Into the coracle — a poem

Ezra Pound

“In the green deep of an eye… (XCI).”

— Pound, from the Cantos

Into the coracle I bundle my tormented
night-sweated revelations, memorized
mea-culpas of dreamed delirium,
and row, row, row my fat arsed self
across Acheron — the wind’s unsailable.

Waveless glass, though more like oil,
the bastarded vessel, bent in the making —
never true — slogs and dies, slogs anew.

What seafaring lay makes the task
more a bliss?  “I shall never this way
travel again,” comes to mind.  Is it?

Is it a veritable song, or more fevered
my brain’s fantasy?  It signifies not if…
if the laborer throws unction under 
the tongue!  The craft is heavy laden,
and I am ready to drop them over
into the swirling orb of the green deep.

* * *

One never knows what will come from gazing into the Pound Cantos.


The Crash Scene of My Brain Contemplating Modern Art and a Pound Canto In the Same Day — a poem

…and the lines and the lines
and the lines making squares
making waves naked waves
unmasked waves slippery
when wet the rivers wet
the streets wet the rain sifts
the rain sifts the drain slips
wet lines draining waves wet
drains lining drains wet waves
squares slipping slippery wet
runs together straight lines
together lines trees dripping
waves breaching their frames
echoed lines wave wetly drains
repeated lines wetly wave rain
squares wave as I drain —
and the lines and the lines
       …ah, the lines

Our Lady On a Bed of Flames — a poem

Paris has irrevocably changed;
it’s very clear.
With their heart broken,
a hole scorched in its center.
Stone edifices will tumble,
in time they will crumble —
but wasn’t this more than clay?
Lives were changed,
were taken,
were damaged,
were transformed…

No one leaves
Paris — Paris that weeps
now — no one leaves
Paris without an impression
of the lady.

The Intrinsic We — a poem

“The joy that isn’t shared dies young.”

— Anne Sexton

Silence makes me gasp.
Not the quietude of two shared,
but the hollow of one…

and one.

When we must be apart,
life smolders; bears
little heat.

I must look away from you to lie,
or tell you in your eyes how I suffer
in the silence, the silence,
the awful echoless still —
one here.

One there.

* * *

For NaPoWriMo 2019, day 2.

For my beloved.

TexMex Suicide

Flame leaps from the hand, the rain is listless
Yet drinks the thirst from our lips,
solid as echo… (Canto VII)

I have eaten the flame. (Canto XXXIX)

A corner table, Taqueria Too Hot for Comfort, just
outside of Arena, New Mexico.  Waiting on Fajitas
al Pastor, and another Dos Equis.  Munching chips
and salsa, squeezing lime into the stone wear bowl
to kill a little of the heat.  My fault. I asked in my
best TexMex, “Ajima!  ¡Más caliente por favor!”
“My own damned fault,” as the theologian said.
Here comes the HausFrau with the tortillas, a boy
behind her carrying the sizzling pan of meat and
threes.  Cholula in the condiments rack, a side
of nuclear peppers.  I’ll be paying for dinner
all night long as I watch the stars spin their tale.

* * *

Day one, NaPoWriMo 2019. An ounce of Pound for inspiration… and not a drop of tequila, I promise. Sad thing is, the voice is recognizable in parts of the West.