Book of Common Poets

That the irregular line of trees against the sky

Was noted today—

Whether the leaves were bright,

The variance of greens,

Were they moving or still,

If the motion was from wind

Or creatures leaping,

Whether signals or moments passing

Of no intent but that the line was noted,

For the necessity of poems

To those who know we die a little more

When they cease to matter,

Not only that a bird perched on a wire today,

But the color of its talons,

The sheen of feathers dark or light,

Whether they were smoothed or fluffed—

Was it a bird alone, or grouped?

Did they face the same direction,

A choir fronting or with the wind?

Or did one perch apart, forlorn,

Lacking the human word forlorn?
 

Not to impose meaning upon the birds,
But to note their presence on a day

Over the shadows of trees

Darkening the asphalt we drove upon

Without thought, rolling upon shadows,

To offer peace of knowledge

That a poet remains to cry

For the beauty sustained,

Noted and sung without interpretation

Beyond its presence of a day—

The jagged line of trees,

The particular shade of sky,

Will not perish, as a promise made:

Not a luxury of art, but a common need:

To say a family of hawks called in the yard,

That the gardening was good this year—

                                       

                                                                                    July, 2012

                                                                                    for Paula Robison

Creed

                        “Come away by yourselves . . . rest awhile.” Mark 6:31

The holy space is gentle,

Soft sounds and welcome peace.

The pages of the books are worn to silk

Opening of themselves. 

The rector speaks few words:

Asks when we last had rest,

Inquires of the volume of our lives,

If its level has dimmed our song? 

She sits, waits, allows space between words

We didn’t expect, thinking now is the Creed—

We believe in one God, the Father the Almighty,

But silence instead, reaching. 

We wonder if something’s wrong,

If we’ve misread the worship folder,

Until we realize this isn’t printed in the text—

An extended rest 

For the worn souls

In a silence mounting and holding

Against anticipated rhythms

Of the ancient Creed. 

                                                                            July, 2012

                                                                            Episcopal Church of the Ascension

                                                                            Hickory, NC

Black Mountain

The mountains never ask my name. 
I'm the flute in the fiddlers' circle
finding where the wild music lives,

 

learning mountain ways, breathing a wild flute

from the choir loft on those tame and quiet Sundays—

he doesn’t know the children call him Knuckles 

for his stiff hands that offer stiff blessings—

the kind of man who needs a thorn

to rankle below the skin, to clarify 

the call for stiffness on a Sunday,

a thorn to straighten his posture,

thin his lips, point his finger back to Eve 

who lacked discipline, offering fruit in a manner unedifying—

how could I possibly edify, making my way alone,

and up the mountain at that? 

Sometimes a banjo and bass to join the fiddles,

the whiskered men kind to the pipe visiting from below,

never asking my name or why I’m there, 

finding where the wild music lives

and how to pull it from the air. 

                                                                               July, 2012

                                                                               Black Mountain, North Carolina

Moth hour

Houses on the night street

Acquiesce to wings of moths

Silent on the window screen.  

Something in the green of their wings,

Decorated Argus eyes

And no mouths to speak 

                                                        Asking questions I cannot answer,

                                                                           Not at this hour, where it’s gone:

                                                                           The done and left undone, 

Commissions and omissions

Our moments of silence kneeling

Not as sins but dim regrets 

I have no answer for the moth,

But the kitchen at least is clean,

Plastic over the cake and coffee set to brew. 

Small acts of hope as the blanket descends,

The unearthly song of summer cicadas

Too early this year, 

Blamed, of course, on a winter

Unseasonably warm.

                                                                                    July, 2012

le Martel

Clatter from the kitchen would wake me,

Metal pots at 4:00 am she tried to hush,

Water in a cleaning bucket,

Odor of bleach.

The kitchen light elongated

Down the dark hall

Drew a line below my door—
 

The line louder than the pots

That might have fallen

Into disorder, possibly dusty,

The unused ones in back.
I didn’t burden her with inquiry

Or knowledge that her restlessness had woken me again—
 

          What are you doing?

          Why aren’t you in bed?
 

Every cabinet emptied, utensils piled,

Held accountable

The daily, the obscure, justifying use.

A roll of clean shelf paper,

Flowers for the spring.

She wrote dates on bags of food scraps

Frozen in wait for garbage day.

The sound would abate by sunrise,

Cleaning water recede.

I’d wake to a spot of toothpaste on my brush,

A grapefruit quartered, with a cherry,

Daily Bread and Reader’s Digest, large print,

As if casually arranged.

As if it all came easily,

Like her chocolate cake

I learned to make

From scratch.

July, 2012

All that was given

. . . assumptions of place immobilize

there is no place,

just resting points

where you catch your breath

between
 

     Saturdays I sleep
     but something called me early.
     The dropping on leaves was gentle.
     I stood where the rain could drop on me too.

regardless of language acquisition.

This is why foreign travel

is to be discouraged.

if you plan to return

your language

leaves you

out of place. 

 

     A cardinal built outside my window
     with no understanding of windows,
     that it was watched:
     the hatching of offspring
     watched.
     I tried to look gently,

     Wishing not to disturb

I must have built outside a window

not understanding how carefully

I was watched

I can't see the eyes looking back

I wish to gesture something rude

but don't because of what it is . . . 

     She didn't linger

     She'll build again in the spring.

"...something we will potentially have to live with,

throughout the whole thing,"

     Peace is easy in the clouds

     Remembering other places clouds have been
     It is, after all, the same sky
     And the colors in the morning--

(ingratitude is heavy

Like a sin
I fail to love

All that was given

in the rain)

 

     We slip into easy clothing

      Time never wears the same day twice
      (It was the best yard for children.) 

Trying not to count the time remaining

Seeking permission from . . .

Asking the universe maybe,

God

Hoping I'll know

How to leave a place

and when?  

      I keep the grass mowed

      Holding in trust for the next layer
      Of running and laughing
      Needing the best yard
      too large for me

      If time were something different . . .
       If we could hear them all at once . . .  

Forced in honesty to tell the child

It's safer not to speak,

If she could only wait--

She'll be safer elsewhere,

Considering

The definitions that cling

to the innocent trees

of this place
 

     Peace is easy in the clouds,

     And the colors in the morning,
     Especially on days I generally sleep . . .

Where we are

not

supposed to be.

July, 2012

la flûte de Pan

Did you plan pursuit, or when Syrinx turned to flee           
Did your balance tip to savagery
Faster than thought could intervene?

River reeds quake where she wills you away:

Hooves, arms, bright curling hair
Alluring yet abhorrent, is it you she fears

Or a blood pull deeper than her priestess vow

To serve the pure hunt, deer shivering
Under the white moon?

Your slicing blade hacks hollow reeds

Where wild Syrinx begs release from body                                                            
Poured as water turns to air.

Did your eye catch the motion of mist
At the water’s edge, mistaking it for wind
Drained in horror of the blade?

                                              calmato

The stillness, where you stand, the silence                        
Save of hooves crushing stumps of reeds,
The river washing as it ever did,

Did you grieve, back against a tree,

Finger small horns hidden in the curls of your hair? 
The effort to conjure pity strains,

Softened as Syrinx wasn’t forced to sing,
Could have held her sighs as you walked away,
But who would have heard the whisper

Rise from the sliced reeds you sadly gathered,

Adding breath to wind, renewing her voice
Not in conquest but in pain of guilt

Binding her to others to sustain

Her song, flutes that hold Syrinx in life
Allowing history to say you didn’t kill?

What shall we fear: desire or its lack?

What echoes in the empty reeds beyond
Lonely songs lifting through leaves?

What paints your music now:

Longing eased by crisis of extreme,
Or warning never to flee the blade of Pan,
Drawing our lesson from one who ran?                

                                                                                                       July, 2012