Best Poems From
(04/23/52 - xxxx)
David To Jonathan, A Lost Psalm Recovered, Recent Translation, Circa 1978
'And it came to pass...that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul...Then Jonathan and David made a covenant, because he loved him as his own soul. And Jonathan stripped himself of the robe that was upon him, and gave it to David, and his garments, even to his sword, and to his bow, and to his girdle.'
- 1 Samuel 18: 1 - 4 King James Bible
The Lost Psalm
This ancient tonguing
betrays some fault
disdaining the human world -
which occurred first,
the birthing or the wounding?
Abjuring flesh of necessity,
this, my peace, is false
but the music woos,
swells me up.
It is my sleek, bleak hour
remembering Bathsheba's girth.
There is some mirth in remembering her,
those skirts and veils like a cadence of sweet cakes
but knowing your ungirt, perspiring embrace
so near to the Lord's tent,
makes the sin sweeter
for sweet is the intent
to only love
for now it is
the building up,
the engulfing in flame,
unconsumed in a hardness of
flesh against the hardness of belief,
no relief of vision's ken within himself
or fire but in arms and legs thrashing
out creeds to live by.
Midnight In Dostoevsky
'Alyosha, I shall set off from here...loving
with one's inside, with one's stomach...'
turns in on
the bone bruise
'There are moments, and it is only a matter of
five or six seconds, when you feel the presence
of the eternal harmony
a terrible thing is the
frightful clearness with which it manifests itself
and the rapture with which it fills you. If this
state were to last more than five seconds the
soul could not endure it and would have to
the gut punch
each hand a
bottle of gin
a back pocket
brine of men
'If, after your kiss, he goes away
untouched, mocking at you, do not
let that be a stumbling-block to you.
It shows his time has not yet come.'
'My hosanna is born of a furnace of doubt.'
of scalp on
'The centripetal force on our planet is still
fearfully strong...I know I shall fall on the
ground and kiss those stones'
**Quotation marked passages are from
The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky
Even from my front porch
the rusted sewing machine
yearns for golden thread.
Beyond Blossoms, For James Wright
If you were here now I too would
speak of horses encountered on a
hill in the south of France, Monthaut,
its ruined church without knees,
sun low over foothills of the Pyrenees -
From shadowed trees downhill
at least 20 of them run to me.
I feel them before they appear,
hooves tearing dirt and grass
in their manic ascent up the
steep arriving like excited
birds, haunches quivering,
damp from late-summer heat.
Their soft noses push my hands,
their chests pure press
hard against barbed wire.
They offer themselves to me,
their long necks extend
heads dipping shyly,
not without some blood -
I think of you now as I did then,
remembering our bellowing lungs
in rich shared air, odors entwined
of earth, mane, those sweet
grasses, and the binding brier
where they stamped, trembling.
Not poetry here,
how it all breaks open
blindly between doldrums,
dark hammock refusing
to be swayed on a bad day.
Something is here you already
know but if there is forgetting on
the other side of the fence
I remind you now.
My hands caress
echoing equine graces.
In their eyes I can see
in that way of all breezes
finally where you went.
Here is Wright's poem, 'A Blessing':
Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more, they begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break