David Young Poet

Poem for August, 2020

One Hundred Billion Neurons in My Brain

I counted them.
Right after counting all the stars
that make the Milky Way – same number.

Okay, I’m kidding.
I lost count.

Someone was making waves, and someone else
was summoning storms.

When materialism’s much
more mystery-filled than mystery,
what do we say or do?
That matter
matters?

I’m told that to count the synapses
would take me up around five hundred trillion.

But brain, counting aside,
you’ve not worked hard enough.
Once again, old cauliflower,
you’ve loafed your way through an assignment.

Mind your own body now, okay?

Use your two sides
to balance what I think, do, feel.

And please, keep dreams in check
both when you wake and sleep,
you blend of sparks and giddiness,
you bowl of blood and thunder,
you three-pound fist of spam and hope-maps
snuggled inside your helmet bone,
making your moves and movies.

Poem for July, 2020

Hearing You Read

ooooooooooooooofor Stuart Friebert

that’s a persuasive voice that makes
bread rise, slices it up and serves it
walks through each room of the embarrassed house
undaunted by domestic jumps, slaps, tears,
stiff sleepers, old windows, eggs, mirrors,
stands on a hill and interrupts the wind
using strings that snarl and entangle
to engineer reunions of the dead, the dying
the loved who were always hated, lesbian cooks
who made you notice sidewalks, Czech refugees
who lied, pilots chewing their neckties, gloomy
fishermen, hunters sniffing their armpits, listen,
it’s a rich soup where even the stones float up
while someone who came of age the hard way, descended
from sects who capered naked in the snow says gently
eat these they’re good for you they’re dumplings
swallow darling and close your eyes the walls
are buckling slowly from time’s terrific
soft tornado and you’re the type who’d drop
two tranquilizers and then count the bricks
Stuart, the town is yours as well as this spilled
bucket of tennis balls don’t stay up late
calm down rise up from the floor read on!

from Boxcars (1973)

Poem for June, 2020

Landscape with Wolves

oooooooooooooooCouncil Bluffs, Iowa, 1750s & 1950s

All that summer they could hear the wolves
as the tribes gathered on the Iowa side,
wolves out under the stars, in the distance
that jumps away when you stand on the cliffs
facing the river and hills to the west.

And then it was later, two hundred years,
and there was a city among the hills,
ambulance sirens, Omaha’s lights
thicker than stars, and the same great river
winding its course to the southeast.

I would go up there on summer nights
and I swear to you the wolves would come out:
bodies of wolves, the tips of their voices
calling the stars and the tribes together,
just as if time was a totally different story.

Poem for May, 2020

An early poem, from my Pop Art days.
I used to perform it with the National Liberation Jug Bank Front.

Will Tarzan Swing in Time

Will Tarzan swing in time
down on his tall vine
to knock the nasty priest
(whose knife is at the breast
of Jane, while Boy lies stunned
where the python has him pinned)
into the muddy river
where crocodiles slaver
lying in wait?
Can we count on that?

And will his friend the gallant
but badly injured elephant
overtake the foul explorer
(fleeing just now in terror)
who stole the sacred ruby
and step on the big booby?
Only in the movie.
Can the monkeys bear to look?
Only in the book.

That’s all you need to know
reader, now please don’t go
asking if nature imitates art.
See what you’d start:
explorer finds ruby is glass,
Jane is a bloody mess,
elephant creeps off to die,
python swallows Boy,
and Tarzan runs back up his vine,
more like an ape than a man.

Poem from April, 2020

Easter Ghazal

Dreaming the dead back to life: pleasure & gentleness.
Grateful for this miracle, this bubble of reunion.

Harps bounce & hum there in the firmament.
The fundament. Coining likenesses. Did you say something?

Bricks crumb, bones powder: this helps make potting soil.
Clay reproduces! Ploughs heal the fields they wound.

Today we trim the rabbit’s nails upside the hutch,
Nail up the bat-house, baptize each other with the hose.

I’m flame. A flag going up a flagpole. I’m
The beetle dropped by the mother bird, picked up again.

The heart’s a tomato with lips. Woodpeckers tap hosannas.
Sleepy blips & explosions fleck love’s radar screen.

Something rises. Something drops. Elastic days!
Tonight this window’s black with possibility.

Poem from March, 2020

Homage to William Calos Williams

Where I park
the grass today
is lit with pink

magnolia petals
same as the black
Chevy Impala

dotted with green
bud husks from
a maple and

in clear puddles
on the black
asphalt the gray

spring sky is
strangely mirrored --
a song that gives

the world right
back to itself
or the endless

cries the killdeer
cry around us
here -- cries

neither sad nor
happy, cries
violent and sweet

as spring itself
wild with
wanting to live.

from At the White Window (2000)

Poem for February, 2020

The Cutting Room Floor

You had your life
shot on location.

Now you lean back in the dark
humming softly and smiling.

But where are the best shots?
the bone face that rose among trees
the fast river in the empty park
where snow fell, covering the baby
the President and his assistant
struggling in the swimming pool
the distant banjos on the soundtrack
that rabbit black against the sky
and the effigy, dancing alone
at night in the wet meadow . . .

Back there
on the cutting room floor.

from Boxcars (1973)

Poem for January, 2020

Chloe in Late January

Midwinter here, a frozen pause, and now
some nineteen years since cancer took your life.

This month’s old god, they say, faced opposite directions,
backward and forward. May I do that too?

It’s much the same. Deer come and go, as soft
as souls in Hades, glimpsed at wood’s edge toward dusk;
their tracks in daylight show they come at night
to taste my neighbor’s crab trees, last fall’s fruit
shrunk down to sour puckered berries.

And where, in this arrested world,
might I expect to meet your cordial spirit?

You would not bother with that graveyard, smooth
below its gleaming cloak of snow. You’d want
to weave among the trees, beside the tiny kinglet,
gold head aglow, warming itself
with ingenuities, adapting, singing,
borne on the major currents of this life
like the creek that surprised me yesterday again,
running full tilt across its pebbled bottom
even in this deep cold.

Poem for December, 2019

A Doctor's History

I grabbed the doorknob and it burned my hand.
The door was frozen shut in that much heat.

‘And this is how you die. . .’ I dropped down flat
and slithered toward the door to the garage.

That’s where they found me, curled up like a fetus,
most of my arm-skin burned away, not worth

reviving, truly. In the ambulance,
I said it best: ‘Please, God, don’t let me live.’

I do burn cases now, a plastic surgeon;
when they first ask about my waffled skin

I know they’re going to make it. I explain
about my grafts, how thighs and butt and groin

supplied the stuff that covers arms and hands.
I don’t detail how many operations.

They start to think of life, of coming back.
I do not tell them, though, because they know,

that when you’ve been to hell, a part of you
will always stay there, stopped at that hot door.

.................from Black Lab (2006) derived from a story in
The Cleveland Plain Dealer by
Harlan Spector, about Dr. Mark McDonough, 7/2/01.

Poem for November, 2019

Two views of the Cathedral

1. Day
Shoulderstones, blockstacks, peaks:
we put it up to catch our breath.
Thumbs, antlers, ferns and flying bones:
we put it up to catch the light.
A million thorns to house a rose,
another mask for God. And then a mind
hushed for the few thin sounds of dream:
the knicker-knack of pigeons in the frieze,
the lunk of something closing in the crypt,
while a woman folds a large white cloth
in the wet yard behind the apse.

2. Night
Uneven candle crescent round the Virgin.
Casket time. The verger sees his breath.
High in the nave, the hunchback sees it all:
history is a slow march down the aisle, is
the countess sobbing in her heavy cloak.
Here a knight sat and felt his throat
fill up with blood. A crunch under my boot:
frost? mortar? salt? I tip my forehead back:
no roof, just dusty stars above . . .
We build. On the numb stone called fear
We fit the heavy one called love.

Poem for October, 2019

October’s Stem and Head-Piece

I’ve carved this pumpkin with a moonslice grin
and star-shaped eyeholes. I want him to go rolling
among the reaches of the universe, hung glitter,

and let the spirits spinning on themselves
among the ice, the burning dust, the gulfs,
the inky gasses, streaky bursts of starlight,

know how this blue sky and this honey locust
are just what the great gods would have booked
if they could order up a world of form and color.

I want him hinting of the wells of being here
quenching the greatest thirsts, those wells we taint
when we forget we need to sing the death-chant

that wraps me now, as I flush seeds and pulp and strings
into the rippling creek, then hurl the cerebellum
into the brush where nobody will find it.

All night the sallow face smiles at clouds,
licking the cream, winking at the wolves,
as pinprick after pinprick fills the sky.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .from At the White Window (2000)

Poem for September, 2019

Basho

Each poem is a tiny door,
or better still,
a window.

Light as a snowflake,
slippery as a whale,
poised as a candle,
silent as an orchid.

We’ve walked a long way together.
Somewhere ahead of us
a horse whinnies,
a crow calls,
a beetle’s becoming a firefly.

The horse and the crow are a poem.

The firefly lights our way.

(First published in Miramar)

Poem for August, 2019

Watching My Grandson Play
Mamillius in The Winter's Tale

. . . . . Lenox, Mass. 8/15/2010

These stories with their old and silly plots
whose meaning it may take you a whole life
to comprehend: how loss is always loss
and always also restoration – how
winter is spring, and even death gives life.

It’s nearly forty years since I first wrote
about this play. I understood it, partly.
Time says “I turn my glass,” and I knew what
that meant, a choric trick of sorts:
both literal (his hourglass), and then
as one deft figure for the play itself:
a tragedy, when Time turns upside down,
finds itself mirrored in a comedy.

And now this curtain call. Mamillius,
whom we all know was dead and can’t return,
dashes out first to take a smiling bow:
he’s not Mamillius, he’s Colin Young,
and we, as one, are rising to our feet
as tears run down a host of weathered faces.

Nothing is lost. And everything is lost.
It takes a foolish plot, a statue come to life,
to teach us this, and touch us, till we laugh
and cry, and shake our heads again, in wonder.

Poem for July, 2019

Dedicated to the memory of Jed Deppman,
who told me he enjoyed teaching it in his
Ars Moriendi seminar.

After My Death

. . . . . 1
It will all go backward. Leaves
that fell in October will float up
and gather in trees for greening.
The fire I built will pull
its smoke back in while the logs
blaze and grow whole. Lost hailstones
will freeze themselves back into beads,
bounce once and rise up in a storm,
and as flowers unwilt and then tighten to buds
and the sun goes back toward where it rose
I will step out through shrinking grass
at one for the first time
with my own breath, the wax
and wane of moon, dewsoak, tidewheel,
the kiss of puddle and star.

. . . . . 2
It will all go on. Rimefrost, mist;
at the cracked mirror the janitor
will comb his hair and hum, three boys
will build a raft, chalk dust will settle
in blackboard troughs, trucks bump
on the railroad crossing, soft talk in trees,
a girl practicing her fiddle: I know this,
I keep imagining it, or trying, and sometimes
when I try hard, it is a small stone fern
delicate, changeless, heavy in my hand.
And then it weighs nothing
and then it is green
and everything is breathing

Poem for June, 2019

Vermont Summer: Three Snapshots, One letter

Imaginary Polaroid

In this picture I am standing in a meadow,
holding a list of fifty-one wildflowers.
It is Vermont, midsummer, clear morning
all the way to the Adirondacks.
I am, as usual, lost. But happy,
shaggy with dew. Waving my list.
The wind that blows the clouds across these mountains
has blown my ghosts away, and the sun
has flooded my world to the blinding-point.
There’s nothing to do till galaxy-rise
but name and gather the wildflowers.
This is called “pearly everlasting.”
And this one is arrow-leaved tear-thumb!
Hawkweed, stitchwort, dogbane, meadow-rue . . .
The dark comes on, the fireflies weave around me,
pearl and phosphor in the windy dark,
and still I am clutching my list,
saying “hop clover, fireweed, cinquefoil,”
as the Milky Way spreads like an anchor overhead.

Robert Frost’s Cabin

He perched up here at the lip of the woods
summer after summer. Grafted his apple trees
into a state of confusion. Came down
two or three times a season to be lionized.
Mesmerized visitors with talk,
or hid from them. Or both.

Charles and I look in his windows.
There’s his famous chair.
The place is tiny, but the view is good.
We shake our heads at his solitude.
Couldn’t he have the kind of friendship
that brought us here together?

How can we keep from becoming such molluscs?
Easy, says Charles. Don’t live that long.

Hay-Henge

After the meadow was mowed and before
the bales were gathered, the students
erected a midget Stonehenge in the moonlight.
It stood there all the next day:
real from a distance, and up close
sweet-smelling and short-lived.

Since you left, we’ve had
wild blackberries, northern lights,
and one grand thunderstorm.
Again, these mountains have been
Chinese with their graduated mist.
Tonight it’s clear and we hope to see
a meteor shower. I’m teaching Vaughan,
who tried to show us another world
with images of light, and knew
he needed dark to make the light more real.

I shake my head, still lost.
I’m lucky if I find a berry,
name a flower, see a shooting star.
You and I cried a little at the airport:
each parting’s a model for something bigger.
But I don’t think the models mean much.
We try to take them as they come:
A trefoil in the hand, a meteor trail
crossing the retina, a black and glinting
tart-sweet berry in the mouth.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .from Foraging, (1986)

Poem for May, 2019

Reading Dominic Dromgoole’s magnificent
Hamlet Globe to Glove reminded me of this poem
I wrote around 1990, from The Planet on the Desk.

Hamlet Ghazal

Night in the courtyard. When did your mother
First betray your father? Who cares? Who doesn’t?

You see that cloud? The bird of dawning . . . sings all night.
“We could do Tamburlaine too, if you’d prefer that."

I will walk heere in the Hall. Pause. I’ll do it lots.
After all, it is the breathing time of day for me.

These swords are of a length? These bones? Books? Plays?
And did she let you come into her closet? Did they watch?

Oh, all these questions! Let’s just have some fun!
If the ghost comes back, we’ll toss some nicknames at it.

And lists of lawless resolutes, long as your arm.
The squeak & gibber of that lady floating past . . .

The road to the castle. The players with their cart.
The oldest jumps into an open grave, for sport.

Poem from April, 2019

Jaywalker

His arm leaves a dent in my hood.

He lies on the pavement, smiling
to reassure me.
Weeks later
the leak in his brain begins.
I try to imagine his headaches,
the murmuring nurses, the priest.
By then he is dead.

♦

Twenty-two years. I can’t
remember his face or name.
He came from a farm across the river.
We tried to visit his father and mother.

Tonight it’s as though
my brakes have failed
and I roll through the hushed sirens
past white faces, past
the weary Night Dispatcher, steering
my old, slow Mercury toward
the figure across the river,
the boy from the empty farmhouse
with his smile, his trick headaches.

I would like to light him a candle.
I would like to bring him a drink of water.
I would like to yield the right of way.
I would like to call across the river.

“It’s all right now?” I’d shout.

His head would bob in the wind.

from The Names of a Hare in English (1979)

Poem from March, 2019

Mesa Verde

1.
Drive up with me.

Show the way, magpie, across the invisible bridge.

Old ghosts, be near,
but not too near.

September, early morning, not a trace of haze.
Rabbit brush glows like sulphur
and the mesa dozes in sunlight.
The corner-eye specter on the trail
is a rock or a piñon stump
or a tourist aiming a camera.
Sun-shimmer and squint. The gorges
lie silent and waterless
like dreams of river valleys
that rivers never made.

Climb into me, Anasazi,
take my tongue and language,
tell how you came to farm the corn,
hoarding the snow-melt, learned
to be weavers, potters, masons
in the huge American daylight,
gathering pine nuts, hunting mule deer,
crushed juniper berries with water,
mixed them in cornmeal for our thick blue bread
-- what was our word for bread? --
and praised the gods, hunched in our smoky kivas,
singing over the soul-hole
the mystery of our birth
when first a man crawled out
from warm dark to open air.

We farmed till the droughts got worse,
the corn and squash and beans
shriveled and died, the game thinned out,
and we moved down to live
in the scoops and pockets of cliffs
where water seeped and food could be hoarded,
two hundred feet below the dizzy rim,
nine hundred feet above the canyon floor
perching like squirrels and jays
because the gods decided
(what were the names of the gods?)
that life had been too easy,
that snows should stop and water shrink
and we too nest against the canyon walls
mindful of hardship.

2.
Silence again. Silence in Spruce Tree Lodge,
at Hovenweep, Chaco Canyon,
stone and sunlight resting against each other
and no ghosts coming to converse
at nightfall when the stars spring out
and we stand on the rimrock, staring up
at the Bear and the hunters chasing him,
at the stocky women, grinding corn
among dogs, turkeys, children,
while smoke floats from the kiva
and snow-fluff crowns the sagebrush.

Silence, solstice to equinox.
Empty granaries, cold firepits, dry cisterns.
The sun walks through the canyon,
peering under the sandstone overhangs,
and the wind walks too, wearing pine-smell.
Skull-jar and serviceberry,
sipapu and alcove,
a ghostly sea of buffalo
tossing on the plains below.

And the light slips off
among the rifted mesas,
the dead are wrapped in turkey-feather blankets,
rabbit-fur robes, yucca mats,
and buried in the trashpiles,
while the living move south or west
in search of food and water
leaving it all to the sun and wind and stars
who lived here first.

The night is dreamless,
a star-chart, a crescent wrench moon,
and the air hangs quietly
a sea whose bottom you walk
looking up through the empty miles,
the rocks around you liked turned backs.

The sun cracks earth, the frost splits rocks.
What’s history if it falls away,
if the brick-colored woman
milling corn in the courtyard
isn’t kin to us, can’t leave this landscape,
neighbor horizon and brother canyon wren,
toehold and rampart,
the old river of belief
that pounds through empty gullies
like sunlight and moonlight
leaving them undisturbed?

Touch me. Moisten my mouth,
dazzle my eyes. Link me for a moment to the life
that wore on gently here
and left these ruins to the sun.

3.
In the swept museum,
smaller than hummingbirds
these people kneel and climb in little models
weaving their tiny baskets
hoarding their dollhouse ears of corn.

And who doesn’t crouch below some diorama
while sunlight moves across a mesa.
hearing the call of raven,
glimpsing the Steller’s jay?

I write this on an overhang, a porch,
against a California canyon
that runs down to the sea;
across the way the houses perch and nestle
among the live oaks, palms, and avocado trees.
Hummingbirds float through my eucalyptus
like strange little fingers, or gods,
while the raven’s shadow travels the rough slope,
wrinkling and stretching,
recollection of another life.

The hummingbird comes to rest, midair,
and the mind meshes with other minds,
lost patterns of thought that hang
over the mesa, across the hillsides,
in pools of light and shadow,
and make us bow in thought or prayer,
silence or speech,
while the sun that walked this canyon
when it was brown and empty
and will have it so again
carries the day away
through dry and shining air.

Poem from February, 2019

Wishing the Gift of Narrative

. . . .1

The story I told my children
had a magic pigeon, a gruff boatman,
and a cave beneath the sea
with a friend who gave off light
and a monster called the Ice-Mother
from whom they escape with . . .
with what? That story was so happy
we all began to forget it.

Then that’s no story, that’s a memory.

. . . .2

At the birth of the Virgin
all was confusion – too many
women crowding the chamber
and too much water: basins and wine jars
flourished in every corner
and none was allowed to escape
by leaping from heat in the quick
rhythms of steam. They say
it was all spring snow
and very recently melted.

That’s no story, that’s a picture.

. . . .3

It seems the murderous samurai
nailed his wife to a door
and threw her into the river,
and when her apparition
came to him in the mountains
he naturally went berserk
and was eaten by a lion
who had been sleeping in the peonies.
“Another trick on death,” he said
as his head poked out from the lion’s jaws.

That’s no story, that’s a joke.

. . . .4

What do you see in your mirror
that makes your hair rise slowly
until it’s a black wheatfield?
And how could you be indifferent
to the waterfall? Jack Bat
the neighborhood sybarite
pillowed his head on your navel
and gazed, as you slept, at the moon
which seemed to speak firmly, saying:
“Go down to the stone bridge.
I’ll pick you up next winter.”

That’s no story, that’s just a mystery.

. . . .5

The snowy owl swooped from the woods
to perch on the hen-house roof
and the angel who cares about barnyards
folded his long arms and sighed . . .

Yes, I admit, that’s good
but I want to be told a story
that is music drifting over river lights
men being happy and harmless
and great clouds sailing overhead
gliding toward you like ancestors
with arms outstretched, faces polished . . .

All good stories, then, are they about death?

Yes, death. And life. Yes. Life and death.

Death and Life were husband and wife
And they lived in a hut on the moon.

Time puts an arm around me. I feel proud!
Another story’s begun!

. . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . .for Diane Vreuls

. . . .From The Names of a Hare in English.
. . . .Left out of Selected Poems, probably a mistake.

Poem from January, 2019

Georgia,
even your snapshot
fills me with singing light.
You're holding Tom, you're standing next to
an amiable priest who came to bless the fields.
You're looking out at the world with love and trust,
giving yourself, steady as a lamp.
The tears that filled me up
fill with light now:
mountain light, sea light,
midsummer light, Christmas light.
Refraction. Rilke spoke his hope:
"That this homely weeping might bloom."
And Du Fu imagined the moonlight
drying the tear-tracks on two faces.
Whatever happens to me in this life,
including the blow that finally knocks me dead,
your light will remind me to love and praise,
the day coming up again,
the world enacting its own beginnings,
and everything moving in this earthshine.

Note: this is section 8 of "The Light Show" in Earthshine, 1988.

Poem from December, 2018

Thoughts of Chairman Mao

1
Holding black whips
the rulers rode
in the blue hills.

But the peasants were everywhere and nowhere,
a soft avalanche, gathering
courage; in famines
we ate the mules, tasting vinegar,
lived among rocks above the passes,
and gradually became an army
red flags snapping in the wind
and I wrote of “a forest of rifles,”
and of heroes strolling home
against a smoky
sunset.

2
Wars merge like seasons;
sometimes over hot wine
the old campaigners try to remember
who we were fighting that winter
on this plateau, that plain,
and whether we won.

It blurs . . .
miles in boxcars
doors wedged open
miles across blue-shadowed snow.
Hungry evening.

Artillery at the river
bodies in the rice fields
a black truck on its side
burning . . .

At night we could hear the gibbons
calling each other up the valley.
When there was a rest or a vista
someone would write a poem.
It blends and blurs:
conferences melonseeds sabotage
dungfires treaties mosquitoes
my great red army on the march
blinking in the sunshine.

3
Now it is changed.
I am the giant in the pageant,
toothy, androgynous, quilted.

To the slow roll of drums
my effigy speaks to the people
of harvests, steelmills, stars.

In the puppetshows I battle
enemies of the state
sometimes with blows and curses
sometimes with love and flowers
while Marx pops up to hug me
and Lenin takes my arm.

I would have done it
with poems! Instead
I have come to be
a red book, a pumped-up myth,
from Long March to Big Swim
surfacing, always surfacing:
said to have gone
miles through golden water
wrestled the Yangtze and won,
water god, flower king, rice prince;

the current takes me on
and it is no small thing
riding these tides, wave upon
wave of love, smiling, unspeaking,
ten thousand miles of mountains and water,
a chanting race, a skin on history,

until the people rise and go,
dispersing me.

4
At the end I enter a small room.

Stalin is standing there alone
hands behind his back
gazing out the window.

We link arms. We merge.

And the rulers ride the blue hills
holding their black whips high.

1970

Poem from November, 2018

Pacing Around in the Memory Palace

It’s Guy Fawkes Day, 1983.
Chloe and Margaret take the train
from London to the Lake District
to meet me there.
As evening spreads,
they see the village bonfires, near and far,
flares in the darkening landscape.

Chloe is dying, Margaret is growing up.
They share the magic of this moment
while I, because I did not travel with them,
attempt to share it each November, missing it,
and recreating it as best I can.

That’s how memory behaves, rewarding you
and holding back, both ways at once,
as bittersweet as anything
when you grow tired of bitter, tired of sweet.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .this poem first appeared in Plume

Poem form October, 2018

October Couplets

1
Again the cold: shot bolt, blue shackle,
oxalic acid, bleaching a rubber cuff,

a cow-eyed giantess, burning roots and brush,
the streak and smash of clouds, loud settling jays,

crows roosting closer – my older-by-one-year bones
have their own dull hum, a blues: it’s all plod,

but they want to go on, above timberline,
to boulders, florets, ozone, then go free

in the old mill that the wind and the frost run
all day all night under the gauze and gaze of stars.

2
Somewhere between sperm cell and clam shell
this space cruiser takes me places I’d rather

stay clear of: a planet all graveyard, mowed,
graveled and paved, bride-light and parson-shade,

or a milkweed, bitter, about to burst, or a dropped
acorn even a squirrel didn’t want, browning to black,

and I have to learn to relax with it all, to sing
“Where the bee sucks, there suck I,” though the lily

is sticky and choking, bees don’t suck, and the sting
is a greeting you never recover from.

3
“Steam of consciousness,” a student’s fluke,
makes me see a lake, linen-white at evening,

some amnesia-happy poet all curled up
sucking a rock at its black bottom;

oblivion tempts everyone, but I
would miss too much – whales and ticks,

the weather’s subtle bustle, blue crab clouds,
my kite rising, paper and sticks, a silver ember,

while the poem’s ghost waits by the empty band shell,
does a little tango, taps out its own last line.

4
But this fall rain, somehow both thread and button,
sewing itself to the malachite grass,

beading the clubs and brushes of the spruce –
all day I have sat as if gazing over water,

wind feathering the reservoir, stupid as a church,
and thought of summer: all those burst horizons,

mineral cities, rosy meat, clean seas and shaggy islands,
the wine cork popping in the grape arbor,

these things seem better and clearer and than gods just now,
raspberries hung like lamps among their brambles.

5
These leaves, these paper cutouts drifting my yard,
stars, fish, mitten, saddles: the badges and epaulets

of emptiness – last night in my dream
I was the killer, the guard who failed to stop him,

and the child who froze and was spared. Nothing lasts,
sang the crowd, and I answered, It sure does;

Is nothing sacred, roared the statesman – I do
believe it is, said I . . . I wake and shave,

still full of my dreamflood – oh skim milk sky,
oh brown star curling in my hand . . .

Poem from September, 2018

Suite for Jean Follain

1
In September there come to Ohio
clouds out of old Dutch paintings
above weeds in gold confusion
in overlooked orchards apples
drop in the wild grass
a baby strapped in a station wagon
stares at the checked jackets
of hunters stooping to gather
groceries spilled on the sidewalk.

2
Never came back to visit
says the old woman out loud
lugging a bucket of feed
across the empty farmyard
beyond her a shed is collapsing
terrifically slowly a cow
is chewing without expression
white stars pass
from a burst milkweed.

3
The evening has turned the blue
of a milk of magnesia bottle
and the big American flag
is snapping against itself
in front of the courthouse
looking up at the window
where she undressed he thinks
of wrens and tent revivals
and statues from ancient Egypt.

4
A wet stone beehive
stands in the middle of the garden
beyond the wall delivery trucks
occasionally pass
a smell of burning leaves
reminds the mailman of childhood
a fish jumps in the reservoir
in the graveyard clumps of honey mushrooms
blacken slowly in rain.

Poem from August, 2018

Vermont Summer: Three Snapshots, One Letter

. . . . . . .Imaginary Polaroid
In this picture I am standing in a meadow,
holding a list of fifty-one wildflowers.
It is Vermont, midsummer, clear morning
all the way to the Adirondacks.
I am, as usual, lost. But happy,
shaggy with dew. Waving my list.
The wind that blows the clouds across these mountains
has blown my ghosts away, and the sun
has flooded my world to the blinding-point.
There’s nothing to do till galaxy-rise
but name and gather the wildflowers.
This is called “pearly everlasting.”
And this one is arrow-leaved tear-thumb!
Hawkweed, stitchwort, dogbane, meadow-rue . . .
The dark comes on, the fireflies weave around me,
pearl and phosphor in the windy dark,
and still I am clutching my list,
saying “hop clover, fireweed, cinquefoil,”
as the Milky Way spreads like an anchor overhead.

. . . . . . .Robert Frost’s Cabin
He perched up here at the lip of the woods
summer after summer. Grafted his apple trees
into a state of confusion. Came down
two or three times a season to be lionized.
Mesmerized visitors with talk,
or hid from them. Or both.

How can we keep from becoming such molluscs?
Easy, says Charles. Don’t live that long.

. . . . . . .Hay-Henge
After the meadow was mowed and before
the bales were gathered, the students
erected a midget Stonehenge in the moonlight.
It stood there all the next day:
real from a distance, and up close
sweet-smelling and short-lived.

Off and on I’ve been pondering models:
I think they are all we have.
Snapshots, cabins, lists. Metonymies.
At Lascaux they’ve opened
a replica of the caves. I shall get
Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream . . .
The sun goes down beyond Hay-Henge;
clouds and mountains mix in the distance.

. . . . . . .Letter to Chloe
Since you left, we’ve had
wild blackberries, northern lights,
and one grand thunderstorm.
Again, these mountains have been
Chinese with their graduated mist.
Tonight it’s clear and we hope to see
a meteor shower. I’m teaching Vaughan,
who tried to show us another world
with images of light, and knew
he needed dark to make the light more real.
I shake my head, still lost.
I’m lucky if I find a berry,
name a flower, see a shooting star.
You and I cried a little at the airport:
each parting’s a model for something bigger.
But I don’t think the models mean much.
We try to take them as they come:
A trefoil in the hand, a meteor trail
crossing the retina, a black and glinting
tart-sweet berry in the mouth.

Poem from July, 2018

July Morning Vision

Did nobody else at the funeral see
The great whips cracking in the air
The sweat flying off in droplets
The droplets shining like dew?

My birds, I want to speak to you today
About your other lives as galley slaves.
Your singing, in case you didn’t know it,
Comes from the chants you made, working together.

When a galley slave dies and becomes a bird,
The whips trill, the long boats roll and wallow,
We ship our oars and listen, listen, listen.
On the horizon, lightning lashes the sea.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .from At theWhite Window

Poem from June, 2018

I Wear My Father

I’ve made his amber after-shave last out
through this whole year of missing him;
I wear my father’s cardigan.
I swear I’m turning into him,

saying ‘Yupyupyup’ to the puppy
as I bend to leash him, breathing harder,
pursing my lips as memories crowd my head,
settling my hat on firmly as I leave.

The other day, though, on the icy creek,
as a heron rose up from a crosswise trunk
I slipped and slid against the snowy bank,
cracked through the ice sheet, up to one knee.

The dog looked rightly puzzled. As for dad,
he’d not have been that dumb, I tell myself,
making my aging foolishness keep me
younger, somehow, and singular.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .from Black Lab (2006)

Poem from May, 2018

Two Trips to Ireland

1
Well-eye, gazing at daytime stars,
rain-speckle, patches of blooming mists,
a hillside white with water-spill,
a shower blowing inland at the coast . . .

All this water must mean something!

2
Long deserted glens in the Wicklow Hills
and an axe, buried in a tree so long
only the tip of the handle shows.

3
The small hotel in Gort, ale and roast lamb,
the midday drowse. Who breathed this air?
Who climbed these stairs? Time floats,
one face of a diamond, scraps of paper in the street.

4
From these ruined beehive huts
on the bright slope you can see
half the Dingle and
the distant winking sea.

Monks, who had to be
gone in the head.
Where’s their god now?
Look closer at the cross-eyed pup
that followed you up this slant pasture,
the heifer that kneels, gazing out
on miles of sun and rain-washed air.

5
And the wind, a mind that’s never still,
with its black thoughts, the rooks at Cashel,
its white thoughts, the sea gulls at New Grange,
all this tossing and cawing among great ruins.

6
Lisadell: cracks, tatters, stains.
An old lady in gumboots
shepherds a handful of tourists;
from an upstairs window
you strain to see the past,
horses like swans, peacocks on gravel,
cloudburst at four and dress for dinner . . .

Night fog. Ghosts in the garden,
ghosts on the stair,
ghost of an old fiddler, air threading the air.

7
On a back road by a tower
a movie crew. Arthurians lunching.
Why not? Time-levels mix like bones
in pasture-battlefield, bog-shrine.
Iseult still boils spuds for the pig
and Tristan, cutting turf, turns up
a Roman coin or a telephone cable.
That Viking ship below the Moher Cliffs
is a film prop or another fold
in the wrinkled suit of time.

8
The river Fergus
runs like a wild clock
by the tumbledown house we rent
on a cold lake in County Clare.
Near the ruins of the mill
I catch an eel and, feeling a fool,
I let him go.
A local rod and tackle man
who comes and goes like a ghost in the dusk
says I could have kept him ‘for a pie,’
then hints at what I ought to know:
the trout are far too smart
to let themselves be caught
by a man so trapped in time.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .from Foraging (1986)

Poem from April, 2018

That Spring

The river was fast,
            icy vodka
            all through April.

It snowed, then rained --
            chicken-feathers, dust,
            confetti from another life.

The trees rose
            fervid as preachers,
            peopled with hymns.

Wind knocked some down,
            snapped others in half.
            The dead pine stood, and the wild cherries.

I made buffalo chili in the microwave
            and the light stood around
            longer every evening.

Sheep watched, distracted,
            as salesmen and bible thumpers
            sailed past in limousines.

Thunder in a tall green bottle,
            lightning in a copper bowl,
            scattered in shards and pieces.

Tracks were seen in the mud,
            possum and squirrel, heron and crow,
            shiny and new in the half-light.

And one violin performed by itself,
            no violinist, not even a bow,
            the solo of a solo of a solo.

cfrom At the White Window (2000)

Poem from March, 2018

“Other Forms Were Near”: Five Words

HONEYGUT (a word for tripe)

Below the graded green of tree, bush, weeds,
it’s silent – barn-cathedrals of quiet, but
no space: rooms all wall, jam-packed with roots (white sprays
hard tentacles), pebbles, sandgrains, humus,
tigerstriped tons of rock, pods of water and gas . .

When you wake in the morning, rumpled and stunned,
the crumbs around your eyes are there to tell you
where you were lying all night, what you were practicing.

              OAT

Yeats stands near his old-hat tower in the twilight;
everything talks to itself – the river over its rocks, the moorhens,
cricket and cowbell, wind in the chimney flue. What he’s gaping at:
the Great Pyramid, trembling like a bubble above the trees.

“Willie is booming and buzzing like a bumblebee,”
said Maud Gonne to a friend. “That means he is writing something.”
Who can he talk to when he’s neither here nor there? Mumbling,
gaping. As the specters billow and fade. Ripe mummy wheat.

             BABOON

Today a summer thundershower makes her think
of packs of sacred apes. Long hair, a kind of skidding run.
Isn’t the animal mirror best? Those hours in the zoo
watching the young gorilla’s hands: black leather work gloves.

The trees drip very strangely.
A robin runs across the lawn.

Bright eye.          Serpent mound.
The breathing next to your ear.

             HAZE

Old, you were dozing at a window and woke up.
A stranger stood in the yard, the moon behind him,
so that you couldn’t see his face. Then you recalled

watching a kingfisher from a canal boat: it was as if
that blue pulse tore straight through you. We’re best

when the world shines us through like that. At night
knee-deep in mist, the traveler pauses at a cottage,
straining to catch his face in the empty casement.

             INSECT

Cow skull, washtub. Sunday-supplement portrait. Gloomy greatness.
The poem’s place in the world was “never in dispute,”
they said. Any more than a blizzard. Or a candle.

When the dead walk, do they need to use their feet?
How gradual it seems, going to sleep each night,
instar after instar. I pace my study, looking for a book.
The snowstorm settles in its globe. The small bright flame
is nearly independent of its wick.

Poem from February, 2018

The House Was Quiet on a Winter Afternoon

Someone was reading in the back,
two travelers had gone somewhere,
maybe to Chicago,

a boy was out walking, muffled up,
alert on the frozen creek,
a sauce was simmering on the stove.

Birds outside at the feeder
threw themselves softly
from branch to branch.

Suddenly I did not want my life
to be any different.
I was where I needed to be.

The birds swirled in the dusk.
The boy came back from the creek.
The dead were holding us up

the way the ice held him,
helping us breathe the way
air helps snowflakes swirl and fall.

And the sadness felt just right,
like a still and moving wave
on which the sun shone brilliantly.

........................from At the White Window (2000)

Poem from January, 2018

Definitive

And let the snow
come through the door-cracks,
the wind blows, that’s his job.

And let Lena be forgotten,
a girl who drank
the spirits from the lamp.

Went into the il-
lustrations of Meyer’s Lexicon,
Brehm’s Wildlife.

Intestines, mountain ranges, beach carrion,
and let the snow
come through the door-cracks,

up to the bed, up to the spleen,
where the memory sits,
where Lena sits,

the leopard, the feverish gull,
arithmetic puzzles in yellow
wrappers, by subscription.

And let the wind blow
because that’s all he can do
and don’t begrudge Lena

one more swig from the lamp
and let the snow
come through the door-cracks.

Günter Eich, tr. David Young (c. 1977)

Poem from December, 2017

Notes on the Poems

      1   Was found in an orchard;
      is three or four thousand years old;
      was probably made with poor tools
      by the light of an oil lamp throwing
      shadows against the wall
      that would frighten us now.

      2   Would never have been possible without
      that famous fog of December 9th
      for out of that fog came Geraldine
      wearing a dress of chipmunk furze
      with a grackle perched on her wrist.

      3   Whole families were involved here
      and the death wish and the industrial
      revolution. You say the third line
      about the bathroom in the grocery
      was troublesome; I ask,
      should a poem make more sense than Omaha?

      4   It is right, little poem about
      wandering and misunderstanding
      that you keep coming back unwanted.
      Small avalanche,
      always missing your victims,
      come here ---
       I open my arms.

Poem from November, 2017

Late November:
The Wolves at the Cleveland Zoo

We walked in the cold at the zoo
                to see the wolves – six females
out of New Mexico, who range and run,
                gray smoke across a brown Ohio hillside,
while people watch them safely from behind
                a wall-high one-way window.

Their window side’s a mirror,
                and they approach it often, liking
wolves reflected back to them,
                especially the Omega wolf,
bottom of the order, needing maybe
                a touch more reassurance.

Though they can’t see us, says
                the curator of wolves, they hear us
and they smell us too, so that they see
                themselves and also sense
a something else, perhaps an enemy,
                possibly even prey.

You walk back through the cold,
                thoughtful and happy.
Home once again, you glance
                into your mirror, then approach it.
What is that sound, so faint?
                And what’s that complex odor?

Poem from October, 2017

Six Ghosts

The Suicide

You think I opened this door
on an impulse. I wish that were true.
But the door was there all my life.
Even when I looked away
I could feel its cold outline.
It knew. Knew I would touch the strange handle,
take one last breath, swing it ajar,
enter that room
empty of me.

The Hunter

The deer that had bedded down
in the second growth by the creek
started up and was gone
before my eyes and ears
could take it in.

Now, among mind-shaped trees,
I run ahead of the deer when I want to.

The Sailor

If I come back to the moment of my death,
the ship coasting across black water
its sails half-furled, glowing white
and the storm looming beyond –

If I come back it is not regret
but because I am part of some huge dance
that takes me there, breathless and laughing.

The Simpleton

Soap and the moon and my crown askew.

The Poet

All of the words cracked open
and I hatched out
to the world I used to watch
from the distance of my head:
thunder-scrubbed rainbows,
ploughed fields like rosy cocoa dust,
and that voice, echoing behind me.

The Reader

Now that my life is a cool book
I have read once, I can come back
to browse. Often I turn
to a chapter where nothing happened.
Even that is unbearably full,
and I stare at a single page for days,
its strange marks, its wild white silence.

......................from the collection Foraging (1986).

Poem from September, 2017

Section 9 of “The Light Show,” from “Poem in Three Parts,”
Earthshine, 1988.

The world’s suspended, Chekhov says,
on the tooth of a dragon. Even that tooth gleams.

I’ve come here to figure out how light
streams to the wheeling planet,
a solar blast, photons and protons,
and helps it live. Morowitz
and Lewis Thomas tell us
that energy from the sun
doesn’t just flow to earth
and radiate away: “It is
thermodynamically inevitable
that it must rearrange
matter into symmetry,
away from probability,
against entropy,
lifting it, so to speak,
into a constantly changing
condition of rearrangement
and molecular ornamentation.”

Which is how I got here, I suppose,
some rearranged matter
imagining and praising
“a chancy kind of order,”
always about to be chaos again,
“held taut
against probability
by the unremitting
surge of energy”
streaming out of the sun.

Behind, above, below me, stars:
countless suns with the same meaning!

Before me, leisurely as a peacock,
the turning earth.

Poem from August, 2017

Phenomenology for Dummies

....................for Charles Simic

The blue lips of the sheriff,
the news of winter-killed rose plants,
remind me to finger your dreams,
their trees and wistful vistas,
the tables piled with food,
bottles of wine crying drink me!

None of us has long, we hear,
and just so many poems left,
with more than enough dull moments
to sandwich in between.
Time to get up from the table,
take a stroll in the moonlight . . .

Soon enough, God knows,
everyone else will be asleep,
even the small-time demons,
while one of us will be sitting up,
next to a lamp and a moth,
keeping company with a book,
waiting for coffee and dawn.

Poem from July, 2017

Landscape with Disappearing Poet

....................Miroslav Holub, 1923-1998

Global silence
in this village.
One rides
one’s bike
through clumsy twilight,
watched from deep shadows
by whitetail deer
who have been here three million years,
one of Pangaea’s eye-blinks.

Silence
in the global village.
A poet disappears, dogs
bark, cells and stars
howl silently, are born,
killed, replaced. Cesium
clocks race on, viruses
waltz with receptor cells . . .

In Pittsburgh,
a man on Medicaid, with a cirrhotic liver,
having nearly drunk himself to death,
thinks it’s unfair.
Why can’t he have a new liver?

A very poetic situation, you would say.
But you aren’t here to say it.

Globed
silence.

Motorcycles
race down Highway 58
like the black thoughts of ruptured steelworkers,
dolphins and sharks
play games in the blue deeps
where bottles of champagne
in tranquil shipwrecks
age at one-fourth their normal rate.

A diver may grasp a bottle
and bring it up to the air, the here and now,
pop the cork, enjoy it.

Here, in this globally
dislocated village,
your American hideout,
a heron flaps slowly and in silence
along the local watercourse
a little too tired to fly,
a little too tired to land,
while golfers take mighty swings
launching balls they will never recover.

Angels seem to fall
steadily
in a rain around barns and pastures
distressed by the way the cows
slump to their knees on the kill-floor,
as birds pull worms in graveyards
where human brains, neatly arranged,
lie unplugged in their cases,
and nude mice, in their cages,
sniff the air, always hopeful.

When a poet dies, you wrote,
a lone black bird wakes up in the thicket
and sings for all it’s worth,
while a black rain trickles down
like sperm or something.

Well, yes, and sometimes
there is just silence,
shipwreck silence,
hot July silence
like sperm or something,
in which the eggplants ripen but don’t hatch,
the modest weeds like chicory
flower along the roads,
mud-wasps construct
futuristic
gray hotels, and Japanese beetles
gleam like bronze lozenges
among the shredded roses.

Silence in the global
village. Again,
at dusk,
an opossum
tiptoes across the empty highway,
a mother, her pouched
babies born
the size of bees,
as though the placenta
was just a passing fashion.

Her prehistoric face
carries a very faint grimace
that may or may not be a smile,
like that of a master
who has just
passed over the River Styx,
joking a little with the boatman,
and found eternity
a little bit
to his liking.

Poem from June, 2017

From "Broken Field Running" inIEarthshine, (1988):

3.

When Hare first heard about Death
he gnashed his teeth, went to his lodge,
and started screaming.

..........My aunts and uncles mustn’t die!

His thoughts went up to the cliffs and they started to crumble,
crawled across rocks and they shattered,
went down in the earth where everything stilled and stiffened,
glanced at the sky and birds crashed down, dead thoughts.

He went to his lodge, lay down,
and wrapped himself in his blanket.

..........Earth isn’t big enough.
..........It will be hard, all those dead,
..........and not enough earth to hold them!

And he lay there, wrapped in his blanket.

Poem from May, 2017

The Fragrance of Orchids

The body that aches with longing
is drunk at dusk and again at dawn

these wild mutual yearnings
return to us each spring

there in the rain goes a messenger
bearing a passionate letter

under the open window
stands one with a broken heart

up in the mountains a lover
rolls up a pearl screen, looking out

sadness comes back and comes back
as fragrant and lush as the grass

and we’re all walking home in the dark
from banquets and celebrations

or watching the quiet dust
that sifts down from our roofbeams.

...........................Yu Xuanji, woman poet of the late Tang Dynasty

..................from The Clouds Float North, translated by David Young and ..................Jiann I. Lin, Wesleyan U. Press, 1998.

Poem from April, 2017

from "The Light Show" III, 2:

Today the April light is fizzing.
The wind is blowing chunks of it around:
it oils pine needles, runs up tree trunks,
and spreads in clumps across the grass.
The grackles struggle darkly to resist it,
but it glosses their necks with purple and green
and slicks their beaks. I too
feel misery start to slip away – against my grain
I’m hoisted up into this giant light-machine
and swept away. My silver pen
skates on the yellow paper, my fingernails glow,
my eyes glisten with tears and pleasure.
A huge willow has fallen in my yard,
victim of wind. But today the other trees
are holding themselves up like song into a sky
that is blue with a radiance no one could imagine.

from Earthshine (1988)

Poem from March, 2017

Dinner Time

Where a glass of red wine
glows on the sideboard

and a few potatoes in a dish,
floury, flecked with parsley,

shine in the taciturn dusk,
as voices are heard in the kitchen

through the noise of dishes and pots
while an old man in suspenders

holding a half-read newspaper
rubs a spoon on his shirt

holds it at arm’s length
to catch his own reflection.

from At the White Window (2000)

Poem from Fabruary, 2017

The Bird Feeder

The snowy landscape’s mostly stunned and silent
except just here, where, busy as a mind,
a riot of arriving, leaving,
spinning, twitching, pecking, swirls around –
a splash of life, too intricate to graph.

Here in his red hood is the woodpecker,
folding his black and white-striped cloak behind him;
a waxwing coasts in for a perfect landing,
a mourning dove tries facing down a cardinal
over the fat black seed that lies between them.

Next comes the chickadee, riding his unseen wave,
the nuthatch, just as lucky upside down,
juncos and finches taking turns at thistle seed,
the bluejay screaming with sheer happiness . . .
A bush fills up with sparrows, then they vanish!

No wonder that I trudge around with sacks,
magic’s apprentice, chilly-fingered,
to stoke, re-stoke, this winter banquet;
it makes my mind wake up and speculate.
These seeds sustain me too. I soar.

Red Wheelbarrow

Poem from January, 2017

The Poem of the Cold

Admit you tried to make it pretty. Start again. Talk about the huge nails going in, the serene blows of the hammer. Flocks migrate at great cost, animals crawl painfully into burrows. A starving man chews on a bird’s nest, cursing. It may be true that wonderful things go on – a polished haw swinging on a tree in the oxlike wind, an old woman splitting wood next to a sand-colored barn – but you must avoid these. For you are the cold’s thin voice, that thickens everything else. As you sing, warm things ball up, shrivel, stiffen. Hands become mittens, heads become hoods. Shadows lose their outlines, gates lock, waterfalls hang silent as their own bad portraits. And gradually, as you shiver and wince, your poem will grind to its own slow close, like the works of a twenty-five pound clock, freezing beside the overturned dog sled, the scattered supplies, the man whose face froze around his tears and beard, the five dead huskies.

from Work Lights (1977)

Poem from December, 2016

December Fourth, 1974

Rainer Maria Rilke,
on this your ninety-ninth birthday
I make you the following presents:

a woodpecker's egg
roasted
in the flame of a small candle

an art nouveau jug
half full
from the wounds of your pretty
saints

the finger of a mummy
that will always point the way

a cloud of organ
sound a cloud
of orange and gold
butterflies
circling a pillar of salt

the nose of a pony that's
a trumpet a muscle a loaf

a poem by Tu Fu
that goes off like an old musket

the stunned
chain pickerel
I caught in a net this fall

oh the great big poppy of metaphor

the past and future for which you exchanged
my present your
present

I give it back, your present
that I keep finding and losing
red thread
angel's knuckle
smoke in the rafters. . . . . . crows

. . . . . . . . . . . .from The Names of a Hare in English (1979)

Poem from November, 2016

My Father at Ninety-Four

When you have gone away for good
I think I’ll hang a mirror by the door
hoping that you can visit, quiet man,
sometimes as a bird, or a dawn,
or a cloud around the moon.

When the mirror is open and empty
and I happen to pass it myself,
say, in a fine October twilight,
you will be there too, sometimes,
behind my eyes, calm and resigned.

When I can no longer find you, hear you,
I will go see the Great Plains again
and walk around the places
you took me to, a dance
of trees, farms, people, sky.

Stone City, Strawberry Point,
Spearfish Canyon, Estes Park,
Lake of the Isles, Yellowstone,
Nebraska sandhills, Wyoming sky,
towns almost as lost as Mesa Verde.

A son and a father, still shy about touch,
I’ll pretend I can put my hand in yours
from a greater distance, like two men
who stand on separate hills and wave
as daylight goes on to its rest.

From At the White Window (2000)

Poem from October, 2016

October Couplets