the angry clown is not your father

HEAVY THINGS

If we look once more at your Topsfield

Aquinas-map, Dante –

that earthy horn of plenty

floored by starry sarabande (sealed

fan of luminous phenomena)

the heavy things of Time

rehearse the Salem crime

with simple weight of rigid clay –

ice-cold, stone-cold, bereft of life.

The line sags from the bridge;

the daughter of a lost age

droops, off-balancing (soul-grief).

Quantum quirks of spooky action

powder another image

for displaced rage

into the time-funnel... dissatisfaction

with oneself provokes a personal despair.

We do not know who’s there.

Halloween is in the air;

brown leaves congeal to pumpkin hair,

the angry clown is not your father

anymore.  O Juliet,

the phony craven despot

crafted no safety net... look further.

A rippling of seashore memory

brings grey gulls to sleep.

The peacock’s eyes gaze deep

as Argo... hold her now, Hagia Sophie.

10.21.16

when the Eternal comes

AUTUMN DRUMS

Shards of a spectrum scatter flashing

by the old twin-doored

twin-dovetail mirror

out of Mexico.  Light faceting

(from purple candlestick, late

afternoon, October).

All Souls’, beyond Tiber

or Po, where goat-sheep congregate

beneath the tiny pumpkin lamps

of Chinese lanterns.  We

lift them with you, Psyche –

4-dimensional temple!  Clamps

of copper from an iron ribcage

breathe out now with you

your Scattergood milieu,

egalitarian Link-o-pen; rage

cannot stem your dissemination,

nor malevolence

of Minotaur silence

muted trompette marine.  O nation

sowing disintegrated diamonds

of personhood – like rain

of milkweed seeds!  A grain

for monarch feathers (Solomon’s)

or living stones, or silver pennies

American .925

recursive light from hive

2 dozen bronze lamps from your base

                       *

Rick Stocks has gathered in 3 warehouses

brass railings from the stairs

for climbing to the Bears

who dance around your Ariadne’s

Crown, Leviathanic brow;

soul liberty, she said,

& rising from the dead –

these hieroglyphs tattoo my prow.

The lamp lifts in an evening light.

The crossroads (dying –

living – loving – giving)

focus, like a lens (Hittite

or Italian – Roma, Ethiopian...)

how my heart emigrated

toward your implicated

face (memory of Raphaelian

grace, nested in Providence).

So the quiddity of soul

shows Psyche (personal);

how you live, what happens

gradually fold to perfection

when the Eternal comes

& autumn drums

refracted through her leafy prison

echo under circling stars

the Three Bears dance

beyond Pacific romance   &

La Paix rises   from Venus, Mars

10.20.16

Path P in six directions

ROSE CIRCLET

The immeasurable quiddity

of a point in spacetime.

An icon turns on a dime

flashing silver corona (so free)

– as green almond eyes shine

with smiles of recognition

a beloved face is one

whole star – 4-dimensional mine-

shaft to the planetary helm

or meteoric stone

no one can own

coming down from sea-grey realm

of milk & honey (Northern Lights

a mirror for a horn

of plenty).  So being born

thus, river-clay triangulates

Path P in six directions

diamond octahedron

finished in the sun

like plates my mother hexagons –

weathered oak-leaf hands (brown

in the round, rolled

out of clay, from old

dishevelments of tumble-down

autumn).  & where the tree-rings

circulate the marrow

spacetime’s arrow

coils into chestnut Sphinx

                  *

whose crumbled wine one drinks

out of the Nile-delta –

steps northeast  selah

toward the dome (when nobody thinks

one will) resembling a bronze acorn

of evergreen holm oak.

One ruddy spoke

upon a node of blinding sunshine –

ice-hewn clarity of Everyhon

beside the glowing hearth

of agape – the earth

in equilibrium – Son

& Father & the Holy Ghost

waltzing a crane-dance

to the drone of Magdalen’s

accordion (hale Mary’s host)...

& once the orgulous organ’s

dismantled, & the light

flows through violet

rose circlet (there in Jacqueline’s

seatown) – a naiad will emerge,

a sundance figure (on

the prow of Lincoln’s own

logos).  Sophie her demiurge,

love-waves her rite – La Paix

or Buffalo Woman,

Morning Star... pine-

green majestic Liberté.

10.19.16

Yves Bonnefoy, little by little

This is the first part of a sequence by Yves Bonnefoy, titled L'été de nuit.  Another try at translating this beautiful poet.  (see original below)

SUMMER NIGHT

                  I

It seems to me, this evening,

That the starry sky, spread wide,

Draws near to us; and that the night,

Behind so many sparks, is less obscure.

And the leaves blaze too under the leaves,

The green, the orange of ripe fruit, intensified,

Lamp of an angel near; a shudder

Of hidden light seizes the universal tree.

It seems to me, this evening,

That we entered the garden, of which the angel

Has closed the gates without return.

from a sequence by Yves Bonnefoy

ravens snag rookies in bluejay trees

SOLE MAGPIE

The angry father is a sad figure;

the unarmed child who walks

with open hands, talks

toward him, reaches C major

on the 88 (pine-green octave).

Ravens snag rookies

in bluejay trees;

the hunters wonder what to have

out of their hollow sack of Bruegel-

frost; argufying

starlings form a ring

around a sole magpie (farewell,

Maggie).  Translucent October

showers yellow-black

on Caesar’s hunchback

(rogue goldfinch – he’s never sober).

Cold grows colder, stone more stony;

rude men kneel down

for a crust of wine-

stained loaf; God’s only phony

for the mickle microphones – the orphan

player’s Richard III.

She’ll stand by me,

mutters Rusty Piers (cowman);

after the grey November rain

stars will come out again,

gems constellate the plain –

& Hobo echo her enchanted brain.

10.18.16

Hobo was King of Mars

AUTUMN VESTIGE

Observe the canoe, in the dusty garage

in Ferrara, if you can find it,

she said.  A Star of David,

sewn upon spectral autumn vestige

of threadbare overcoat, shines

in the gloom of late October

day.  My hobo-mutter

fritters into golden leaf-combines,

disintegrating fleets of ripeness.

August limbs go plain

beneath afternoon rain;

the tree stands like an empty chalice

ready to be topped with drifting flakes’

archaic frozen stars.

Hobo was King of Mars –

lifted up unto a throne of rakes,

crowned with a pile of leaves; his head

was a planetary pumpkin, &

his magic rattle-wand,

tufted with scorpions, was made

of lead.  The heart shrivels with dread

& melancolia

until the Tauromachia

twirls, milky moon... lifting the Dead

Sea of All Souls’ into a strange orbit

of anti-gravity –

like your gallant oak tree

that lived 600 years upstate

                    *

whose trunk was broader than her height

whose acorns sail

from Hudson to the Nile

& carve a reedy vessel (upright

Osiris in mosey-miroir)

to tack the ark of justice

toward mild Providence –

I hae ne wroth, her murmur

filtered through the Pharaoh-mask;

I am the Shekinah

behind Who-He-Who-She;

I am your Miryam at the matrix,

almond salience, unflagging J.

The stars waltz gently

round the Pole... we

dance beneath them, in a play –

late romance of a shakèd spear

or rustic ferris wheel

where Smolak will repeal

the bearish curse, the hunter’s fear.

Hobo might head back home again

to Basking Ridge, above

the Rio of the Turtledove...

a furrowed nut, a graybeard brain

whose love came surging from the sea –

a tidal wave of hungry

soul (his coulombee).

So turquoise panned gold embassy.

10.17.16

down by the Rio Espiritu

CAVERN-KITCHEN

Cottonwoods mime autumnal Golgotha

down by the Rio Espiritu –

Eli, Eli, why have you...?

– branching-out concavex vesica

(tree become history).  Now the mirror

of round Galilee reverts

as when murky Po River’s

backward film flows to Ravenna shore;

magnetic gravity of Mary

reels the molting dove

into the tumult of

new-found Columbia’s eyrie –

cavern-kitchen full of Piero’s light,

her mummer’s earthbound feet

tap blessings to the fleet

in spires of crane-dance patter-flight.

The almond is a little tree

whose acorn eye marks

spoken blooms – arcs

from a sparkling diamond sea

triangulating stainèd glass

from humped Cahokia

to Saarinen-eye.

A speeding Spirit of St. Louis

soars to Notre Dame & Chartres;

steep-waltzing Trinity,

one 1-3-2 will be

your eagle-masque (dive, mère-maître).

10.12.16

something very like an H

SALIENT THREAD

In the limpid evening distance, the twin

piers of the bridge are shining

as if a smile took wing.

& something very like an H is drawn

in orange ‘gainst the azure gold –

a catenary grave

for slight Ophelia (wave

goodbye now, wrinkled Henry Gourd).

Hamlet & Laertes squabble

aching in the trench;

leaves fall... the wench

is dead.  The leaves make hibble-hobble

& the scene folds into quiet,

sea, mourning.  The ship

groans back to London.  Slip

the knot now, Everyman... knit

your soul into that oaken keel.

The ropes will fray, the mast

will break, redwood at last

keel over too... yet may this steel

needle still aim toward home, somehow.

A gibbous moon ripens

onto Jaybird’s pencil-

thin & salient thread (above, below

twine almond bears)   the crossroad sings

with joyeux Yeshua

the motes flame   Manitou

Black Elk   yahoo   the tree-bell rings

10.11.16

the trumpery of tusked bore

CREOLE GREEN

In my republic of grey matière

all things have dignity –

50 states of Jubilee

emerge from one low rustic star.

The akme of the chaste vision

loops down from innocence;

a catenary salience,

the smile of your companion.

Coke’s helm of liberty-in-law

(old holm oak in the woods)

frames acorn neighborhoods –

spun west from Berkeley’s awe

& Williams’ magnanimity –

raying from Rhodian gate

one starry Ocean State

to Frisco Bay profundity

(Pacific fiat through a lilac door).

Woodblock villains rage

across a cypress stage

the trumpery of tuskèd bore;

rich mythologies advance

boast-predator Power;

a tiny violet flower

planted at the Gate’s entrance

beams back toward Rhodos-Liberty

her creole-green

& blazing copper sheen –

one steadfast statute in the harbor, she.

10.10.16

Roger Williams Memorial, Prospect Terrace (Providence)

Minneapolis in purple light

UNIVERSAL AUTUMN

Beatrice at the vanishing point

or Juliet on the bridge

mark infinite edge

to Alighieri goat-trails (figure 8).

The leaves of universal autumn

rain like parchment tears

from planetary spheres

& sea-grey eyes (too close to home)

to say goodbye, to wander streets

vacant & desolate

& drift   (disconsolate

refugee)   where only fleets

of shadows meet   (lonely nightmare)

& still the yearning heavens

wheel   manna leavens

their deep imperturbable desire

rooted in unfathomable joy

– Eternity, O Eternity!

he crowed (with penny-

whistle, raven-quill) – meek Roy

nestled in evergreen holm oak

like Ariadne’s emerald

corona... like straw-gold

Acorn Maid, among the little folk.

The drowsy King of Love bowed

his trompette marine –

umbilical fountain

of spiral clay (Galilean mode).

10.7.16

crumbs beside the Po

SERPENT-ROOT

The life that spirals from the sea-cave

like a serpent-root, a curious

labyrinth etched across

the limestone of a vaulted nave –

the dappled sparkling of infant

river-wavelets.  Mud-brown

vortex of an unknown

casket – Easter-packet – font

of raven-crumbs, beside the Po.

Or Ishmael’s hieroglyph –

inverted fisher-skiff

of pregnant galaxy below

afloat now, circling – a living hand,

an arm, forehead, eyebrow...

emergent tar minnow –

Tad Pole, or Polly Wag, some sand-

borne seaweed driftwood Jane...

Christa on crossties, or

IONAH (in Paradise).  Your

Queequeg is a queer cuss, man,

but OK – floats all right – can even

swim.  His Ariadne-

boles are capillary –

vein his bones into a crown

of 50 stars (for Jubilee).

The echo-cave is empty...

only Eureka!  She

has found him! crows (from sea to sea).

10.6.16

another blast from the Oak of Phenoque

CROWBAR TORCH

The poem might be a superconductor,

its topology so homespun,

threadbare, cold & thin –

a 1-dimensional egg-beater

jamming a needle’s eye in Denmark,

or Verona.  The capstan

spools the whole yawning

span – the wheel is made of holm oak,

evergreen & ancient, holy.

Argo is her name;

a million eyes flame

round her oaken rim, & Ariadne

anchors her from Ocean floor –

her catenary line

loops gracefully, from spine

of cedar mast to dark-green shore.

The old exotic matter of Bretagne

sleeps in her sybil’s leaves;

the lovelorn wind that grieves

through Dante’s cedars in Ravenna

carry G’ma’s freighter Gospel, too –

from Cape Ann out to Frisco

through the Gulf of Mexico.

Jessie, Ophelia... tarragon, rue...

her sleepy spells rise from the clay

& spin toward constellations

full of Okie calibrations –

a rain of acorns hits the hay

                   *

where long-abandoned train stations

sink back into the prairie

& a grey turtle (airy,

airiest) flew fluting through the nation’s

backwaters.  The love that moves

the Son & the moth-stars

goes raying through a potter’s

helm, the way an LP grooves

(Columbia).  Her ire will not last

forever – no, Iona

&/or Iowa have shown a

willingness to rise from lead ballast;

Do-Well, Do-Better & Do-Best

have joined hands in a wing –

a simple pleasant wedding,

thistle-burred (give red & blue a rest).

A century ago, the Meuse-Argonne

became a charnel house.

Grandpa Edward S.

was there, & shipped home (lucky one)...

– are Guillem’s muses all gone now?

An airplane lifts from Eiffel

to New York – the spell

takes hold – Liberty lifts her crow-

bar torch – ignites like acorn

from galactic hearth...

summons magnetic North...

O steadfast keel, O evergreen horn!

10.5.16

on San Francisco's day

ANGE D’OR

How quickly the tiny silver hearts

of the cottonwood turn gold.

In honor of the sun, grown old

now (down where a brazen stream departs).

Franciscan metamorphosis –

leaves drifting on the wind

bring Hobo back to mind

their magnitudes, their endlessness...

her cosmos full of smiling shapes

detailed by carpenter,

who shakes the roof of winter

into a trillion dazzling ice-capes.

The scarlet & the royal blue

he doffs, along with his

armor... naked he goes

into the plains, Ti sta seguendo.

Imperial purple violets

are his insignia –

his Tauromachia

a simple tread (love-knots

from Ariadne’s labyrinth).

A rusted railroad bridge

over the Western ridge

turns orange... Guillaume’s absinthe

goes green... out of the grey cloud-

matter whispers down

a ring-dove’s croon (your own

ange d’or) – original shape-shifter God.

10.4.16

Brief poem by Yves Bonnefoy

Another poem, in my halting version, by Yves Bonnefoy (from the series A une terre d'aube) :

THE BIRD AMONG RUINS

The bird among ruins is freed from death,

He nestles in gray stone facing the sun,

He leapt over all suffering, all memory,

He knew no more what is tomorrow in eternity.