Sunday, November 29, 2009

Where the Fox Cries Out All Night

Festivals pass, waving flags. Children
go from the hills, taller, not looking back
I give up counting

what doesn't matter or matters too much
Hold to what stays
framed by the window or my two hands

knowing your face too well
& all I can't
keep. Small animals

come again, nudging shreds & petals
white footed
mouse, skunk with her flower stalk tail

lean deer, flocks
of birds

to all we give away

Ben tells me bluebirds migrate along the ridge
here in the summer washed hills
old oak, six named grasses, the river

far below. We compare names of our dead
& guess the names of roses
beautiful women, old friends. Once again

you don't come into the room
through the far door flanked with roses
your dark hair wet, your eyes

green invitation

I write you margins
green blue map, country
we never saw

contoured under my hand
your finger's whorls, folds
& intimate soles

our feet pressed to the separate dust
Here is a new language
the awkward reach

our hands unbuttoning
these white pearl dusks
slide of manzanita flower

sheets dried in the fir sweet air
If I meet you here it is only this
mountain lion loping the hot air

desire a clean kill

(an older and far from perfect poem. Ben, who is my friend Tui's husband--one of my few matchmaking successes--always loved the line about the bluebirds. And they do indeed migrate along the ridgetops here, bright bits of blue light).


At December 02, 2009 11:03 PM , Blogger Lucy said...


At December 12, 2009 7:26 AM , Anonymous Dick said...

It isn't as if the writing of poetry confers upon one the gift of complete insight into or comprehension of the work of others. In fact, too often I will reach what seems to be the natural conclusion to a poem I've been writing and I may have only an inkling of where its deepest roots lie.

All of which is a preamble to saying how positive is my response on a level below simple thematic or narrative understanding to your poems here. Their quiet voice, economic phrasing, avoidance of metaphorical clutter and nature images appeal strongly.

Like The Terminator, only more benignly, I'll be back!

At December 18, 2009 6:09 PM , Blogger am said...

If you walk through fire
still you always come home
to this ocean ringed truth

to this springtime life
supple with blesssing
loving each other.

Thanks so much for posting these poems. They bring back what was and still is, especially "Here In This Mountain Town."

At January 21, 2010 9:44 AM , Anonymous marly youmans said...

Lots of things I like in this one--and it's an older one, you say. I'm glad you've been adding notes. I'd like a big list of them in order! Probably impossible unless you're more organized than I am.

At October 02, 2010 1:51 PM , Anonymous marly youmans said...

Where are the 2010 posts? More!


Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

Links to this post:

Create a Link

<< Home