"kingfishers" poems
(a conversational collaboration with Chris D Aechtner)
"remember the dream I had when we were 10?
(waves and waves of cornflowers everywhere)
about the boy and the closet?
(sunflowers, circle, glass house?....closet, yes)
cornflower blue
(the closet was cornflower blue?)
the light in that dream was cornflower blue
(the air, the atmospheric light?)
yes, especially in the closet
I had that dream for so long
I'll never forget
little boy blue and the kingfishers --
the blue and white china plates
with the bridge and the lovers; the two doves in the willow tree,
that made me look for japanese letters....horse.
the funny things we do as children
(you are writing a poem....)
catch the words, my love
*(you already wrote a poem up there; bridge it together --
I dried cornflowers with dandelions in a blue and white book; but it wasn't a dream.
Well, in a way it was, because at the time, I was floating in the clouds)*
he wore a blue and white striped top in my dream
and I remember him
when I look at the sky,
the clouds and the golden sun --
I caught the words!
(yes! did you string them all together?)
not yet!"
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 4:21 AM UTC
A tattered bird had a made a tomb
in tepid water, it was a puddle
near the framework of a half-built room—
but the soul’s a swerving tunnel
and the dead are waiting at the end:
all sorts of animals huddled at the fringe
where littered pine needles stand
and creep inside the sandy construction site,
pale in the morning light,
the tractors dug aesthetic swirls in the sand—
a culvert keeps the brook alive,
it flows into the forest, which learns to mend
its scars with the festering of its things:
kingfishers’ **** on the berries and branches,
if the plants could undo their own stink
the heart wouldn’t die on its haunches—
the morning’s dew resolves to hoary ice,
its killing the greenery,
but the sandblasters lean, arranged by the outhouse, like
a dream, the first worker arrives early
he rests against a smooth-planed board—
flood the mind, but be sure to drain it out,
its his breakfast cup of tea that stores
his knowledge of beauty
past the place where the bushes are thin
there is an apple orchard, plucked to pieces at the end of fall—
trees arranged in ranks, held up with wires and strings:
a dementia arboreal—
the smells from the orchard meet
the smells from the machines and hover
above the building-zone, mixing with the bite
of cold humidity—a cruel kind of vapor
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 9:10 PM UTC
In the height of summer
The pond shrunk to a hyacinth heart.
The kingfishers left for crystal streams
Village belles no more washed their hidden shames
Kids broke their frolics on her kissing splashes
And men dipped not in her to whisper secrets.
She prayed to hold through all the pains.
The sky heard her and sent her rains.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
Everyday I saw them flying
Heard them screaming
Cursed their noisy presence
Resented the danger they presented to my wards
The baby fish that I was charged with
One tourist commented that
"Kingfishers sure are beautiful birds"
I agreed solemnly (out loud) but privately I didn't agree at all
Didn't see any beauty in their white and grey feathers
Didn't hear it in their coarse shrieks
Then today
I was taken aback by a strange shape flapping and struggling above the water
It was one of them, one of the kingfishers
Somehow he had snagged his wing on a fish hook and was dangling helplessly
I saw blood and torn flesh, my approach simply made him more frantic
I tried to pull the hook out but it was viciously intertwined with the creature
My hand brushed incredibly soft and downy feathers
His eyes were wide with panic, his thin, powerful beak open in bleak desperation
I put my hand out to lift him
His black claws put pressure on my hand, relieved pressure from the fishing line
and allowed me to extract the lethal hook from his ruffled, ravaged wing
He flew, he was scared of me,
he fell back to the water
I was ready to save him but he was swept out of sight
I stood there thinking
How terrible for a creature of the sky to die in the water
How scared he must be to be surrounded by the wrong kind of blue
Sinking instead of soaring
Then I saw a kingfisher suddenly fly up behind me
It might have been the same one but I'm not sure
Logic tells me that it must have been him
But my heart remains sad
and tells me no
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 12:53 AM UTC
there is rain and there is lightning and there are trees
and in one corner of the field there are
two women
in long skirts, white like your boy's face. they are picking
flowers just for you (for your hair): hydrangeas and lupines. in this dream you do not have a name, just a mouth, to swallow the rain, and the clouds that hang
overhead like dead kingfishers are heavy and black and swole
with more water. your clothes are not wet in this dream.
your skin is, your skin is pink and wet, looking the way it did
the day of your birth, but your clothes -- mother's old blue dress curled
carefully around your knees (the dress is too small -- mother
has always been so tiny, so much tinier than you are) -- are dry as your lips.
your stomach is churning, you are standing in this field you don't know,
and your stomach is churning as though you love a boy. you do
love a boy, but not like this. your boy is pale, your boy is quiet
as your childhood house, and so your love for him
is quiet as well, it never churns, but now your stomach is churning,
with rain, maybe, with this dream. you think about the boy,
but he is the wrong boy. you are ready to wake up.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
there is rain and there is lightning and there are trees
and in one corner of the field there are two women
with wrinkled faces and long white skirts, making
their presences known the way you wish your grandmothers,
both dead, would. they are picking flowers just for you
(for your hair); hydrangeas and lupines.
in this dream you do not have a name – in this dream nobody has a name –
just a mouth, to swallow the rain, and the clouds that hang overhead
like dead kingfishers are heavy and black and swole with more water.
your clothes are not wet in this dream; your skin is – your skin is pink and wet,
looking the way it did the day of your birth, but your clothes –
old blue dress curled carefully around your knees – are dry
as your lips. you notice your stomach churning. you are standing
in this field and you notice your stomach churning as though
you love a boy. you do love a boy, but not like this: your boy is quiet
as your childhood house, and so your love for him
is quiet as well (it never churns). you dream about the boy,
but he is the wrong boy: a boy suddenly in the corner
of the field, a boy with a face too loud, like the flickering
of a dying light bulb in a darkening closet. this boy has replaced
the women with wrinkled faces and long white skirts;
they have disappeared the way grandmothers so often do.
now you are ready to wake up.
in bed next to you is a boy
and he is sleeping
with a body soft as the entrails of a mother.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
Lucent gold halations that seer in sight,
flesh akin to plush saline gelatin,
kingfishers song, mellifluent as streams,
drones that palpitate in the heart and nag the mind,
hiding your enmity and silent screams.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 4:28 AM UTC
The influx of emotions
and their ebb
and flow
swirl like a cyclone within me
I stand upon the cliffs,
hair blowing
mind rolling
into nuances
and languages
existing beyond words
as each feeling whirls
and melts
into the other
until they rise like birds
Around me,
each one takes the stance
of a miniature kite
attached to my limbs
pulling me this way
and that
Yes, I know that our emotions
are as rivers,
rushing through
our banks
soaking the essence
of our beings
with fresh coolness
and alternately,
where it meets sea,
brine in searing tears
I know the stillness of my
own soul, placid as a
rock in a typoon
yet sometimes
unable to shake off
the heaviness of algae
it can almost suffocate
and to get through its
dank seaweed density
I shall just envision lightness
in the aviary form
of hummingbirds
or kingfishers…yes, even soaring eagles
tugging on my heartstrings
lifting me up and away
into the proverbial clouds
so I can just
curl up
into fetal position
and let myself be
gently rocked
until the storm
blows over
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
In the morning chalk dusted light you wake
Draw back the curtain on your lidded eyes
Blink in a dawning day, and, for all this, make
Man gaze at the universe that so readily twinkles back
A soft celestial song, sounded though the tack
They pause, allowing you to be heard
Baby and blue and bird
For every constellation that pulls men through oceans
For every compass, and map and chart
For every head, for every beating heart
The baby blue will sing, oh and will he sing!
A quiet aria, but let him glide and glide
Up past the paper sails, and round the mast’s old tale
To perch on the sweetest of symphonies
But then! Oh then, by hour by hour
Filling with music, that long leaden tower
He will stop, and catch their heavy lids
Children of the docks, dreaming of the stars
Of life beyond tack and sail and sea
As they whisper in etchings their plans
To blue, on the boards of the berth deck
You listen, to every scattering word
Baby and blue and bird
I swear by the wood stork, the albatross, the kite
The dip of kingfishers in the water
I would adore you all my sorry life
And adore you every one thereafter.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 2:51 PM UTC
George Best had it,
Wily Coyote tries so hard
that we have to
give it to him,
Gandhi for some reason
doesn't have it
special
though he is,
Geronimo has it,
as does Cochise,
Back Elk
& Sitting Bull,
actually Custer has
a little too,
despite all
his failings,
& the dude who jumped
from space,
has it,
oh yes he does,
& Woodpeckers have it
as do Kingfishers,
& Tigers have it,
for **** sure,
but then
so do
Lemurs,
Great Whites
just ooze it,
cannot argue
with that one,
San Francisco has it
L.A. doesn't,
Detroit did have it,
& deserves to
win it back,
***** has it,
though who can
know that
these days,
English food
definitely doesn't,
oh but Thai,
oh Thai
really does,
my son has it,
when he's
all done up
for a
school concert,
or actually
any old time
really,
cos I just
see to
in him.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 6:44 PM UTC
You deserve to shine -
That's why
My heart is hammering, handing you roses,
Obliterated by the joy radiating from your smile in surprise
My hands shaking, heart racing, mouth so dry
As you reach out and embrace me, I’ve never felt so certain that
Everything is gonna be fine.
Lets talk. Get out of the drive-
Way, go inside, lean against the counter
You’re looking at me now with brand new eyes,
I’m probably blushing, you wanna hang out?
Yeah - now we go walking outside.
Under tall, dark pines, you and I
Sneakers slide on the overcast hues in the sky
Whatever you want to tell me, I’ll just keep listening,
Math class and kingfishers, eels and anime,
Weekends and hiking, improv and rock climbing,
Your childhood memories, skipping stones
You didn’t even laugh when I made a horrible throw,
But said it was stylish and when I had to go,
Held out my jacket for me.
Sitting next to you by the lake today, was everything.
There were no words necessary. So.
This poem is for you, and let me get this off of my chest:
I think that you deserve happiness.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 7:16 PM UTC
sometimes my pen sings across the page
sweet summer tunes flung out by Kingfishers diving for Carp,
sometimes my pen floats as softly as the clouds in my pale blue sky
or sometimes as bashful and rough as the dragons we see in them
sometimes my pen is dragged across the page
with the anger of a thousand innocents
caged for loving there other
sometime my pen screams like a mother loosing her son
and sometimes my pen isn't actually...
a pen
sometimes the pencil lines i scrawl get rubbed out
some of them disappear completely
the only thing constant about my pen
my pencil
my writing
the only thing that's ever constant
is my medium
is you
LG
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
*Tuesday pouts like a stubborn child
Gale fervor and weather wild
Staccato cellos and violins , oboes blaring in the wicked wind
Mischievous elves rattle the hickory branches
Bullfrogs shout with glee as the rain advances
Old man Sunshine takes a nap
Picklenose Pappy has a cat in his lap
Kingfishers tap dance in the shallows
till black becomes blue with evening day-glo and
puffy marshmallow* ...
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 12:43 PM UTC
What if I uttered your true name
Would you shrivel and die like a god?
Or would life remain the same,
As you turn to the wall to sob
Before reproaching yourself with tears,
“What's wrong with me” the cry
To which I don't reply
So repeats the chorus of our years
What if we forgot our shame
Would you ascend to be with the gods?
Don't call them by their true name,
Or you'd be sure to find yourself lost
You'd return to me with a shriek
That’d make leaves wither on trees
And as you reproach me from your knees,
So we would repeat another week
Sitting by the sea, reassuring
Grey on gold. Rain spattering
Down. I am the only soul.
And I am the only soul.
What if we both forgot?
As we'd drink the Lethe deep
The past would matter not,
I would again sweep you from your feet
But as we wake the next day,
With heads fragile and sore
All things would be as before
With reproaching holding sway
What if we both called time?
Two Kingfishers flying free
Soaring further to the sublime,
Our paths divergently
A weight would halt our course
Unseen yet wholly real
We have to face our remorse
If we are ever again to feel
Sitting by the sea, happily
Golden blue, sun shimmering
On, me our child and you,
Remember, me our child and you.
What if we accept our fate
And treasure the memories we hold,
Perhaps it's not too late,
For you and I to grow old
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 1:11 PM UTC
The path ahead is unclear
the first few steps seem fine
(as fine is redefined by times)
beyond is cowled in green gloom
with definition hidden
but enticing
We pause and breathe
ask feet to tentatively tread possibilities
for surer surface
The line ascribed
by timeless river run
seems safe
and the possibility of kingfishers
is a draw indeed
But we have seen these river banks
lost to inundation
and irresistible weight
To realise this too late
would be fatal
so we collaborate in waiting
and make the call
May 13, 2020
May 13, 2020 at 11:50 AM UTC
How many rivers flow
The estuarine estuary of this delta of the Bengal.
Looking at the bewildered beauty
It's not too late to fall in love.
There are gold paddy in the field
On the side of the field, filled with the peasant’s song
The garden is filled with sweet mango
Southern air flows over the mild river.
I heard the shepherd's flute
Joy and smile while playing with the children
Jasmine, belly in flourish
Pankouri and kingfishers are playing in the water.
The bird's are singing on the branches
The dusk dumped in the galaxy in the distance.
I am fascinated by the beauty of Bengal
The water of pleasantness comes down to the cheek.
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 8:48 PM UTC