1. |
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2. |
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I spent the evening in reading poems from old lovers.
Emily, again, paints the world in rare-used color.
I dip my glass beneath the spring of this ancient fountain
And sip thy jessamines.
Hidden garden / forbidden mountain.
If I leave, with the ringing bell,
this is all I know of heaven and all I need of hell
Calm the raging storm.
If you can, I’ll give you everything.
Gentle diligence, burning off my unseen offering.
But would I leave if the seas don’t swell?
I'll tell you what I can of heaven and what I must of hell
Now my numb left forearm!
Now the blood in my cheeks!
Causes silent wonder,
growing silent need.
Oh the hope of heaven!
Is this hope I feel?
Still I hear the thunder, and the whimpering.
I spent the evening in.
And I dip my glass again.
Hidden garden / forbidden mountain.
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3. |
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Oh the things that I have done
And the things that I keep doing
With the river I have run
Washed in waters that keep keeping me awake
Tiny wars and petty things I make
Now a willow in the sun
Golden light as I lay weeping
For the love that I have wronged
For the thought that came and carried me away
Ever troubled by the trouble I have made
Only cyclical or sickly?
does it trend towards the better?
Like st Francis of Assisi
Am I drawn towards the desert?
To build my hermitage from pieces
I collected from these letters
Trust the seer now in seeing that
The tongue will loose the water from the gate
And turn this empty valley to a lake
Then death & life like lovers will embrace
…mourning is mending / excuse my lamenting…
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4. |
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Lost again—
I will say it slowly,
honest friend,
honestly, you know me.
call it stupid,
call it palimony,
you tend the soil
for this crop I'm growing.
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5. |
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I have heard the song of the bird in my breast
saying, ‘lover be strong, though this world is a mess,
"Thou my best thought, by day or by night"’
Will I fade when I lose you? Oh lover be kind.
Seraphim angels attend to my doubts,
in your living room Thursday, I cast it all out.
'Thou and thou only, first in my heart’,
you were carved from the mountains, oh lover of art
The breaking of dawn, like the fraying of thread,
we were carried along with the breaking of bread.
'Heart of my own heart, whatever befall’,
though the darkness may hide thee, still harken my call.
Love of my summer and love of my fall,
I may miss you in winter, if I must miss you at all.
‘Riches I heed not,’ nor arrogance cheer.
That I may love thee in springtime, oh lover be near.
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6. |
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My barren arms
My barren branches
I smoked on the lawn,
you were humming a song
The tongue is fire and
it burns my eyebrows.
Curses and blessings
pour out like confessions.
I shouted your name
in the halal grocery—
the stress from the evening
converging upon me.
Please take the chisel
now, take the mallet;
the image envisioned
in need of revision.
And several times I awake each night
with palpable terror for the ghosts in the stairwell
then my mind returns for a while
to the Lago D’iseo with a comfort indepreciable.
The crisp autumn air,
the memory woken;
the joy and the pain
wore the same face.
All of these colors,
these symbols of passing,
the scent on the breeze,
the fall of the leaves.
And we wonder at the mystery
like a couple of eastern orthodox missionaries.
Still several times I awake each night
with palpable terror for the ghosts in the stairwell
for the grief and its bearers
for the truth’s dark declarer
for the trial and the error
for the chain and its wearer
for the lover and the sharer
the poison and preparer
the breaker and repairer
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7. |
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‘miss you dearly friend'
Quoth the raven at my headboard.
Three are counted restless
for each that’s keeping still.
Seven turns around the globe.
Seven turns for each.
September turns around,
September like the death knoll.
Was it not September that was death day?
September that he left them,
September so I leave then.
September turns around
To
A dream as it is turning.
To a sun not current warming
And the weight that held me down
was but this pebble that you bore me.
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8. |
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By my numb left forearm,
by the blood in my cheeks,
oh, I worry about the future;
are you worrying with me?
For the sign on the doorway,
for the pain of the process,
I'm afraid about the hollow;
about what it might cost us.
Now I'm waking at 1 in the morning
to the tired & the restless hum.
Now I'm thinking of the girl at the comedy club
and ever afraid of love.
I am ever afraid to love.
Is it only just the jet lag?
Is it only just the night?
Will I worry about the silence
when we’re done with the fight?
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9. |
August / Orchid Blue
04:40
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There is hope in being here,
through 37 in a year.
I take my porridge oats with cream and fruit
& it turns day all lily white and orchid blue.
With the light upon the lake
and the swimmers in the shade,
I’ve never seen this tint of teal before;
the shadows dance across the harbor floor.
and I pedal faster just to keep my balance,
though I know not where I go.
And she asks if I believe in magic.
And I say that I don’t know
,
but there is something in this glow.
I witnessed care inside the train;
a hand outstretched to feed the lame.
While we were smoking at the reservoir,
I saw her crying in the dining car.
I carry nothing on my back
that I would wish that we would lack
and I pedal faster just to keep my balance,
though I know not where I go.
And she’ll ask if I believe in magic
and I’ll keep saying I don’t know.
Still there is something in this glow.
And Christ is hanging by a rope
And I saw the smoke begin to flow
and lead the wanderers back home.
And the muses whisper low
as the wind moves through the close.
Let the river lead us home.
There is hope in being there;
a beauty I would wish to share.
The living water and the sylvan bed gown.
With all this light inside, I lay my head down.
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10. |
The Duke of Norfolk Paris, France
The Duke of Norfolk is a peripatetic singer/songwriter from Oklahoma.
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