does that mean I can't speak their language?
At night when I dream, who is it
that whispers in my ear--
soft guiding words?
When I was a boy I would wake
from an afternoon nap
and see him rocking in his chair.
But he's not there anymore.
Not even a shadow.
I've found I'll never find answers,
only more questions to spur me on.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 12:30 AM UTC
On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.
On the day the world ends
Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,
A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,
Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
The voice of a violin lasts in the air
And leads into a starry night.
And those who expected lightning and thunder
Are disappointed.
And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps
Do not believe it is happening now.
As long as the sun and the moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,
As long as rosy infants are born
No one believes it is happening now.
Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet
Yet is not a prophet, for he’s much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
There will be no other end of the world,
There will be no other end of the world.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC
The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.
Some would be devoted to acting against consciousness,
Like the flight of a moth which, had it known,
Would have tended nevertheless toward the candle's flame.
Others would deal with ways to silence anxiety,
The little whisper which, though it is a warning, is ignored.
I would deal separately with satisfaction and pride,
The time when I was among their adherents
Who strut victoriously, unsuspecting.
But all of them would have one subject, desire,
If only my own -- but no, not at all; alas,
I was driven because I wanted to be like others.
I was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me.
The history of my stupidity will not be written.
For one thing, it's late. And the truth is laborious.
Berkeley, 1980.
Trans. Robert Hass and Robert Pinsky
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 8:40 PM UTC
Each note in my ears
conducts an orchestra of memory
a rush of blood
from my heart to
my head
I remember
my summer of love
making
The King of Carrot Flowers in California
his stubble- cactus needles
rubbing my lips numb like *******
She Came in Through the Bathroom Window, in Michigan
her hair a brambled bush
tangled in my fingers
******* for the Holidays, in her bed
her body like going home
each time "the last, I swear"
Every Little Thing She Does, in her car
trips to the playground
where we explored like children
and
The Communist Daughter, who set me free
the feeling of forever
my hand in the small of her back
as we danced in our underwear
to Waltz #2
I remember lying
on blades of grass
as hot air balloons
fell into the sky
stirring her algae eyes
my mouth dry and expectant
I knew exactly why I had to leave.
The Southern State
called me nightly
when I heard the train
shouting my future.
So
I rode her to Chicago
with Tom Waits
on my smoke breaks.
From Chicago to Dallas
I wrote poems of
"true love"
****** obsessions"
"surprise thoughts"
***** singing
'1. 2. 3. 4.' in Chris's guest bedroom
her boyfriend calling
we whispered promises
of a future before
we kissed goodbye.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 6:19 PM UTC
Taut and stretched
across
his chest, tracks deep
over his shoulder.
A year alone
running like valleys
down the cracks
between his ribs.
I dreamed about your
face in a pile of teeth beneath
my bed.
I don't know if you left them there
or if I left them for you but
you still live there.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC