(may 2011)
-
Wisps
Last night I dreamed of making love to you
I awoke and could still feel your smooth back
And soft brown hair between my fingertipsDuring the day your soft smile from the couch
The way your smooth hair falls framing your eyes
Makes me desire to press my lips to yoursThis vision as much a dream as at night
Slips away among the constant tumult
Of the separate lives we lead aloneSo I write yet another poem for you
A soft lament for possibilities
That hover on the verge of my wakingThoughts of you interlace my days and nights
Softly like spider’s silk upon the wind
(May 2011)
-
from Primogenitive folly (40)
If what I have to say is of so little import that I have to say it repeatedly, like an ad blaring from a newspaper or television, then it is worthless enough to write down so that it may, possibly, be read more than once. Is it fear of being misunderstood that drives me to scratch my cramped hand across the page with such diligence? Or an obsessive desire to control the message, if any, or to exert my will upon the text? And what about all those metaphors embedded in the words: scratch, cramped, desire, control, exert, embedded? The message, if any, takes on a meaning of its own like the darkness a thief cloaks himself in after slipping out the door. Yet now as I paused to read back what I wrote – – I stumbled on the stairs, thinking: That’s it, that’s the point! – – So I missed a step, (both literally and metaphorically) as it were, and wound up on another tangent without hope of reconnection to my original,yet banal, thought.
(August 2001-April 2003)
-
Where Was the Son?
by
I have a student’s father who wishes for his son to pass the year. His son never comes to class. If he does come to class he comes 20 minutes late, so he is technically absent. When he does come to class he does not bother to find out what the class is doing; instead, he plays with his phone, or puts his head on the desk. I have talked to the father repeatedly, both in person and through email. The father, at the end of each six weeks, comes and gets work for the son to make up. The son does not do it, or does not do enough of it to pass. I am meeting with the father tomorrow, the father wants his son to be able to make up the work for the the six weeks that have already passed by. I feel it is an insult to my class and my students; they have worked all year, coming to class, reading books, writing essays. They are passing. He is not.
-
Layering
I run through my obsessions
Like penitents over wooden beads
Chanting the same words
Until all obliterates beneath
The mortar and pestle of languageHow can I trust others
When I cannot trust myself
So many layers of belief
(all true) to move through
like archeologists throughsedimentary rock
What was once seafloor
Shows sea life on mountaintops
There is always an explanation
If I sift through enough siltFinger each thickened lump
Until it dissolves in my hands
I might glean some truth
Upon which to layer like an oyster
A balm upon all that irritates me(April 2011)
-
Eros Flits Briefly Across the Room
I, of course, instantly notice
The bare skin of your back exposed
Between the top of your blue jeans
And your blouse as you, oblivious
To my wandering gaze, sit reading.
I wish, like a boy on his first date
Longing for a kiss, to lightly run
My finger tips across your patch
Of skin as a prelude of caresses
Still to come. Yet, as is too often
The excuse, there is too much to
Do for the day: another paper to
Grade, a dinner to plan; so I move
On toward yet another distraction.(April 2011)
-
Tumbling and Fumbling
by
“So close and yet so far away
And all the things I’d hoped to say
Will have to go unsaid today
Perhaps until tomorrow”
– -Townes Van ZandtAgain I fall before your charm,
My brooding befuddled by small talk;
I think of light replies too late
Driving home replaying conversations,
Reshaping meaning to suit obsessions.The delusions of my truths
Trouble with their desert shimmer;
An oasis I desire, yet fear exists
Only in the thirst for it to exist,
“and that leaves only sorrow.”(April 2011)
-
Among the Ruins
I pick through the rubble
For remnants of my heart.
All these troubled, shattered
Parts (my students, my friends,
My family, my self, all
The detritus that falls
Along the way) stand like
Broken teeth cutting my tongue
As I try to speak of things
Best left unspoken. Not
Out of some misguided
Etiquette do I keep silent,
Rather a deep exhaustion
With having to explain motives,
Rationales, deep beliefs
Developed through time, both
To myself and the ever-present
Judges of normality, while
Remaining cognizant of the
Fragility of our souls
To hear the unfettered opinions
We speak when we are alone.
It is hard enough to follow
The blade of pointed self-reflection
As it descends deeper through the layers
Of deception I donned with such ease;
Much less so to slice into the soul
Of another for the sheer delight
Of proving I can eviscerate
You as easily as I surrender my own skin.
And so I move through the smoldering heaps,
The maudlin nodes of my mistakes,
Treasuring each emotional shard
I unearth as if it meant something
More than what I make of my life. -
I feel a Disturbance in the Force
by
I am frustrated with the world. I blew up in class today. The genetics of my father flowed out of me: one crazy red-faced Irishman. But that was the end result of an overall deep downturn in my psyche over the last couple of days. I am not sure what caused this fall. I noticed years ago that I tend to fluctuate between feeling ok, and being depressed and gloomy. I have assumed that I was not manic-depressive because I did not have the ecstatic emotional highs. Sadly. I suppose this current emotional collapse is just a culmination of events comprised of Lisa’s loss of a job,the layoffs occurring on a daily basis in the building where I work, the state of education in Texas where 100,000 teachers will be fired this year, and the general turn to a fascist state exhibited by the Republican party’s attempt at gutting everything created for the good of people since the New Deal. But that would be too simplistic. I really am not that paranoid.
A friend, one of the more intellectually complex persons I’ve worked with in years, always wants to know how people feel about things; so instead of trying to analyze cause, I will describe effect. I have a tight constricted ball located just below where the ribcage comes together. It feels like the moment before one vomits from too much liquor without the dizziness or nausea. I want to cry over anything and everything: newscasts, sappy television, poems I have read for years, words. An overwhelming sadness sweeps through me, similar to how I felt, in waves, the year my mother was dying before I was prescribed antidepressants, and then felt nothing.
A few months ago, an old friend from Bread Loaf came through town. When she came to dinner she asked how I was doing. My quick, and honest answer was that I was happier than I had been in years, which is still true. I feel (think) that I am writing some of the best poetry of my life over the last few months (even though I feel no one reads it). I enjoy the conversation with the friends I have made over the years on both an emotional and intellectual level. I work with a collection of big-hearted, smart, funny, articulate people whom I love deeply. My three children are wonderfully fascinating young adults who I delight in listening to as they negotiate the world they are creating. I am still in love with the woman I fell in love with thirty-one years ago. And all of this makes me want to cry.
-
What Writing Poetry Feels Like
by
for an “assignment” from C.D.
Many years ago I felt when I wrote as if a geometric figure rotated slowly about three inches above and in front of my forehead: a green figure glowing red along the edges of each facet. I would trace lines (words) along the edges of this figure as I wrote, or thought about what words to place on the page.
That, however, is not a feeling, but an image. The image did create a trance like state – – a mandala, as it were, to focus my attention – – to not be distracted by the noise of the world, nor by the noise of the words. So in that sense I feel calm, centered and safe when I am working on a poem. I feel closer to myself, in a place I can speak with a brutal honesty, a space of stark self-evisceration, a space to hide beneath metaphor from myself and others; a place of enlightened obfuscation. -
Otherself 2
My skin itches as if something needs to get in,
A constant trend toward a location not here.
Angstroms of ephemera swarm like the hum
Of bees, the chatter of others; but not the bees
Nor the others: I am who I am,
A patchwork facsimile of all I hoped to be,
As are you as well. We are never apart:Whitman’s atoms, Lennon’s goo goo g’joob,
An interlaced amalgam of each interaction,
Of each handshake, each mumbled explanation
Of the last big game, of her last affair, of god:
Each a part of the tale I tell to myself
When too tired to push back sufficiently
To create space enough to breathe on my own.(March 2011)
-
Shapeless
by
Half-awake at five a.m.
A line, then a poem forms.
But the mind, like the poem
Shifts, a play of metaphor
Between the thing
And the thing
Translated.So, I can’t follow,
Or remember
Beyond a trace,
An outline:
Not enough to reconfigure,
To replace, the ineffable
With the shape of words.(March 2011)
-
Response
“Do we communicate in mirror languages, through some inherent sense of form, in every respect but touch? Do we ever know each other; know who we really are?”
–Susan HoweI become an echo
To what I wish to hear – –My voice to your voice
A whispery misdirection:In case I eavesdrop
Words meant for another,I worry your lines
Like a scar, a palmistryRead in a different text,
Weaving new clothFrom unraveled sleeves;
An old fool’s motley hopesFrom wilted narcissi
Beside a still pond.(March 2011)
-
Otherself
by
My skin itches as if something needed to escape:
A writhing turmoil with the liquidity of smoke;
The curl and twirl of a rose unfolding in time;
The abdominal ripples of a child tumbling
And fumbling in an amniotic swirl;
Wax as it hesitates between itself and fluidity
For an instance neither one nor the other:We are all more than we are within our skin,
A permeable differentiation between
Our belief and where we wish to wander.
We hold our beliefs loosely, like a cloak
On a warm evening, or the reins of a horse
Who knows the way home without our
Unnecessary awareness of where we are.(February/March 2011)
subtext 