Lanthanum 12.20

The star of redemption   the star
of the dead bees’ hexagon   a high-
five   hive-restoration   of planetary
dimension   fell to earth   not far 
from here   in a whisper   in your heart
because bees’ drone lays down a steady
basis   for high-flown   aerial remedy
seraphim   & cherubim   folded   inflight
hummingbird   honest wasp   monarch
toward e-axis (of earth)   pinwheel
historical   time’s dewplow   feel
the lightbreeze   from Everwhirr (arc
of Emmy’s M, see? squared)   in a darkroom
shaded by granite   limestone   waterfalls of
floating rock   where Everhmmn   (coral)
comes to commune   redeemed   from 
doom   to joie   happened once, only
in satyrsnffrplay of   Hézoodestiné   (a
crossroad rude   unflds bloomruse   selah)
His wine   over Dmmsdy   (D-day mortality)
is ours, O   humankind   O human kind
& so I sail   (dumb Percyfoil)   into your
meteorcasket, O   Hlyprst   one emerald ear
of wheat   kept   in Kievan grainfield   (blind
steppelevator)   Natasha Shtempel’s hope
& Hope’s   & Paul’s (the ashen one, the
ecumenical)   in the sadfields   in the
forest   west of Kiev (ancien Bury mantrope)

Lanthanum 12.19

Hobo the poet (remember Hobo?) fell asleep
in patch of bronzegold roadside   day-lilies (on
his birthday)   at the end of May   & someone
touched the key of C   (the 29th?)   lost sheep
in a corral of Bach, perhaps   & had a dream :
2 big   rust-rose   28-spoked   ferrous wheels
the spokes   were made of cottonwood (heals
homesickness) & steel   welded without seam
& the wheels turned slowly, gently   into one
bi-petal bicycle   carting   an almond-shaped
canoe   which bore   an upright oak   (draped
with moss garlands)   the oak was Black   an
Elk stood guard beneath it   lilacs   shrouded
him from sight   in Hobo’s dream   he grew
so small   so dark   only a single rueful brow
with 2 black wings   & sea-blue eyes sharpened
could see him there   She alone knew
he stood guard so   within his rose & lilac
garden   his cave   a vernal quincunx   back
behind limestone rim   before time began   who
stood forever   with the oak   a kind of keel
true kelson   pointed   like compass-needle
toward   Étoile du Nord   & commonweal
(one Cosmopolis)   Hobo saw it too   still
shining   over Sirius, Evening Star   small
distant moon   little light   sweet innocent
sun-twig   asway on branch (old, bent) of
high ancient   night oak   sheltering   tall


Lanthanum 12.18

I circumambulate the Terrace on my lunchbreak
one dappled breezy Wednesday   early summer
stone Roger surfacing from rose-pillow (or
honeysuckle)   the green so green   a fluke
or Edencube (slighty dizzy)   hint of goodbye
farewell to place, or poem   (both, maybe)   &
sensing a stone   so preternaturally near   we
glance, awry   (mother, father   in mind’s eye)
another skim of dimensions   closer than we think
like still small voice   smaller & smaller   slight
change of pitch at matrivortex   vast light-
whorled galaxy   only   tiny   (Eternity-wink)
We come back to encounter   another One
so near   Love’s blind justice   balances our
inner ear   spirals to vanishmnt   by oar or
wing   like the little snail I saw this afternoon
pine-green   lost on the sidewalk   elegant   
ouragan-eye   unmovable dome,   portable
home   still small swirl   delicate   aimable
carapace   helm of unknown soldier   faint
whisper of Shakespeare   in the milky hamlet
of his mind   a cup of happiness   overflowing
through   Golgotha   to an Arden   ever-living
evermore   corral of hands   inwoven, implicate
& indestructible   the little snailshell home
the universe   in a friendly eye   aye, aye
Captain   lift anchor, Rose, &   hoist away
ineradicable oak-stem (frothy halfshell foam)


Lanthanum 12.17

A bluegray bluejay   tearducts lined with black
floats over Vermilion   Hibbing-hub of Iron Range
little shadow crossing my path   passing strange
flash of refugee   speechless, seeking   way-back
machine   one lonesome-hearted   personal trail
to Itasca   unharmful cascade &  (er) beginning
spring of all  jail-springs   little Frisbee winging
his paper hat   free, now   down Arthur St.  (sail
on, Mendelssohn!)   Someone leans white hair
over rainswollen stream   into my delta-mouth
blue, gray   halfway...   Meet me, forsooth   in
Bobbie M’Gee St. Lou Healer E’s helio-chair
(a-hover overhead).  What be the J of Jubilees?
I asked, as we watched   Natasha   the chimes
of freedom flashboom over grassland steppes
a cloud-bash   thunderstorm   & what it say?
It says   it says... Natasha says   my heart
is bursting   its watermain    with presence
of universal Heart   great & magnanimous
greater than mine, my sheepgate   Thou art
my house, my hearth   forever   overflowing
Ocean River...   for Jubilee is Understanding :
Note how Ghost climbs from grave   brimming
everliving life   impregnable & lofty   eagle-wing
or playful Jay   hiding in the spruce   fluting low
to me   for this   improvisational cosmos   is
hers forever   his always &   always new   goes
on soaring   past 57+ galaxies   red flame (or blue)


Lanthanum 12.16

I woke from sleep again, to find myself
nestled in oak leaves on the Terrace, high
among tree limbs, with Natasha.  She grew shy
now.  The monastery of my lips is sealed, my
elf, she said – but tell me what you see.  Once
more I looked out through the greenery – &
seemed to see a huge assembly, ambling round
a circle... some sweet-solemn wedding-dance
promenade (far off, among the western clouds).
& at the center of the wheel, a blonde woman
I’d seen somewhere before... maybe Italian... ?
My lips remember now – small icon (housed
in RISD Muse.) by Lippo Memmi – Magdalen,
with small stone casket in her hands (delicate
myrrh-box, ornate, with tiny mirrors).  What
lay on its lid?  She was far off there... then
Natasha lent me her gemlens.  It worked
like a microscope : I saw the slim casket
was lidded with simple emerald slab, set
in magenta border, & graved with gilded
tracery of river-scenes : 4 rivers, poured
from jars by angels at each corner.  & there
were palm trees, willows, cedars by the water...
& Abraham, & Isaac, with a ram... a wingèd
angel in between, to save the boy...  It is
a miniature Paradise I see, I said to her –
but what’s insideIs M’s jewelbox for myrrh
alone?  Natasha only smiled at me.  Gee whiz,
I thought – this is a mystery.  I turned back
to the vision in the clouds... gazed deeply now
into her azure eyes, beneath twin-arching brow.
& suddenly a white-gold star-arrow turned black
my sight.  This is Sirius, a serious star, a whisper
spoke.  Nearest to Venus, & the sunKeep
your eyes closed, for now – for from deep sleep
of Man, must rise the Sun of Man.  Rondure
of molten, labyrinthine, fibrillated gold slowly swelled
there, behind my lids... & without opening my eyes
I seemed to see that circling cloud-crowd cease
moving, turn to center of that wheel : dead
center.  Now the mirror-casket silently opened...
a shrouded figure (like a cloud) rose from inside.
The shroud was dusty, the figure dark.  Wide
shoulders slowly unstooped... bent brow lifted.
The figure spoke.  A quiet flute, melodious.
I am the melek of the milky covenantFrom dawn
of time, I have prepared your heart – soft stone,
harder than diamond... perfect, as Elkstone is.
Each man, each woman, every soul shall wear
my ruby diadem – to find their lives, & dwell
in peace within their earth.  All shall be well,
all manner of thing – now Earth begins to bear
its flowering.  I suddenly found myself racing
toward him, toward some Finnish finish line –
for Melek-MLK stood now beneath twin tines
of that bright tuning fork, centering everything...
I saw a rose wheel over St. Louis, the riverbanks;
I saw a triple rainbow underneath, over the Arch;
I saw the crowd around Mary M. begin to march
again – gaily, skipping & dancing, giving thanks.
Then I opened my eyes at last – saw the old church
across the street.  Redeemer Church (Episcopalian).
An old rose window beamed in early light – serene
beneath wingèd gray granite brows... (sigh).  Watch.

Lanthanum 12.15

In Anno Domini 1099, the 15th of July (St.
Henry’s Day, back then) the 1st Crusaders
repossessed the Sepulchre (a tomb, still bare).
Gorged on fanatical massacre, the gluttony
of boots, they knelt there (pondering the absence
of a sign) & celebrated their conquest – the new
Lords of the Holy Land (awhile).  Then, in 1132
(33 years later) deep in Calabrian hinterlands
was born that blooming prophet of the Holy Ghost
(Joachim... Fiore).  Upon whose hoary sheepskin
manuscripts was scrolled a radiant-obscure vision –
an eagle falling from the sky... rainbows, interlaced
in 7 rings, over a host of men & angels, rising
from the mountains of the dead.  To meet
the God of Hosts, returned : & so complete
6 ages of yearning & hope, labor & suffering.
I say, our planet pivots on the contrast here :
kings’ desolate dominion in a code of war
or spiritual power of a slave of slaves.  Poor
Francesco, with his lambs – stigmatized minor
fratello to Jesus... groom to his grey sister-
dove (miadonna Povertà).  Monk Joe beheld
the rough, rude, solitary path (ragged, unshod
up dreary hills) each soul must mount... ladder
to restoration of all things.  Earth & heaven,
futurpresenpast... one round square dance,
with panagyral pipery.  Millennial romance...
the promise of Natasha (in her oaktree den).

Lanthanum 12.14

In the cradle of civilization, in Mesopotamia
a shepherd stretches 6 tentpoles at midnight;
his house forming a little world, set right –
earth, sky, stars, 3rd sky.  Through camera
obscura (liminal minima at apex) rises a 7th pole
of smoke, from his hearthfire.  The ancients say
through that black hole, in former times, a tiny
heaven-stone – turquoise, with scarlet aureole –
plummeted, was pulled from fire... a blazing 
coal.  Shepherds fell to worshipping the stone;
they carried it (cloth-wound by veiled maiden)
on camel’s back, to aid in feuds.  A fine glazing
of gold was wrought around the gem, til it became
more precious than opals of Trebizond, diamonds
of Kalamazoo.  It was the signet of a royal bond
of marriage between sky & earth – its diadem –
imprimature of human home.  & now, a mass
of Quakers, in volcano, gather for silent mass –
the stone (furtive minnaschool, portable mass)
assembles gravity (protonnage) under a mass
of skimming photons... & Man (species-mass)
turns to face the 7th pole, of cloud & light (ol’
Hadrian’s W, colliding motes).  With bluff hello,
one Higgs bison slants across green Oxford pass...
slight air force-particle, breezy Soo Line.  She
who holds the key, surely, to auld dawn song
(Latin, Greek, Calabrian)... it flows her, all along,
odd flower, toward an even Eden-stone (coo; see?).


Lanthanum 12.13

summons up remembrance of things past).
The sum of summer suns, & shady groves.
The regal Word, lasting, sustains our loves
& raises them, renewed, & holds them fast
to Paradise – a Petersburg beyond all puny 
tyrants’ paltry sway.  Their temporary swag-
swagger, these staggering boyars of gulag...
each chill-fired terror of the territory...
fuming mob & desiccated Pharaoh... all
shall go : all shall bow down before le Règle
d’Amour.  Who comes disguised as fruit-seller,
orphan... persecuted woman, broken crawl
of superstition-scapegoat... fraud’s victim,
a bully’s game.  Who travels incognito,
silent... Blackstone in his orchard, or
the gardener near Olivet... It’s him,
she cried.  My Everyman : is He.  World
pivots on her utterance... as the wasp
needles the axis of the earth.  Osip,
disguised as stolen meal... goldfinch, hurled
up to eternal granary.  To feed there, &
to feed... among the atoning seraphim.
We shall return there, you & I, some
summer evening – Anna, Elena, & Marina –
Gumilev, Brodsky, Osip & Hope... all singing
pilgrims to the akme-stone : that human grail,
that cup of sorrows turned to joy, that real
St. Eu – chrism of Louis & T.S. (sobornosting).

Lanthanum 12.12

Hey Man, you well... oasis of God-with-us.
Palm where royal sun & air, waving spray
& flickering rays, commune... unite.  Hey
Man, you well... listen to monk Maximus
(Black Sea susurrus, rustling sure) when he
binds the twin-bright lenses in one violet vine-
canoe.  One cosmos welded out of two-in-one
as palms enjoin, fingers entwine (with circuity
seraphim, above a mercy throne).  Orbiting
around with happy gyroskips – star-symmetry
of one galactic sepulchre (one verdant, empty
tomb).  Each integral distinctive soul inhabiting
a 4-fold 28-point breathing-space (diamond-
jubilee integrity) – each person flourishing
in freedom, dignity, as through a polishing
event... washed clean – unveiling adamant
pebble, immaculate.  You are microcosmos,
child – a human akme of the universe;
infolding anima & animal, sunburst
of intellect & elemental dust (anthropos
57-sauce).  Hey Man, draw near then
to the hayloft where this infant cry began.
Photon-barn, myrrh-box of the Magdalen;
flinty kamen sponsoring each epithalamian
parade, ring-dance... his Maximus confession.
In the forlorn garden, where a little gate
waits in the shade of cypress, cottonwood
(some almond thought’s sweet silent session

Lanthanum 12.11

I walk to work each day up Morris Avenue,
past a honeycomb-salience, Temple Emanu-El.
6-sided figure in white stone, girding the gold
dome’s effervescent smile (its morning view
along the ridge).  This was her native home (dark-
eyed, oblique Natasha, my Odessa-dream).  Old
gray town, that mingles concrete with a gilded
scheme (musing my wordflushed palindrome-
effusion).  & as I fare, pedestrian, downtown
I sense a silver-gray wing (color of the sea)
soar over me... peaceable mosquito-halo, wee
folksinger... archnut Anthousa.  Jeanne-crown...
The names for your presence are various, though
you are only you, my dear; afloat beside me
where I go, & overhead – North Star polarity;
a free conscience, by which we learn to know
the flame that makes us high Sophia (Pentecostal,
with a million eyes – a million tongues of flame).
Natasha, Anna, Marina... Nadezhda, who shall claim
the judgement seat... beside me now, processional
(beside myself).  1132 ft/sec., with gravitas
toward a grave, adorned with flowery photon-
anthems.  Shadeful garden, where a Magdalen
(like Cabiria escorted by jongleurs, hilaritas)
waits, watches, waits.  For that bridegroom
of every bride & groom, & child, & lamb...
bee-seal of deeper bond (oxide, lanthanum,
iron).  Irrevocable seed of every bloom.


Lanthanum 12.10

Natasha vanished.  But I sensed the blue eye
rimmed by her cloudmobile... an afterimage
curled across my retina.  High on that ridge
I closed my eyes, under the dark leaf-canopy.
The inner lining of the retina, its curvature...
whirlpool where all our images are swallowed up
&, welling forth again, become our own – a cup
of wine, mingled with bloodstream... fingerprint
imprimature (a human whorl).  In that darkness
I seemed to see a blazing white road – jagged –
like lightning on the ground.  It climbed upward
toward the very oak I stood beneath... fastness
at the apex of a green mountain.  & then I saw
behind the oak, a wooden church – its outer walls
frescoed with ancient holy men & women (pastels
weathered, faint... turning ethereal, as angels are).
& then I heard my friend’s kind whispervoice again,
within the leaves.  As these sunbeaten figures fade,
so we earthlings crumble to clay, limestone... laid
into fern-prints... untrackable scarsYet within
that modest house, one priest – Melchizedek –
offers one gift – himself : that, when we share,
lifts us in union, into Paradise (the angels’ lair).
Then I opened my eyes.  Familiar capital, decked
out in dust, noise.  An ordinary day, our home.
Yet in my retinal gloom, I see... a dark cavern.
Moonglow, from sunken pools.  On limestone
curve... bright horses, bulls.  Tall angels roam.

Lanthanum 12.9

By that lofty, Italianate Woods-Gerry House
on the crest of the ridge (now part of RISD) –
at its very crown – stands a towering oak tree
like massive shipmast : twisted wild & sinuous
into a giant’s maze, as if by Circe’s spell.
I lingered beneath its dark green canopy
of semaphoring leaves, looking out at the city
below... old Providence, in shallow river-bowl.
Then I watched as one light cloud swelled out,
floating over the town – shaped like a hand
with blue eye in its palm.  A rainbow band
rimmed its perimeter, each hue gilded bright
with a single word – one of the 7 ancient virtues
(cardinal & theological) : Prudence, Temperance,
Justice & Fortitude; Faith, Hope & (in the violet
patch) Charity.  & then I spied, in the wheelhouse
of her wheeling house – Natasha!  Here to visit
me again, swathed in her cloudonutcar.  Henry,
she said, smiling – you’ve toured the periphery
of this great tesseract, & glimpsed (in orbit
of his mandorla) the beaming Lamb.  It’s time
to skip the third & last ring of this morris maze :
a golden cruciform circle (charted like Chartres)
where all the forms & figures coalesceto chime
with that formless, invisible & omnipresent Lotos
floating in the heart of Everywoman, Everyman.
Diamond-hard rose compass for orientation
of each soul (within one luminous J-cosmos).


Lanthanum 12.8

Earth blooms.  Born in pain, an Onion-man
lifts up her head.  Uncovers joy, in flower-
bed.  O Man, Woe-man... divine the power
of their Sower (yours).  Witness the plan (as
in my improvised summa-summation).  For
it is born & borne this way – (the universe) –
in wonder, transfigventurous.  From unheard-
of hearse (broken-in horsewagon, its mortal
remains) – amid most utter & remote darkness –
a Cognizance rehearses one inefferblescent play :
dazzling comedy of recognitions, in some byway
snoodle-narrow (entrance where you’ll bless,
be blessed – by turning, opening).  Shadow
me then, shade o’ shades (crown of Venetian
blind alloy).  Let thy wings decussate, Jonah,
o’er this flood (when I must dive, rise, go)...


I stood by the cliff again.  At Prospect Terrace.
Looking west.  & then thought-felt the presence
of Natasha by my side (greengold light – intense
staccat – through leaves overhead).  Her voice...
Step lightly now, laddiewi’ me.  So I did.
In tandem with stone Roger, off the prow
of his canoe (winged Natasha helping now).
Into thin air.  Floated... & flew.  Behold,
my son (RW said) who walks with us... the bright
procession of the Magdalen.  I saw maid Mary,
by an Easter grave; behind her, cousin Juliet;
Hart Crane; John Berryman; & Lowry... T-
squared, aligned, orthogonal.  Under the Gate.
Barefoot, fluted (a mourning dove)... limping,
limpid.  There : Natasha.  Osip.  & (weeping)
Nadezhda.  Trinidad (steel-drummed).  Agate.

Lanthanum 12.7

To be in a little backyard garden in America
on a brilliant day in June, shining in plenitude,
splendor... I count myself lucky – my gratitude
welling from artesian vein, out on the prairie.
To accompany an old forlornness (prodigal,
homesick).  As ineluctably, imperturbably,
the year climbs toward akme – Bloomsday
jubilee, sun-perihelion – the whole pleroma
coincides... aligns this moment with old years
gone by.  Measureless summers in Mendelssohn
(or rather, summer’s intimations of infinity).  One
solemn hilltop iron sounds, droning... Vladimir’s
(Nabokov, in Petersburg).  & now I sense
a universal congruence, orthogonal... an upright,
cosmic Rome, vast, free & equable; full of delight.
Each planet scores a Providential masque – immense
high hymn of restoration (Georgic, of the Garden).
Its plot furrows the brow of every Eve, each Adam –
prodigal children of an errant plowman (Ham,
Shem, Japheth... every one).  & mine,
as well.  Sursum corda... let metaphysical Hope
lift up your heart.  As resolute Nadezhda
was sustained, persistent, on her own hard
long Lanthanum Road... by a goldfinch trope
of clear & singing air (tropic, salty... Crimean
tune).  Let this moist limb of milky air suffuse
your life, child-planet; let the bell ring (yours);
& may Mnemosyne be ever green (pine-paean).