Where the Fox Cries Out All Night
1.
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
Sweetness
to all we give away
2.
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
3.
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).
posted by jarvenpa @ 11:07 AM
5 Comments
5 Comments:
Sigh...
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!
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."
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.
Where are the 2010 posts? More!
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