Honk'tober

Because abundance isn't about material things, said the guy in the gold lame cape to no one in particular, as sprinkles of rain began anointing our heads outside Harvard Square.
Abundance in heart and art, I offered him lovingly. He grinned in return.

Yesterday was difficult - a ritual sloughing of ego's exigencies. This morning, hungover from excess sleep, unshowered and struggling, I ran with fortune smack-bang into the demigods of Davis Square; there they reminded me of the new day's promise and lifted me willingly back onto my throne of love and faith.

It was the Honkfest parade.

Congregated in the carpark behind Starbucks, preparing make-up, tweaking costumes, limbering limbs, practicing tunes, playing for or avoiding or snarling for cameras... making up the happiest weave of characters and song and liberal politics.

I played the camera, since I have no ability in horn.

Note: I'm having trouble controlling where these thumbnails go on the page. To see them enlarged click on the first one and use arrow keys to move between.

This a bad photo, but its the only one i have of this handsome guy,

Then the parade started, with a big brass noise of "Can't Touch This" and I ran to Elm Street

And the sky performed...

Harvard in the rain

Through the evening city in whiskey lacquered,

with lifted flowers from the hospice garden

- Yes! We shall live an ever after! -

laughter ignites our wayward engine.

--Click to enlarge--

Precedents: Emily Dickinson

Wild nights - Wild nights!


Wild nights - Wild nights!

Were I with thee

Wild nights should be

Our luxury!

Futile - the winds -

To a Heart in port -

Done with the Compass -

Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden -

Ah - the Sea!

Might I but moor - tonight -

In thee!

The Moon is distant from the Sea


The Moon is distant from the Sea –

And yet, with Amber Hands –

She leads Him – docile as a Boy –

Along appointed Sands –

He never misses a Degree –

Obedient to Her eye –

He comes just so far – toward the Town –

Just so far – goes away –

Oh, Signor, Thine, the Amber Hand –

And mine – the distant Sea –

Obedient to the least command

Thine eye impose on me –. 





http://www.poetryfoundation.org

Searching for Clues

Click to see the images larger -

much better that way

Summer Baptism: Draft 2

I think I understand now why poetry wouldn't come in Costa Rica. Something in the way I experience joy... without words. With the full body, the full brain, fully sensory, but non-verbal. Here, this poem, is a first attempt to "document" such a moment -- still poetic fiction, but from a place of joy. 

And then we were there.
Perched on the cusp between air and
gravity,
curve of the handlebar pressing thighs as I
played girl and you,
boy.
Through laughing shrieks of darkness
I sank into your chest
to nest in your stern; children
returned to the world.

And we spin cradled in an inverted hull
Low hanging ribs clipping 
our skin; headlamp tickling the ground
where wheels crackle music to our whispered
trespass
tracing the chancel
of somebody else's club.
Distant lights of unmanned sentry
mark us,
tree veiled til we reach
the nave.

And there before, sliced imperfectly,
the just-waning moon;
the font. Following along in reflected play
carving reveals of light in
porphyry and time -
momentary footholds in the rockscape.
Then naked we entered the nave.
Rough necklaces of an invisible garden played with our legs.
And there,
submerged, you lifted gently from around my neck
the umbilical anchor that
tied me to the Beast.

And love gasped at last.

Redeemed in the Sea.
Between sips of unholy water
our lips met and in shared breath
we conspired to youth,
smashed the bottle
and named this Fate.

The season turned us in her warm rocky hold

And we rode back to the sanctuary
where to the back beat of ensemble birdsong
you disappeared into sleep with a reminder:
My soul is weary, I do not believe in love
and held me in your long sea tentacles.

Sleep weary soul, I say
I will hold you in my faith,
voluminous
Chora of your rebirth

Summer baptism: Draft 1

And then we were there.
Perched on the cusp between air and
gravity.
Curve of the handlebar pressing thighs as I
played girl and you,
boy.
Through shrieks of darkness
I sank into your chest
to nest in your stern; children
returned to the world.

And we spin cradled in an inverted hull
Low hanging ribs clipping 
our skin; headlamp tickling the ground
where wheels crackle music to our whispered
trespass through the chancel
of someone else's club.
Distant lights of unmanned sentry
tree veiled until we enter
the nave.

Before us, sliced imperfection
the just-waning moon:
the font. Following along in reflected play
carving reveals of light, carved
in porphyry and time -
footholds in the rockscape -
Til naked we entered the nave.

Rough necklaces of an invisible garden played on our legs.
And there,
submerged, you lifted gently from around my neck
the umbilical anchor that
tied me to the Beast.

And love gasped at last.

Redeemed  in the Sea.
Between sips of unholy water
our lips met and in shared breath
we conspired to youth,
smashed the bottle
and named this Fate.

The season turned us in her rocky hold

And we rode back to the sanctuary
where to the back beat of unsyncopated birdsong
you disappeared into sleep with a reminder
My soul is weary, I do not believe in love
and you held me in your long sea tentacles.

Sleep weary soul, I say
I will hold you in my belief,
voluminous
Chora of your slumber

Dear Pablo, sonnet from object-subject: draft 1

I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,   

or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:   

I love you as one loves certain obscure things,   

secretly, between the shadow and the soul. 

One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII

Pablo Neruda

Translated Mark Eisner.  http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/179257/

And I love him Pablo as one loves the colorless, failure and doubt;

The gaping impossibility of oceans that cleave

Abandoned motherland and American son; my love

A child's grasp and claw at an unwanted sibling's entry.

And yet I love him as a lion's roar lacerates

The sky in fleshly signals of lust and feast.

Laughing at futility, denying denials

Stealing the gift with peals of joyous hope.

Sand at low tide neither sea nor land

Just there, waiting for water's return.

I love him unheard, as an obscure thing,

Unseen between shadow and soul.

So distant my pulse drowns in passage

So distant our touch is misplaced.