Friday, August 31, 2007


Somewhere a child is crying

All night the rain

Steps passing

Los desparacidos, the vanished

Heart in time of birds:

My son grown taller leans against the wind

Las madres, the mothers,

walk their circle of question

Und du, mein kind, wo bist du?

White scarf

in a woman’s hand

Will this shield you

from the wind, the firestorm

Voices in the night

J’ai faim, j’ai faim, j’ai faim

Hungry one, can you suckle the stars

Yes, at night with their dark mouths

Yes they come

with the words I do not know

& bring stone & their tears

and in Africa sing before dying

and in America sing before dying

and in Argentina, Biafra, Sudan: bleeding

Heart in time of birds:

yes, each month my harmless blood passes

between my legs

feeds the apple trees, the roses

But what of the mothers, walking

I saw him die, it was a long death

(her child of twelve) I saw him die

it was a long death

(her son bleeding) I saw

Yes, at night. I do not know the language

My child sleeps

in a rainbow blanket

Today I bought white freesias

Honey & pepper with their hearts-of-gold

& put them in water

safe from the wind.

I have a bowl of milk, a mirror

a white scarf, a paper of salt:

small things of the world:

the child turns in his sleep.

Small hands, of flowers

My lover says they do not smell of funerals

An old poem; it did come after night after night of waking with words in foreign languages in my mind and needing to speak out on all this. The countries may change, the sorrow doesn't. This was printed in kayak back in the day; George Hitchcock's wonderful surreal poetry magazine in which you never knew what odd collage might face your poem.


At September 28, 2007 7:53 AM , Blogger marlyat2 said...

Suckle the stars...

Poems that begin or are written in dreams are the most delicious to write.


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