h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s





That time is past/And all its aching joys are now no more,/And all its dizzy raptures.  
William Wordsworth

And then the goldfish, whose bowl had been placed mistakenly on the radiator,
started leaping out of the water, landing on a heap of old Ms. magazines piled on
an end table next to them.

(Oh wow, says the author, a woman in her twenties whose life has not yet really
organized itself around a theme, those fish! They’re just like me—bravely
ideological, flashing their gaudy appendages awkwardly and proud beyond the no
longer habitable waters of captivity . . . )

A woman discovering an unfinished poem in a desk drawer after thirty-some
years thinks, I’m not just this person, full of regret and self-doubt, who writes right
now—I am also one who has written—one for whom the whole world once winked
and signed.

(The fantasy of authenticity is sublime, isn’t it? The farmhouse outside Siena
retaining a couple of original stones in its entryway; the expensive Moroccan
chair “once carried on the back of a camel.”)

In the end the goldfish weren’t very much like her, the suicidal riot grrrl who still
occasionally flashes some gaud. And the act of dying for a cause, I have to
admit, has lost almost all of its ability to hold my attention..


For then it will be as noiseless as a 
piece of mellowing pear, or it will
lope out like a wind-wild unbridled
horse, or pause with you on your
balcony, taking in the sea smell, not
hearing the words of the poet
telling you love is a dark piano, love
is a mysterious pulse, love is never
anything a poet says it is. It will be
as enchanting as a wandering orphic
singer in her little boat surrounded by
attentive birds. Indeed, were I not now
furling my sails and hastening to turn my
prow toward land, I might hold forth
further on the topic. And you might
think me beautiful.


                                   for Di Seuss

(the world a bell and we its ear) we hijacked worlds we governed ovens we summoned lovers and fireworks out of the eternal mud of Niles Michigan and then we were falling for so long through planks of work children and weather now whether I’m out in the devil’s own desert or under a sheltering eave somewhere even farther yonder it makes no difference something mournful crawls in my brain marches in place glides in circles or sometimes just loiters around in there like a big carrion bird not singing it makes no difference which or whether what’s being missed is your face or your grace our hallucinations or idleness it makes (don’t know why it would) no difference we loved the new seasons didn’t we sister we their eyes we their mothers wives daughters drummers all the while not knowing there would be no end after all that omnipotence to this private slow dying part of living.


As I lift my face a thick dew settles on it.  On top of that wind scatters grains of 
silver sand that flicker like stars so that my face becomes a small reflection of the
sky facing the real sky, suggesting a possibility of infinite correspondence and
depth, of an undifferentiated cosmos in which I am not I but am everything.
Like all intimations of immortality this takes only a minute. After that I drink a
luminous beer and shoo a blackbird from my japanese maple. Black feathers
fall through scarlet leaves inside a glow from window light. And then there’s the
insect nightmare, and a great ocean wave rearing up in the panic of three
o’clock, some bothersome recriminations from a rustled curtain, a cup of subtle
tea, decisions to be made about the newly arrived fleet of small lapis carvings,
and so on. Tomorrow still as unimaginable as the Galapagos, farther away than
even worry can carry.


Copyright © 2011 Literary Pool, Inc.