Read these poems at The Brazen Head
From the stench of rotting hide,
From the hot and muscled weight of death,
From the hunter’s tawny jaw,
From the ancient eater’s mottled mouth,
Comes wealth of peace;
Comes a city from the open side,
Comes the hum of honeyed breath,
Comes the transformation of the law,
Comes the manna in the drouth,
From all decease.
At Saint So-and-So’s
Highway traffic scores and hums
Beneath the Sabbath hymnody.
Laymen in tropic shirtsleeves come
Their wives in wireless fidelity arrayed.
The seating is precise, the manners casual.
Grins and handshakes are exchanged
Inside the sanctuary gate as usual.
Outside, Escalades and Honda Pilots range.
The Victim crouches on his cross an hour,
Tired as an aging wall-flower,
Who will not speak to the rotarians
Any more than Pharisees or Arians.
He turns with an embarrassed groan
Towards the altar, with its flower pots
And the altar boys, their hair well combed
Whose sagging bodies tell their wandering thoughts.
Soon these will return to the world they know;
Soon ever and again they will return
To low-calorie beer, boutiques, and late night shows,
To spread-sheets, focus-groups, and therapists in turn.
They will leave the cobwebbed well
And wander through the desert’s stations
For gross are the hearts of the nations
And uncultivated is the soil.
Caravaggio Catching Fireflies
As the sunlight fades and dies,
Caravaggio catches fireflies
Amid chiaroscuro, and the studio light;
With pestle reforms fire into night
Cups the light, turns alchemist, and drinks
Converting it to darkness as the daylight sinks.
Read these poems at The Brazen Head
The name rings hollow: pig-iron
In gravity’s deep wallow.
The unpoetic callus
On each palm’s pad too hard
To feel the microscopic knurl
Packed white with chalk, the burnished steel
Bar like some eel of river shining
Yet stippled still with the pock of rust.
The body, braced against itself feels fear
For its own softness, singing for sweet rest.
The plates all packed like brothers on the bar,
Their edges sharp from the white hot lip of the mold.
Then suddenly, the mind resolves itself to mass,
White pylons of tense bone, and round well fatted muscle,
Presses itself in feet and shin through concrete ground
And grinning, pulls through gravity like broken glass.
And there they hang, the bar and plate, all clattering in air,
Yet shaking violently as if they cannot stay, like leaves
or bells quite badly made, to ring the chimes and iron hours
Of body’s powers, pains, and passing finally away.
Towards the Pebbled Shore
My Papa took me out the day before
to sit outside the ancient red barn’s door,
All painted black, and sliding back to shut.
He told me I was helping him out, but
I couldn’t help but feel he wanted me
To witness something. I was there to see.
The barn’s inside was dim, and cellar-cool.
Its walls were lined with seed-bag, wire and tool;
The floorboards wide, unvarnished, roofbeams barked.
One long swift century had weathered, marked
It for its own. The sun outside showed all
The colors of the world there were. The ball
I played with sat still in the north field’s green
Long blades, bright rubber blue. The sheen
Of light struck firmly off each branch and stone
And gave each thing a presence all its own,
And lit the rock wall flaming low with moss,
As coals flame low and heavy in the loss
Of fire in evening. Papa loped out, took
The cockerel by his claws, and with a look
Of concentration laid him down upon
A stump, quite still. A stroke: the head was gone.
It fell down flat, heraldic, violently;
Beak parted, tongue out, crowing silently.
One eye looked up; alone, to watch the sky,
The other gazed at earth. The pool and dye
Of blood, much brighter red than you would think
Dripped down the empty ruff, in squib and plink
Into the metal bucket, drops of jewels
Upon a field. Invert, above these pools,
The bag of muscles twitched just where it was.
The dead bird’s gray pin feathers and gray fuzz
Soon littered all the lawn. The entrails out,
The feet off, Papa turned the bird about
And carved at each distinct and white-pink joint.
I stood and shuffled, looking at one point
At ground and sky, and back again as well,
Made nervous by the casual, wholesome smell
Of cockerel’s blood and feathers in the air.
I grabbed a quill, and put it in my hair.
At that age, I could barely think or talk;
But still some thing as round and firm as rock,
And yet as broad and moving as the gust
Of wind that blew that day came as it must;
Yet everything retained its form and color
And multiplied its mass; no shade was duller.
I knew myself as something with a shore,
Where water laps and freely spills. Before
I thought myself the world, some kind of all
Without circumference, gravity, or fall.