Dark Woman No White Moon
`Oh woman, you blessed file of nuttiness.
You incalcuable ganglion of impulse and nerve.
Loveable? To a point, to the wall that climbs up like the moon on a day of decent
Bring it on dark woman!
You who would destroy a world for a perfect kind of love; for a love that would
not contradict you.
Pushed out into the lonely fictions, pushed outside the castle to the woods
then, into the languid hills where old poets lay dying.
"You are not the white moon but a limb through which I see it on uncanny evenings!"
Old Song of Sadness
Sadness in the face of silence.
The ineffable trees have witnessed much/no longer care.
The still creek with its water of shadows/marvelous amplitude of silence.
The children's cries of joy have grown old. The toys are parched.
The libaries fill with brown words to avert the silent sadness of eyes.
Birds pass to the otherside where the bees are covered. They glide as in a funeral parade.
We look for the shaft of light to burrow to the core below, beyond, into infinite space.
what a strange, ornery book this is-
sometimes I think the eccentricities have a centrifugal force on your intention.
well my mind is a blank
But always redeemed by the humor in the voices
and once or twice I've felt
on the periphery of my own language
faces, that is, embodied in mud-shoed history.
Is it a cohesion, then, all these glimpses
not quite made, here, in the attempt?
Not quite a failure but not quite
goddamn wonderful- the- pollen at the fingers - the- Greek and Jefferson letters.
Now you've got gestures talking this stattaco like the mind is desperate for a center to hold-
a greasy pivot-
Better'n the huge tomes of scenario history
No sentimental crap.
Yes, history as character; history as unsung, sure, sure.
History as character rather than characters inside history.
Which is a Tao for interpreters; a long-drawn studded chain of blood jewels
everyone wants to own; as it passes-by.
What wonderful thoughts though
The voice- the voice and how it's alive in your poem.
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