Sunday, April 27, 2008

Atargatis (Derketo)


She lives below the great swells
still in unfathomable depths
of wounds so great cast down 
by weight of her own heart 
heavy with love of a mortal man.

She longs to disguise her shame as fish
no waters can conceal her beauty so.
She grows a tail, to not be touched between
what once had held his seed.
Her nakedness appears in waves

to sailors lost upon the sea, her long wet
hair wraps around their waists
she takes them down, embraced in loneliness
no knowledge that they cannot breathe
and so she mourns her syren song alive

in storms her cast off scales litter shores
where once they ran, whole
stripped and blameless.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

Her Sorrow


Her sorrow is the song of birds
a nest, bits of string and paper
wound tight to the bough.
It is a swallow in river swoop
an instinct, a knowing.

It is whip-poor-will in moonlight
blood haunt at dawn, widened eyes.
It is red-winged blackbird
on the thin reed crying home.
It is sparrow that flies through
emptiness, search for roost
belfry, steeple, God.

It is rareness of a nightingale
caught deep in fury of thicket
her song a burst of heart
flutter of fingers
against furrow of brow;

sleep, sleep
your head on feathered pillows.

"take your seaside arms & write the next line"

Friday, April 25, 2008

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Carrying a Torch


I was walking
furiously grey with morning sleep
that didn't come    rain
full of hip-hop     drum
beat on pavement    bass
mock to my discontent
hissssssssss 
on the coal
smoke from the chimneys
when I saw the sparrow
my tears fell hard
soft 
as the pile of feathers
cold on the dead ground
until nothing was dry
something had died -

O love,
where is your hand?

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Sympathetic Magic


She was no shaman, cavewoman x
she spoke to her lover through unholy hands.
She lead him to the wall, his palm down
against the rough damp dark, began to trace
charcoal finger flutes both hers and his.
She drew herself, rare in the language of caves
rendered him, between their bodies - a heart, 
red ochre.  Behind the fire burned, light flickered
all eyes.  They raped each other in the guttural night
lost between echoes.  He left her full, awash
with sweat, her scent heavy upon him.

The next day he gifted fish wrapped in leaves.
She squatted to eat, adorned her hair with bones.
Nobody heard her voice as she began to sing.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

like flowers


I would not run from you
for your shadow would follow me -
leaning tree where you carved my name
cast to the ground
lengthening long, a leafy umbrella
like the one you held over me 
when everything was rain.

bent by the wind
a field of grass whispers
I hear your name

See the beach reeling beneath the gulls 
as they swoop, cry for us.  
I know that is where you'll be waiting
along the shore, a map so worn 
I know every fold of your face 
every crease of your arms
hue of your eyes painted 
with the blue of the sea's own watery brush

How could I leave you?

I want to fill you with poems
words softly scented 

like flowers

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Apical


My Spring -
my bud below the bark
unbroken root to stem
strung scent of unborn
flowers seep through
protrusions lateral
weaves a delicate lace
of seasons
past and those to come
the surface stirs:

a thousand dormant ladybirds
await the burst of flight.

Heart - Break


There is smoke in the hills
this vineyard is ravaged -
doves fly from my chest

Saturday, April 19, 2008

sentinel


I am old and drunk
at the top of a hill -
nobody looks like you

Spain, 1519 (Victoria)



How could she not?  Love him.
That man of spices, circler of globes.
She was his carrack, heathen sprung from
a name so holy, her church still perched atop
his hill.

They left as one, hot August,
from the Spanish coast, his eyes grey
blustery as the wind that crossed
her lanteen sails.  Her ropes taut
his hands eager, keen upon the rudder.

Three years they fought, discovered, sunk
within the choice high seas.  She sailed
as one of five, to witness murder
in the Phillipines.  Her heart gave out
storms set in, her love lost upon the sea.

When he was gone, she almost toppled -
what kept her was her stable deck
their promise to deliver just 18 men
starved and filthy, her holds heavy with 
pungent spices, her wounded sides
that longed to sink.

That chilled September day she appeared
no surface was left uncelebrated, unflowered
untouched.  And yet she only saw him
as he sunk far below the surface
eternal anchor left to rust.   The smell of
cloves, all hands upon her -
never so alone.