in the conning tower

SALT PATTERN

Sophie sketching a choo-choo train

in blue crayon, & a trio

of engines in bright yellow-

black (Union Pacific) planing

across a dented overpass

share the light matrix-

argot of a peacock’s

fan-continuum (sea-surface).

Your eye that opens like a morning

glory forged into fusion

stronger than the sun

this amorous union, splendoring

a plume – your planet, raveled into

one.  Its gyroscopic

spin is geodesic

liftruweight – a feathery canoe

scaled up the hoary Nile to be

fair, kind & true

(peacock’s mosaic view

breathing accordion transparency).

Who then can be my enemy?

Why do the ogres rage

& tinpots ruse to stage

mock war upon me?  Jealousy?

from lambent arboreal North

snow slants softly down

a rose meridian

to blanket aboriginal South

                *

radiant in sibylline East

as tawny dogwood leaf

light welds a choral reef

to Liberty’s gull-dappled West

A shady chess piece in the tower

angles shark advantage

with a flanking edge –

the twisted blade, the bribe’s power;

on prison railroads to the pole

pecking iron grain

by long division

sowing lizard’s teeth (drum roll)

all for a subterfuge of thieves

who plant not (neither

shall they hive)... where

then their homing in the sheaves?

Like a black hole torn through

ice-gilded armor, light

gravity sets right

your kayak’s calm ellipse (true

almond eye, beaming beyond

all scheming pyramids).

Whose birchbark lids

one cosmic hexagon – fond

snowflake angel-star – salt

pattern at the end

of Everychild’s roadbend –

bright rainbow out of Ocean vault.

1.13.17

granite made of air

MOSAIC INTERIOR

Hobo sets his sights on Ocean Sky

the cloud-boats drifting

stately, aquamarine

high-masted spinnakers go by

The rusty syntax of the railroad bridge –

necklace for a queen

Romano-Byzantine.

Galla Placidia, maybe... blown to the edge

of warlord chaos, courtier intrigue;

guarding son & heir

with the pale gold hair

(who will not see the Soo Line zigzag

into the forest, north of here).

The mosaic interior

night-blue with stars –

her mausoleum, like an eggshell ear.

Sea-light filters through pinholes

of gold.  The grey matière

a granite made of air

hides pigeons, ring-dove souls

within its manifold (octahedral

catacomb).  Even

Hobo finds his kin again;

the smile of cousin Jeanne will roll

a tensile thread out of the maze

of time & circumstance –

her light ghost dance

where mountains bloom (sheep graze).

7.7.16

The old poet is a tramp

FARM ROADS

                               The old poet is a tramp. 

Something there is in me that loves

this heavy railroad bridge.

Like an Osiris-ridge

of rust the gyrfalcon oar-hovers

in the antique poem by the worn-out

Beat (Muskeg Al, or Jerry

Don Teo).  So very

wistful, warbling his old trompette

marine beside the drowsy Miss...

You have to be a hobo

just a little, Jo

to know.  How mutterland is bliss.

She reaches timely tendrils now

deep through backwaters

of still memory.  Neighbors,

children... chicory, mosquitoes... O.

Evening stretching infinite

farm roads toward sunset.

& you, caught in a net

of yearning (fluttery disquiet).

She’s your Dream, old trampoline.

& I would have you meet

my own familiar fleet

amigo – invisible yet, still gone;

warm shadow, like a humming bird

who beams from evening sky.

Love is perfection (sigh).

A misty rainbow, Hobo said.

1.25.16

Cirque Planetaire

UPSTART HILLS

Gray coal cars thunder monotonously

across an old iron bridge.

Only a local image

in midwestern bleak.  Your poem will be

allegorical, of necessity

since an Earth so various

is only one of a series

on parade (sparkling panoply

du Cirque Planetaire).  Italian sun

is as a brazen shield

above scarred poppy field;

the moon a candle in Pavian dungeon...

Poema Sacra, Dante’s testament

è tutto didascalico –

a climber’s manual (to go

from shady gloom to cheerful summit

of Rose Mountain splendor).  My sun

rides low in winter sky,

chanting How Not to Die

in plain & soulful Minnesotan

(Ojibwa).  The dream of history

breaks open at its heart.

All-human upstart

hills (Superior, or Tuscany)

fill nets of silver phosphor –

your soul’s a philosopher

in love with twin Mirror

Lakes (Justitia, Amor).

1.13.16

& over the Cliff Notes we go again, with Read-Along-with Rest Note :

Poem #8 :

(dedicated to John Tagliabue, my (ex)father-in-law, who died last month; last Saturday (which would have been his 83rd birthday) a memorial gathering was held, people filled a restaurant to read poems, reminisce. A group did a staged reading of an excerpt from one of the Mario puppet plays. There were a few old hippie-zen people from the 50s or 60s - one guy who said he had come upon one of John's poems in a magazine, & it changed his life : he was holding a "tailgate" party outside the restaurant, sharing bottled water and his enormous collection of small-press Tagliabue materials, which he'd been collecting for 50 years. He could hardly speak before the audience, this old taoist hobo. It was an emotional day.)

8.1 : "Hobo drifts..." etc. - poet as exile, outsider, prophet. "privy contretemps" - could mean a number of things. Private shame, embarrassment; Yeats's "the quarrel with ourselves" out of which we make poetry; and (punningly) a secret or arcane (prophetic) anachronism, or "counter-time" : the poet's alienation has something uncanny about it. "pet raven" - his muse here is one of denunciation and doom (self-doom, too, thinking of Poe's "Raven").

8.2 : "narrow gauge" - both a type of railway line and a "gage" or glove thrown down for a duel (between the railroad - here representing social power, generally, that which "railroads" everybody, in Populist parlance - and the "thin red line" of the poet's lips - here in a martial sense of doing battle. But the lips are closed, in a "curved plum of silence". At this point the poem's emotional affect turns (on that curve). Paradoxically, the place where ships seemingly "descend" - "go down" - is a measure of the earth's curvature, the horizon : and the "promise of their tutelage" - that is, what is learned, from the exploratory effort of the ships, is a promise of concord : at the "vanishing point" - ie. at the meeting-point of all the lines of exploration.

8.3 : underlines the hopeful direction of previous stanza : "shared reality". However, this is one of the poems which is short (by one) the usual 7 stanzas, marked by an asterisk-break at the midpoint.

8.4 : The divide marks another turn in the poem's register of feeling. The second part of this poem shows not so much a simple union or reunion (symbolized by the ships or the earth's curvature) : here it is more a matter of establishing a balance between firmly separated things. "Edith, I slept.../hopelessly" - In a poem dedicated to John Tagliabue, there are a lot of personal elements emerging here. Hobo, Teddy Roosevelt, Lazarus, & the speaker are blending together somewhat. "Edith" was TR's wife's name. "Edith" is also the 1st name of my ex-wife, John T's eldest daughter (though everyone from the beginning called her by her middle name, Francesca). The "jade tree" - an India Jade - was a wedding gift from my mother, which is still growing (large) at the corner of Francesca's house. Hobo, Whitman, "Passage to India", the earth's curve, etc... "the driftwood" etc. - the image here is a sort of fusion between a sense of life & time's "drift" with the image of the swingset - symbol of a mysterious sort of constancy, recurrence, strung from "parallel" ropes from a tree. Image itself recurs in many forms through the poem so far.

8.5 : "suspended gravity" etc. - the idea is that the desire and longing in the human heart have an otherworldly (anti-gravitational), infinite aspect (the parallels meet in infinity) - which is, in reality, the ultimate measure of things and of the goals of the human will and activity. Out of the vision of this comes the "inclusive arch" (in a sort of echo of Crane's Bridge) of poetic speech; it is the source of the Whitman-style magnanimity which Tagliabue, in particular, lived out so eloquently and fantastically in the course of his life.

8.6 : "lambency/of recursion" - in poetry, the word both recurs and recoils on itself (in a doubleness like a swing's back/forth motion). "almond shadow-lens" - many things compacted here. The almond tree, flowering in winter, links back to the uncanny "exile" of the hobo (almond being the representative tree of Judaism, faith of wandering exiles) and the otherworldly "suspended gravity" of the heart's desire. The "shadow-lens" goes back to the Lazarus camera obscura; "shadow" also implying something still (or always) hidden from view. (A lens is itself an almond-shape : the geometrical vesica, joining 2 intersecting circles.) "twirled into one/untutored sport" - the oscillation of the swing takes on inertial energy of its own, twirling - into the "untutored sport" of nature. No longer under the "tutelage" of explorer-ships, the poet-hobo is an athlete, a "sport" whose "spirit-ditties" seem effortless, unschooled - like the Taoist poets & painters whom Tagliabue emulated and seemed to become, eventually, himself.

One of the more obscure sections, I guess...

14

 
The hollow hoot of the freight train sets it seal
on a limitless night.  Plowman leans on a line,
glancing over his shoulder (fleeting scene
of red-tipped feathers - Red's farewell).

 
Spirits shuttle to the shady gates (engulfed
in fanes of wheedling arms) and Vulcan sets
the type with rugged characters - Calypso,
Circe; the scalds, the scars.  Wolf-

 
meals, in the blue forest; a rustic war
of mirror-brethren, fixed in their Medusa-
headrest.  Slumber's their insignia :
engravings of engraving, "star" for star.

                                
                   *

 
As you move toward sleep, the leavings of the loom
loom over the deep... over the speechless
limbs.  A boy who wanted to play with dolphins
feeds the sharks (its name, its doom).

 
He frets your opulent asides, the festal
trumpetings, the wails of whales; you feel
closer to home, Ulysses, as you steal
a green wink from the morbid burial's

 
abiding score.  You left his earthy body
on Calypso's shore, and for Penelope
you clipped his jasper bandolier (she
toys with it in the grass... tombs it away).

12


 
I heard some crickets planted here and there
in a wayside meadow.  Lying on my back
in the shade of an iron pier, where tracks
of the Soo Line leapt a moody river.


 
You might recall, too.  I start to remember
something familiar (half-gone memory)
whenever I notice the crickets' skree, skree.
It penetrates, easily, adamant layers


 
of daydreams (vague, swollen, viscous, slow).
So time attempts a mask of gravity,
unsheathes its blade : mirrored peripety
(grave) revolving to a tune the crickets know.

                                               
                 *


 
The echo of the railroad's ruthlessness
blends like thunder into thirsty plains.
An overarching, regal blue remains -
an edict in the heart (its hollowness).


 
Relinquish them (the pride, the contumely)
the way a peevish king divests his crown.
Yon imperturbable (unplumbed, unknown)
shuffles the weights, invents a remedy.


 
And the wind trestles the urgent stream.
And the formidable iron swingset
restates its formula, in triplicate :
back, forth, back, forth (life, dream).

8

     
                             for John Tagliabue

 
Hobo drifts through rusted railroad world.
His tongue rasps out the iron flavor
of refusals, privy contretemps.  Over
cautious caravans, his pet raven hurls

 
exacting retribution - narrow gauge
thrown down to a thin red line of lips.
That curved plum of silence, where ships
descend... the promise of their tutelage

 
a concord at the vanishing point.  Stout keys
of shared reality.  Not disenchantment,
now, but hopefulness - ninefold reconcilement
(sweet reunions, recognition's ecstasies).

                    
                   *

 
Edith, I slept across the roots of the jade tree,
hopelessly.  Above me, the driftwood
(strung from slow parallels) rocked quietly,
back, forth... drawing a pattern (see-

 
saw) out of suspended gravity.
It was the inclusive arch, spread tenderly
between obdurate stones, above the turmoil
of indifferent waves.  A lambency

 
of recursions, curled toward equanimity;
an almond shadow-lens (cornerstone
of coronations) twirled into one
untutored sport - light spirit-ditty. 

I can't really abstract a perfect illustration for my comments of yesterday. It's a poem or caterwaul that goes in a lot of directions. (Remember the photos Jonathan posted of Vallejo/Lincoln?) Here's something from near the end of July:

 12

  
 Deep drone of train   or iron cicada
 across an infinite prairie   steppe or
 taiga   and where do the past
 and future   of these parallels   ascend?

  
 Accompanied by mute organ-pipes
 in Voronezh   or an anti-telephone
 in Moscow   (making superluminescent
 waves)   or just my new triangle on the barn

  
 banging and banging like an old tin can?
 The rapture of the universe   is on
 the radio tonight   everybody knows
 it   (even the D.A.R., Grandma)   it’s Marion

  
 singing there   in Washington
 under the Depression   and the shadowy
 long hands   long face still   washed
 with kindness   twinkling like a star

  
 his homely lonesomeness
 is in her voice also tonight  a silky
 charity-chariot   with   malice toward
 none   we’ll ride it home Bluejay   forget

  
 the bondage of the 44   rail-split and
 quartered in a milky map
 rivers and forests in your palm
 life-lines and   spirit-trails

  
 deep into tracklessness   a limber
 timbered   everlasting habitat
 we’ll make it home   to bathe
 again   in that spring water   Abraham

  
 as the drone rises   to the tops of the oaks
 in an arc of praises   love and liberty
 are married there   a tribal tree of
 tribulations   crowned   a little school of J

      
                                      2.8.2000

Exploration Fawcett [clearly, from the evidence of this link, there's also a whacko fringe Fawcett-cult] - I can't put it down. Imagine Poe's Pym novel, except in real life, with a great deal more of detailed description & episodes, & the wisdom of experience & humane spirit. It ends with Fawcett's disappearance in the depths of the Amazon jungle. Notebooks compiled by his son - who is looking out his office window in the railroad yard in Lima Peru at the very railroad car his father was riding into the Andes (on his first expedition) the day he (his son) was born, back in London. Very Poe/Borgesian touch, there.

The Amazon (along with Vallejo & the Andes) creeps into the final passages of Forth of July - mingled strangely with The Countess from Minneapolis (ps. that cover image is a painting of Hennepin Ave) & Pushkin's short story "The Queen of Spades".

"...by the shores of great rivers" (Mandelstam)

When I was writing July, a lot of "American" things came through sort of improvisationally, like George Washington (& Walt Whitman, & Abe Lincoln, & Mark Twain). Luxuriating in childhood reading & memories.

 2

  
 Wail of a far-off freight train
 rolling   into the distance, the distance
 Blackstone   deep in solitary meditation
 disentangled Anglican   by nature or

  
 design   looks out upon a landscape
 pale green moss near Oxford   peaceful
 on Orthodox Christmas,   Epiphany
 in England   knotted somehow   paschal child

  
 made manifest in birth   in starlight
 when the light that enlightens is
 a kind of new birth   and   every infant
 perception (mangered gemutlichkeit)   is

  
 hidden berth   of all our memories of
 goodness   and hidden beneath
 our sins   which are themselves (Theban
 labyrinth) hidden beneath our pride   summer's

  
 weeds become   so threadbare   buried
 with the masks prepared   for the Mardi Gras
 of the world   so that we may not stumble
 and so the mask may not slip    not dribble

  
 accidentally into sight   this courage of sinners
 in wastelands of   each local hell   to fabricate
 a bolder front   O Satan, we   thine atrophied
 bats!   Proud servants,   glorying in rancid

  
 shame!  Odd Hessians   on a long voyage
 in circles toward   some banal drunken
 surprise across   the Delaware   naked
 and unaware   while   the Father

  
 of his Country perches   (serene, detached)
 at the wobbly prow   and there is no system
 of Dante's hell, only   the eternal mystery
 of waiting for a punishment   which God

  
 I have no wrath   will never send   since
 the evil deed   is punishment enough
 (along with the heavy tinfoil
 masks   each deed entails)

  
 A little child shall lead them
 Blackstone gazes out the window
 past the sagging sagas   and the dunes
 of fairy tales   toward his Bethlehem

  
 down Blackstone River   into Sunset Land
 since   it's always the blanket or
 what's under the blanket   or the blank
 black hole   where it was before (Nile

  
 tomb   Inca burial cave and   icicle child
 emerging from a manger   steaming
 with domesticated beasts)   we must
 find it again   like breadcrust

  
 tossed from the rail into the sea and
 floating home   where we began
 where the blanket wrapped our nakedness
 like the frail   translucent texture   sighs

  
 and comfortings there   in the manger
 the walls of the coracle,   your   hurt
 heard   her   heartbeat   thread the
 nexus   naiads   now   (this   gam

  
 of wedded hulls   of grain-crumbs   drifting
 to feed the orphaned gulls   crying and
 piercing the dead silence, becalmed)   raking
 the void with   fire   John Paul   Jonas (fighters

  
 with fire   sons of thunder   Boanerges
 suddenly bursting through   the powers
 of darkness) and James   whispers
 antiphonal   from the tower wall   Jerusalem

 
 Jerusalem   rings out   over the rooftops
 of Jerusalem   like the sound
 of the Hiawatha   hooting   Now's
 the time was   then   as the spotted fur

  
 of the leopard   in the emerald nef
 spins   counterclockwise like
 a constellation (Pushkin's
 Swamp Fox trail   into the fen)

  
 and Bébé climbs into the boat
 lets fly the dove   and all
 at once   Law and
 Prophets merge   in a tub-gemote

  
 A little child shall lead them
 your heart   remembering under
 the wreath of wraiths of   undone
 wrath   gathers the myth

  
 like mud from the bottomland   into
 the eye of your hand   (quiet clay
 wheel   balanced   over the delicate
 hides of beasts)   in order to wean

  
 the shepherd   from the marketplace
 of words   and the sheep   from the stalls
 of beastliness   and all   at last   from
 the woeful pride   of a forsaken masquerade

  
 so that the ship may float   like an ark
 or   civic kayak   pivoting   on trust
 and unexpected grace   and the steadfast
 love   that looks on tempests and   keels over

  
 no more   but laughs   and gives   a measureless
 measure   (floating free   and buoyant once
 again   like the crust of bread   or mote
 of a sailor's aye-aye Captain!)   seamless sails

 
 through Stephen's Gate   into Jerusalem
 the distance, the distance   gone
 struck out   into the territory   one
 nigredo fin   off Kalevala   J-sample

  
 of blood   poured hand to hand   red
 heart   from Teotihuacan   host
 hollowness come home   stone
 bedrock   light   afloat through two dear

  
 bears   (sun-heart at midnight or
 North Star   Aurora Borealis
 ancient light   sown-silver robe
 of whispers now   dim   tiny)

  
 (a tiny light   in the middest of
 Blackstone veers   green
 Magdalen   Vierge
 Venusian and steady) (hum)

                                       1.7.2000

 
 3

  
 Under the wayward spears   of an Atlas
 Blue Cedar   in Swan Point Cemetery
 with the Seekonk beside us   quiet, dreamy
 and the January sun pale   distant

  
 seemly tombs   inscriptions
 fading   I come to bury Caesar
 not to praise him   Antony's ruse
 (coffer with a triple bottom   cryptic

  
 spring-wound   crosshatched   hieroglyph
 box-within-a-box   Gorby doll
 of repetitions   Mobius sea-swell
 mummy-wound and   filigreed

  
 like the brow of Moby Dick)
 as I sprawled across the old sofa
 and watched the Vikings and
 the Dallas Cowboys   like a kid

  
 fallen into mother's milk
 repeating himself   as if reborn
 with muses circling a barren urn
 fixed   pivoting from wheel to kiln

  
 in a spiral toward   a Marion Peru
 limen or   Blackstone's Law
 lost in the notebooks   buried in a wall
 beneath three floors of European

  
 monarchies (of butterflies or   swans)
 concentric waves of ripples   expanding
 as the water moves   over a damp
 Atlantis of   Mississippi river mud   snow

  
 melting   it lands there   beside bridges
 between twin cities   heavy   lonely   capable
 in the bleak   winter light balanced
 by steep cascading banks   mournful dirge

  
 of river-streaming   Où sont les neiges
 d'antan?   He died on a cold winter night
 slowly   I have no wrath   quinsy
 carried him away   hard-going   gentle

  
 man   having accomplished his will   and
 said goodby   his throat closed   sealed
 against   the crackling of thorns
 under the clay   and   all the Law

  
 and the Prophets   concentric   in a green
 firth beneath   the bloody flag   or
 cross of light on   Grace Church floor
 of renunciations   overturnings

  
 humbly   retreatings and surrenderings
 the servant of his country thus
 bending the line of tyrannies and
 years   into an arch   like these windows in

  
 Trinity   in Newport   these sweet
 repetitions of the rooster's crowing
 shells within shells of shields worked
 over the heart's ancient and riverine

  
 artillery   Masonic G   plumbline
 grown silvery   across the iron sides
 of railings toward infinity   sedes
 symmetrical seeds   thrones   enabling

  
 this kayak at the perihelion of streams
 to float   out of its frothy berth   again
 I shall not drink it with you (mug of tea
 steaming toward neglected cemetaires

  
 of meteors   or one bright lonely star
 at the prairie crossroad   where iron rails
 echo   and wind   bends in narrow lines
 the long soft grasslands   rustling)

 
 he left us parked there   at Stephen's
 golden gate   paternal phantom
 under the triple floor   of a metaphorical
 July or   sham rock   Blackstone's nef

  
 ineffable last gaze toward   Nile-mouth
 afloat in pyramidal   world-dream
 aye-aye Cap'n   so long Pap   unfolded
 quaternion   whirlpool edicule   thumbline

  
 sketch of Royal Palm,   shading Tigris
 and Ticonderoga   Finger Lakes   enscribed
 with an early ruse   before the rooster crows
 Abraham takes orders   at the well   a secret

  
 angel will unfill   with gales   and stays
 of laughter   (come to carry Sarah's
 not to bruise him) where Sheba's
 finespun blanket is thrown off   the scent

  
 for Solomon   and the Roman drumbeat
 rolls away the stain   and sting   of death
 beneath the third floor of the coffer   13
 lucky clovers come slowly round   the tumbrel

  
 timbre of the timbrel turned tender   dawn
 in the greenhouse   there   in Newport
 a successful campaign   via terrapin
 swamp fox trot, Nathaniel   with a nod

  
 toward the east   and Touro Synagogue   freedom
 in the mosaic   mordant   everlasting   lamp
 soft light shed   like   lamb's wool palm
 of victory   morphed

  
 at the font   of washing...   salt
 of Lima earth   one cup of tea, one
 baptism gone   Florentine
 one infant crown   afloat

 
 like a ship of light   in a cup of water
 turned to wine   in a plastic cup
 or   emerald eye   (established
 before the earth was)   Touro   Newport

  
 wedding   529 sails   puff   as
 water grows black   and death more clear
 truth more salty   and misfortune
 simpler   the cask or barrel   coffer

  
 with a star   afloat like Jonah   in its depths
 a ghost-reflection   one whole dove
 set free   upon the void
 Ephphatha

  
 see   through whistling clay
 the flute sounds   ride the mountain
 waves   in terraces   your naval
 natal day   plays   plangent scales

                                              1.9.2000

 
 4

  
 I was washing up in the winter courtyard,
 Julius   your red hair and my
 failing eyesight   meet in a mirror
 like a rusted star   cloaked in black dirt

  
 brotherhood and Oedipus   at the crossroad
 crying abba, abba   or an inverse she
 baa-baa, she baa   over an Atlas
 Blue Cedar, somewhere   a sleepy sorrow

  
 distant, muted   like a child crying alone
 on a couch   softly muttering and   unconsoled
 while the loyal troops   concerted vigilance
 on guard by the old Newport Armory, Nolan

  
 we are   everlasting Finns   long fellows
 Waste Not and Want   unraveled into
 war   beneath a distant   invariable
 charitable star   far-flung swells

  
 after the funeral   and I saw him
 standing there in uniform after the
 re-enactment   his name   under a reef
 of medals   Kilroy   like some conscription

  
 remnant for   the Father of his Country
 some ruddy   sunburnt   equatorial
 democracy of   microcosm-reality
 hove-to   in that blinding snowy courtyard

  
 where the general   encrusted shell
 of heroic David   shielded   in Scythian gold
 obscures the star   ringed with tartar   dogged
 twin   not red   but green   like a glimmering leash

  
 on life   yes   under the many-colored blanket
 blooded with brother's blood  (or lamb's)
 ripples the star   of orphan balm
 buried deep   beneath pentagonal calibrations

  
 like an emerald bee   under a jawbone lie
 stubborn   borne through black ink and
 blank night   on the rump of a donkey
 Love   into your palms   my Jubilee

  
 And like the night-light   of a mournful child
 past midnight and   past adult eyes
 you will be washing   in that courtyard
 the ice-cold clearness poured   your chilled brow

  
 drinks in   the prow of reality   ineffable
 shadow of the Magi from   the source
 of every Nile   as the Angel knows   whose
 hand held back the sword and   baffled

  
 both command and   its fulfillment
 this   was the many-colored
 jewelled lie   like Manco Capac
 beside the pool called   Sent   unfolded

  
 leafed   in a shroud of shades
 the uncut garment   of a polar bear
 rugged yet   mild and   dewlapped rabbi
 standing in a garden   shuddering

  
 with cold and   early morning
 a little child shall lead them   Magdalen
 or Lucky   green quaternion and   emerald
 Cuba, Elián   an   island urn-manger

  
 your berth is here   upon an earth
 grown   supernatural   in whispers
 in the leaves   of wind   (lips pursed
 with mystery)   a tender curling   ear

  
 of corn   whorled   like Ruth
 upon a path grown   silver
 trumpet now   with violins
 drawn parallel   flown through

 
 that feline   pinhole of light   elusive
 jaguar guardian gone   soaring
 with no one on his track   there is
 no other happiness   to learn from a star

  
 and I'd like to tell you   mumbling, my
 little one   that it's through our babbling
 I deliver you   to shine   Bébé   in
 that circumference   my bumblebee

  
 since a star is only a star   and
 light is only light   a rainbow
 your calm smile   my   Marion Peru
 at noon   lifted from the cave   to rest

  
 and warmth   gemutlichkeit
 gesundheit   breathing   sneezing
 coughing   crying out   a Zeno-
 Zeus   so lucky   home   on empty couch

  
 with nowhere   to lay your head
 until   like a hungry blind unhanded
 Maximus   so slowly inching   forward
 under the upturned rafters of a dear

  
 mosaic   (afloat overhead
 where an arch of sheep   accompany
 your voice   a muted organ-pipe
 gamboling   toward the reed-divining

  
 almond rod upholding   the spangled canopy
 or   mystery poncho   in Ravenna
 bee-stung   honeyed   mouth-ravine
 grown naked now and   copious)

  
 in the moss of night stars   melting
 flakes of winter snow   your hair
 flown clean   (a feathered ray
 falls there and   trembles)

 
 inching forward   snailshelled
 through the rusted   fishing boat for
 iron ore there   in the northland   tubular
 bereft hulk or   love-manger   delicious

  
 homeland   Hiawatha   hollow horn
 blown sweet and lonesome now   across
 the prairie   redman Lincoln   Norway
 spruce   blue-green   almond eye all

  
 Magdalenian   there   at the star-cavern
 within a nondescript exterior   of
 Superior stone   pebble   tear-shaped
 eyelid   Armenian cupola   stern yet   vernal

  
 shines   veteran   dusky   dawn-bathed
 through turbid   potter's clay
 a Minnesota spring   in January
 one leap year one   limber habitat

                        
                                  1.11.2000

I'm taking out posts right & left. (Those are railroad cars, on the cover of a Harry Partch cd.)

Watching Pushkin the cat today in the snow, ears twitching, alert, nervous about slight breezes rustling dried-up vines. Thought of the sounds we heard as young children - sharp awareness of sounds in the distance. Trains shunting & squealing over at the Minneapolis Moline yards.



(I had my ears checked last year - the doctor was quite surprised - said, "You have the hearing of a five year old." Not just the hearing, Doc.)

1

 
Old Autumn's drifted off once more.
Blank snow blankets the zero day.
Orpheus gets moving the same old way:
Westron wind... small rain... - let it pour.

 
2

 
Think of a highway littered with billboards, or
a Sunday layered with highway roar;
think of cicadas intoning "Nevermore"
(mid-August, mid-tree).  Open the door,

 
Octave.  I've heard it said before.
Think of an Iron Range railroad car
shuttling across deep-frozen swamp or
reservoir - feel the weight it bore

 
on your ear.

RR bridge over Mississippi at Twin Cities 

some very old old quatrains from little HG :

My countrymen, dreaming and drinking down
the livelong day in your smooth Cadillacs,
Americans made of nostalgia, playing the clown
on roads past the high school railroad tracks -

 
go on, play the radio, shoot for the moon;
your little boy up from grasslands not for hire
is building a tricycle in the backyard, and soon
he'll step inside a brand new chariot of fire.

[my father being a patent lawyer (& someone still fascinated with games & gizmos), I grew up in an atmosphere in which inventions were important. I remember my brothers and I (1960 or so) floating the first prototype of the "frisbee" around the yard.]