Luciernaga

with a cautious twist at the kidneys
and a sky-blue cast of the heart,
and drawing hollow air into my
guts, i rejoice in your blessed
clavicle, i marvel at your tender ribs

and i want to gather up
your splendid limbs to
my rooted chest,
tu eres luciente—
tu luces, tu ardes

und ich schaue zu,
feuerachtlos

scrubbing, absently,
at my tarnish

Pedestrianism

I think that I am better
in the winter, but
not for reasons you would guess

not because of Christmas
or fires or bowls of soup

and not because things are
dead or dying and the soft
remembrance of death
reminds us that we are
meant to live

but because it's finally,
blessedly cold and I can
go outside in a coat,
my good coat that I
like, damn it

Two Returns

Because I have withered
and felt my withered hands,
and because I have been made
drunk on the sounds of words

apart from meaning,

let me tell you
that the day goes dancing
when you have ceased to sing

and let the strings go quiet
and set the instrument by your
feet. And because I have
withered

and seen my withered cheeks,
I hope that you will listen
when I tell you that
time is still
not a wicked thing, but

time
and the flesh
and the world
return to God who made them
and makes them new.

Kunstmuseum

So I set out to paint you in recollection,

to sketch you in broad strokes: your

hip and shoulder, brow and breast—a

bit less like Titian, a little more

Matisse (for me, I’d be a Hollander).

And you shot me with that withered

gun, so that I can believe you might have

seen the apocalypse in a man’s heart.

A stove-plate etched by Quaker hands

while Cain strikes his brother dead. A

little less like you. More willing to kill you.

And Hirst is another blue-eyed orphan

who foundered in interpretation that

broke beneath him as he went, not

one but two and lightning (three, four,

split sycamore). Institutions will be

sanctified to God, and God will

be a complete sentence among the dead.

Your Keening Edge

There is no comfort with the inward wolf,

no solace in that tender sea

            and the earth is heavy

            underfoot. Who is like the

                        wolf, and who can make

                        war against him?

                                                             not I

                                                             not I

                                                                                and saint grace

                                                                      went

                                                                      trilling

                                                                      in the air…

                                                O clockwork heart, O

                                                sawdust head! hear

                                                how earthy things may

                                                speak! you liquor-eyed,

                                                you petrol-belly boy

           

Attend, all starry powers

                               Behold, you vaunted angels

                                                                 The earth, too, can sing;

                                                                 the earth, too, will

                                                                 kiss the Son

The Sitting Room

I just want it to go

well, he said

It won’t, it never does,

she said, and traced

a sigil in the air

with a burning cigarette

Damn it all, he said—

and the smoke

hung like a

prayer, like a silver-haired

amen

His Shaved-Faced Son

Worm Jacob went about

with knives beneath his skin,

to the city where snow fell

while he had slept.

Snow fell in Boston

and I was not there,

on Philadelphia in the night,

and Worm Jacob did not see.

Snow is and is not grace,

though it writes in

signs we cannot read

and blots out our uncovered heads.

Behold as he reaches out, Worm Jacob

and his span of fingers, reaches

out for the lost bodies of

his youth, intending

but to say “I wish

that I were otherwise, I wish

that it were not—”

Les Droits de l'Homme

Yesterday I stood in the parking lot

and breathed and wished

the air were colder, just a little colder,

and let the coat

fall loose around my shoulders.

In younger days, it seems

to me, I did not hurt

because I did not care.

Gliding in slow rounds,

a dance in unending light,

a reel in frost and fairy-light.

O Absalom, Absalom, my son!

I saw you hanging on that tree—

I remember, once,

you ran your fingers through

my hair and I

said nothing to you.

The man alone wants only

to say something that

means something other

than that he is alone.

All we want is a place to be,

a broad and open land.

All we want is to be

received, a little gesture of welcome

in earliest morning.

Come, put the whiskey

on the table, let

me feel that I

am wanted in this place.

We set our eyes toward

a better country

that we cannot see

where there will be time

again for talking

and where the course of time

will bruise no longer.

Pastorale

Under oak and terebinth

with the ox and bullock lowing,

with grain and grapevine growing,

I am well-pleased with

all the chthonic powers, in

August, when we

bear the burden;

November, when

we lay it down;

December, when we

brood and button;

March, when we

stir and think;

and May, when we

prepare the August burden.

By the wadi

on the dust

in the shade

of gliding wings

where the ragged

mouthpiece sleeps.

Desideratum

I want so dearly to be a maker,

but what am I but a thief of words?
The knotted fingers and the

callused palms are the waysign

and the secret marks—the bearer

smiles, inclines the head.

Your splendid, shining bones,

and the way your eyes would

switch and gleam…

The going under of the other—

The condescension of the Son.

The tip of my tongue at

the edge of my teeth:

I want so dearly to be a maker.

Moving Pictures

The widow walked up the hills
and the sun went with her:
black veil in golden light, which
is all the American beatitude.

Good morning, sir, God give
you peace by a broken jaw.

A slow walk to a distant car,
and the morning is
bright like winter—pressed
fingers on wheel leather,
and this is the day you
forget your music.
Humming is not like hearing,
and you are by no means a singer.

While I Prophesy

Tracing the worried orbit
around the flaw in your dark eye,
silver crack in earthy iris

above and below it
beside it beside it

I
try

charms and potencies
and deft flicking fingers

and all the while
you stand by

you have no need
for me to rectify
what is, after all,

only a spot of light
in your
twice-lucid eye

The Twist

We find the conscience by

electric light, with

windows open to the winter.

In the crack of knuckles

you might have heard—

God, who jackknifes sideways

in the belly.

Sh’ma, Yisrael:

There is the sound

of scratching pens,

of rolling wheels,

of fellow-travelers in the night.

Though many worlds seem formed in fear,

all things were made for praising.

And time is not vicious,

O my saint of the pear trees,

not vicious but violent,

like a dark-haired lady.

Time bears away all

the objects and marks of love

with blood in her teeth,

bearing her gods in her womb.

Margate-On-Schuylkill

I was born in this place,

Tin-can son of wooden father.

Pieced from bog and hill,

Stone and sea—

Drawn from dim wood

And the rivers under sun.

I was born in this place

And have been away

For so long that

I spent this road amazed

By fields of corn.

This was the soil

My feet first learned,

And I still believe

That space can be

A balm for mind,

That strain dissolves

In open air

On the hills of Pennsylvania.

Mahlzeit

I should have fought in wars,
I said, and sighed, I should
have taken up arms, been
proud and brave. I should
have fought and died
in wars.

That's bullshit,
she said, painting
letters in red wine with
her finger on the top of
the table. You're bullshit,
she said, looking up at
me, and I had to
concede the point.

Post Meridian

you know, I think that
I was always waiting to
stumble or be pushed—
but that is not how one
falls in love, or not in America

remember the lantern? on the
tortoise, I mean (I know you
read it, same as me), and it
went over the face of the waters
which were there before everything
              I think about that sometimes,
              wondering what words might
              mean to you when they are
              the same words to me

and did you ever read anything
that I wrote and wonder
whether it was meant for you?
somehow I don't think so,
though I was always afraid
you had, and would know
me, through and through

but the truth is that I
never work at anything
with care so you could
see where I came away with
hurts, or where my hands
might leave a mark
              I was never made for recollection,
              dear Socrates, and you will not
              find your truth in me

A Little Night Music

Malach-YHWH, when
he comes, must dress himself
in earth—again, must
speak in words the dust
can hear. But this is
no hardship: God is
not a stranger to the earth.

The presence is like and
not like fire, and the
prophetic word comes not
in but after the convulsion.
So hope abides even after
the wreck we make:
our little lifelong disaster.

Febrile

the obscene in verse:

            I am the ephemera of

            the mind dissolving, the

            broken lease of the body,

            fever sweat, the little

            indignities of indigestion

           

                        the logic of word and

                        deed will die with you,

                        I have none—if there

                        were time, but there is

                        no time—knuckles swell—

                                    putrid and prurient

                                    dizzy from the fall

                                    of man, gorged and

                                    gagging, bound and sold

                                    under teenaged irony

                                                the obscene in verse

Jagers

Rub raw the soul

            with the inward eye,

                        for the peace of contrition

                                    is the province of the cruel.

Closeness to the earth

            is to be valued more highly

                        than the meditatio, more highly

than the noche oscuro, and

            the gift of vision.

Do you know the feel

            of sweat in the winter,

                        or the shallow breaths?

                                    Weary the shoulders

                        and sore the foot—

            there is a peace in failure.

                       

Honors due to Bruegel,

            the master, who put oil

on wood and fire in the eye.

run, river, run

we the dead assembled

in aspect and likeness

would speak our words
run, river, run

i was a mother

a mother and

i pressed my babies

into the soil

i never meant to

i never meant to

but here we are

across the jordan

what presence can i have had

flitting through the lives

of hale and healthy ones

you do not know me

you can’t have done

you can’t you can’t

the tailor came around

and said his piece

but we had none of it

we put him right out the door

some people are beyond helping

kindness leads to shiftlessness

that’s what my pappy always said

those fine lads going off to war

a blaze of brass and glory

i was there and i was watching

my heart so full of pride

full of piss and vinegar

they never did come back

those boys

but they did our village proud

they killed lots and lots of krauts

their bodies came back in boxes

with medals on their coats

i remember one day

i saw mister paul and miss lyle

leaning in a corner

they looked so grown up

and the light played on their faces

and i swear i never did see a sight so fine

and he closed the door and looked out across

the hall and his eyes fell on me

and i longed to know

what stood behind those walls

and i never did learn

in all my life

what stood behind those walls

one day she was standing

there right ahead of me

& she leaned in to smooth my hair

& i could feel the breath of her mouth

on my forehead

& i didn’t kiss her on

her pale lips though i wished to

why didn’t i do it

why didn’t i just

kiss her… ? on the lips

& it’s always too late now

too late too late

for kisses

i miss everyone

all the time

i just wanted you

to know that

i just want you to know that

the next time could always be the last time

to hear and to hold

to touch hands

to drink wine together

on this side of the river

that runs forever

In Stature and Favor

We lie to children, when they are young,

for fear that they will be satisfied

We lie to our children because we

have not been satisfied

And we say:
It is in the nature of things to break

But I tell you that nature is not nature

Nature is not nature, no

Nature is not

And we say:

It is not the wanting

but the object

and the wanting is pure

and the object is false

But I say to you

that God is in the bird-shit

and God is in the river

The one who wants is false

and therefore also the wanting

And there is joy in the wreck

and there is fear in the ribbon

and the fear is broken on account

of the break in the man

And we say:

It is well for the young to be quick

and for the young men to quarrel

and die

But I tell you that youth

is the time to be weary, youth

and the end of youth

And if God gives the mercy,

perhaps we will sleep

And if God gives the duty,

perhaps we will wake

And I am writing to you,

young men, because you

have been wearied

and seen the new city

And I am writing to you,

young ladies, because

you have been worried

at the smell of decay

We lie to the old

because we are afraid

that they will not want to die

And old men are dreamers

and they will not be deceived

They will not be unaware

of the stranger

When the divided fire falls on your head,

you will speak and know

and the violence of things will be clear

Burial At Sea

Richard died away from England

away from the white shore and the standing stones

and where they spoke in words he had forgotten

Richard died of rot

not bleeding but rotting

and blessed and pardoned as he died

Frederick Barbarossa died in water

in water and not upon the earth

nor raised aloft in air

but in water that bore him under

that bore him away

Kaiser Rotbart

er liegt unter Wasser

er schläft unter Berg

Burial at sea

in the shifting deep

where no tracks are made

and no stones declare

the name and the deeds of the buried man

Burial at sea

under the sign of exodus

and the sign of resurrection

Men forget their fathers

and men forget their homes

but the sea remembers

all her dead

Razor Burn

In my head there are streets where

The men of talent go—Berliner,

Parisienne—They rattle at the tables.

If there were time (but there is

No time)—The dry pen in my

Pocket meets the crumpled page on

My desk. There are streets in my

Head, lovely streets, and dark.

The walk is long—Los Angeles to

Birkenau—The walk is long and
we whistle as we go.

No lesser guide will do, my Florentine,

No lesser guide will do. If we are

To pass and know the unseen city

Without, within us, only the builder

Shall be the guide. Hail—well met!

And lead us on.

Johann is singing now of spring,

Of pretty girls in May,

And Tom is singing

Of the fall

(Or better, when the fall becomes the winter,

When the decaying dies and turns to barren,

When the puddles freeze

And the sun is white

And the only bird we see

Is the flashing cardinal

In the bare and perfect trees).

If there were time,

But there is no time—

Let’s take a tour, my fellows—

Viennese, Mancunian—let’s take

A tour of my own country

Where I can show you

The crooked bones—

The crooked heart—

The pulse of poison in my brain.

Let’s take a tour, my men of letters,

And see the summer of our lives.

There are streets inside my head

Where lesser guides are lost,

Where men of talent drink and cry

And make verses without meter.

I wish that I were only

Missing some piece—

“Why, he lacks this perfecting part!

That should not be… Here we are,

Good as new, a right Lazarus of a man!”—

I wish I had a jigsaw heart.

But what am I,

If not “I”?

I do and speak and act and am.

There is no other I.

If there were time, but there is no time…

I have heard the sound of his approach,

Been wary of his feet.

Run to ground, run to ground—

Foxes have their holes—

If there were time but there is no time.

He is the hunt behind all hunters,

The heat that leads us to caress

He routs me out! He routs me out!

I cannot stand the coming—

John is rapt and pleased withal—

I smolder and I bruise!

There are streets within my head

Where doors are framed in blood

But my house, my hearth remain

Without. Die ganze Welt ist

Heimat, treu, die volle Welt,

Die häuslich' Erde auch.

I fold me up,

I pray and sleep,

I sleep and dream—

I pray and dream of cities.

Are you drunk?

No, it’s Lent.

Ashes to ashes—

In my flesh—

Dust to dust—

I will see God—

A pen of iron,

       A serpent, bronze.

The Heap

You stand before the mirror

in imprecation,

pressing your ulna

to the cracked paint.

                                                            

                     Zeal for your house—                                                                                                                Zeal for the name—

What is it that you have?

Eyes and tongue.

What is it that you want?

Peace, and more than peace.

The world entire.

Another world.

And what have you done in the earth?

Many things, and few.

Were they worth the doing?

I do not know.

And what will you do?

God! I do not know.

Attend.

There are wheels in the air,

luminous and free.

There are drums in the sea

whose beat you have heard.

There is a face in the fire,

too fierce for your eyes.

And what will you say?

                                                                                                                                    Zeal for the house—                                                                                                                                     Zeal for the name—

Life is longer than you know.