Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon
who is too bold. I never felt a wound
more fair than she, her soft eye discourses
with all the admired beauties of Verona.
Two of the fairest stars in all of heaven
are pale with grief. That she knew she were
the twinkle of the spheres, another word
in a letter. She speaks, yet she says nothing
that birds would sing. The business disclosed
in the language of the walls: it is my love
that will answer it. She leans her cheek
upon the monologue, and none but fools
do wear the daylight as a lamp. Her eyes
shame the stars that break through the window.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Who are you again? How am I to know
If you're my sister or brother? Which sign
Should I believe? Which mysterious witness
Harbors the long-forgotten evidence?
How am I supposed to know if it's you?
Perhaps you are my father? Or my son?
What is it that these antecedents refer
To essentially? And who are you again?
I don't believe I know you, but these eyes
Are known to play games and to persuade
Me into accepting facts like opinions.
But am I to trust my own understanding
Or to follow the person beyond the names,
Who has dared to make my paths straight?
Friday, July 26, 2013
I could not deal but with the cruel hand
That ruled me. A feeling of strangeness ran
Down my fingers and between thin strands
Of falling hair when a right-handed woman
Performed actions independent of the plan.
She could not deal with the blessed land
Governed by disease. A willing fate and
Wit oriented the limb and gave commands,
Such as rubbing the eyes, discerning bands
Of light or wiping the face. She couldn't expand
Upon it further, especially with the grand
Sensations coursing through both hands.
For when this mysterious affliction began
It appeared to take on a mind of its own.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
He left the settlement to the mercy of
The cataclysmic weather. Another juror
Fabricated a history of amusements
And distractions for neglected workers.
He left the territory to the wrath of
Religion and the whim of a capricious
Politician. Another relic legitimated
A doctrinal belief for hallowed citizens.
The imminent theme moved in spite of
Nothing, while the studied astronomer
Prepared a prophecy for the sovereign.
The instruments themselves witnessed
An article of faith professed, the principle
He took with him when he abandoned this.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Whose rays reveal a foundation of knowledge
A canopy of stars or a sky stretched out
Like a tent from horizon to horizon
Whose light gives object to the reaching flowers
Tremendous trees, proud plants, terrible storms
Seeking the new in the practiced old
Whose triune project is beyond believing
Or in a mysterious realm where the view
Is religious disbelief in some method
Whose glorious policy extends in language
Over oceans, meeting every shore with life
Reflected on the surface of the water
Whose divine understanding allows clouds
To leave teachings on the tender grass
Vanishing in the distance she is revealed
Whose architecture is littered with symbols
Obscured by the always-changing weather
Whose name resounds in the remembered halls
Of prayer or the forgotten doors of worship
That welcome the wanderers on pilgrimage
Whose music bathes in pentagonal windows
Where warm Sunlight pours across her body
Between her calligraphic breasts and thighs
Whose mysteries unfold in narrow pathways
And labyrinthine maps of foolish history
Whose politics acknowledge metaphysics
Yet declare the heavens a glorious god
Proclaiming the honor of her wise hand
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
After Munch's "Death of Marat"
He's laying in the bed. She's standing in
the space between him and the table where
various spheres lie. Is it just an illusion
of blood and lust? A confused dark gesture
in the contour of an expressed nightmare?
She sees herself: her golden hair turns red
like the insides of a body. The man swims
in the obscure psychology of imagined
boundaries. Suggestions in the intimate
shadows render their violent appetites
on linens, cover them in the warm life
of terrible intercourse with the beloved.
But who is to say if the confessed scream
reveals anything beyond what we dream?
Friday, July 19, 2013
The sound was this overwhelmed liturgy
Of light filtered through the open windows,
Percussive rain and birds arranging themselves
In the wide branches of the old pin oak.
The sight was this disoriented library
Of music moving across the open threshold
Of the mind, disorganizing new grammars
In the leaves of an unreal old book.
The very nature of her was confusing
Despite illumined experience, despite belief,
Sure testimony and deliberate science.
But the sound didn't move without reason,
Nor the sight disclose what is unknown
Without inspiring more of this nonsense.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
I went to the bayou to breathe in the Sunrise,
To observe the wading of herons and egrets,
To study the weather, the way that the clouds fly
Into the horizon without any regrets.
I went to the edge of the water to listen
To bugs and to birds and the whispers of freedom,
To myth as it was in the very beginning:
Obscure and mysteriously recollected.
The sky seemed to be the dull color of grasses,
The water reflected the turning of heaven,
The golden, enlightened Sunrays had gone past me;
This threshold of knowledge and burden of reason
Determine my seeing, but hopefully—at last—
I'll know the oblivious morning's soft breathing.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
The still surface of the muddy water
Lies at the obscured root of the flower.
I squint when I am looking at the picture
Of her, the one where she's bending over
The fire, her clothes are loose and disordered.
The curve of heaven knows me as a lover
Of weather that moves in uneven measures,
Of the iridescent undulating clouds
That wander over the rolling pasture.
At the root of the flower is the mover
Of doctrine in soft rain, is the teacher
Bringing knowledge about the beloved.
The moving limit of the muddy water
Hides in the occult history of flowers.
This moving surface of reflected water,
The vaulted sky slowly revealing something
That's very mysterious. This old picture
Of her in tight blue jeans, the boxes of things
Forgotten or remembered in an order
Prescribed years ago. This wandering nothing
Without name nor figure, the simple measure
Of silence. This revelation of anything
Thunders mercilessly across the pastures
Of the mind, obscures the labyrinthine things,
Obfuscates the blossom. This patient teacher
Created in the image of everything
Confounds me, but I believe there's something
More than the unclear surface of the water.