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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  10/1/2014 12:57:51 AM
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Warren Falcon   Best Poems From
  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
 
 
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  77.     

Avoid The Narrows

I am much taken by one long
thumbnail a bright star on dark
water forcing attention toward Nova

so forgive if I minister to,
or try, beside the distant
thigh and mine, thumbs on
various skins stretched tight
as if such stretched-ness is
the purpose of rivers for a
night in wet summer chaste
as I am (of currents made)
breathing into what attention
means back in the small space
the small of the back imagining
thumbnail's trace an ancient
script in darkness as is the
other darkness dark as dark
waves spray the bow

blow upon me

now I beg keep

bless the wound

the burning

the thigh where

is this pressing

still

**

just the thing
to talk of stars

baby seals play
or sun on gray
rocks wet

my head tucks
in a stone niche
natural there
ages old to warm
to press the thigh

mine, there too
that impress of
presumptions of
massive forces
compressing into

upon always/already
decaying things
such are the living
sparked imaginings
barnacles, seaweed

I am not new to such need

I am not immune to the worry


upon my chaste return, sunburned,
churned by the Atlantic, I will have
discovered a haunting sound again,
an animal music of the air, the lungs,
screams really, gulls falling by arrows
of blue which, blue, saturate sky and sea

to learn the heart again
avoid the narrows
at the island's end
where feet are easily
mistaken for doves

there large currents
beckon/compel them
to descend
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  78.     

Babel Soup

for poets

Dawn muse, difficult lover,
come hard through the
chimney trailing pages
and alphabets.

Babel soup for breakfast,
and strong black coffee.

Another wander in the wilderness
preserving the last match.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  79.     

Bare To Such Luscence - A Catfish Mass

Bare To Such Luscence - A Catfish Mass In Mississippi

for John Berryman, his Bones, Confessed

Antiphons:

The original fault
Will not be undone by fire.
The original fault was whether wickedness
Was soluble in art. History says it is,
Jacques Maritain says it is,
Barely.

- John Berryman, from 'Sonnet ix'

Introit then Lauds:

Punctuated surprise
hosanna of rivers
sounding with
or without gills

I could not make it there
that 'pointed conjunction'
nor up to air. I, Catfish,
soft sift bottom mud, give up
on purity, on flitting civilizations
lifted or pressed between
surface and aspirant spaces.

Done with all that some
have had no choice.
Catfish choices differ
from those of the 'Windhover' Christ,
'dappled, dawn drawn' though they be
(Hopkins implicate flights of resurrection) .

'Stead, Berryman without art or Maritain
out leapt his sonnets to river-fells and missed,
the fool, one last scansion - dirty trick -
'hisself, too, hit, Bones sans pomes,
hard mud, perhaps one foot or his
beard delicately dipped
in paginated river.'

Catfish Homily:

Witless old mud spawn, widest mouth,
no lips to speak of, greed pulls black water
to shore, a bark in air Catfish makes in
punctuated protest at too much light
or is it, rather, ecstasy, final vision gasped
vague in depths, hinted upon surfaces,
Platonic shadow plays portending sparks
praise to what is finally seen at the end,
a life mucked and mired in obfuscated fundaments?

Eucharist 1965:

Fate, then, heavy in a boy's hand
hoists dead weight to a nail on a tree.
His knife scores firm flesh yielding
beneath freshly limp gills - there is an
instrument made just for this, pincher-pliers
for catfish skin - he grips and tears,
uses his weight down-stripping smoothly
bare to such luscence little ribs of roseate
flesh.

Only the overly large head, the ugly face
whiskered within gilded monstrance,
remain pure to form, thin-lipped and
mocking, restrained by depth pressures,
sustained on surface trash, dead things
that sink down it's treasures.

Tenderly sing, then, to a nail,
to a boy's blood catechism -
hands, minds, are meant
to be stained, mercy's quality
unstrained neither by will nor gill.
Scavenging flocks gladly fill their
gullets inhaling entrails tossed
in supplicant bins.

In unison Gregorian they scream:

There is a nail for me
plain, a chorus of barks** -

splintered lips
punctuated surprise,

glossolalia of rivers
now given weight.

One can only will
praise to 'The End',

and spill, post-pliers,
one's silken guts in offering.

**A catfish when brought to shore barks, a rasping, barking discharge of air.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  80.     

Because They Rhyme They Live, Not I

'O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen
That am not yet a glorious denizen
Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,
Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,
Smoothed for intoxication by the breath
Of flowering bays, that I may die a death...'

- John Keats, 'Sleep and Poetry


I suppose it is the late, or soon to be, poet's lot to jot one
for daffodils. At least one. This is mine, a last will to verse.

But first, I take a pill before dying, I mean,
its meager meal, yellow sun on a jaundiced plate.
'Consumption' is the word I want. I've got that,
and few breaths left and a flat voice to tell it in.

'The daffodils were yellow as the sun.'
So lay down thy pen. Ungrasp! I say.
An olden voice pulls at bruised skin.
I grow thin. And gasp. I grow thin as winter air.
I'll not see them rise again from bulbs perennially.
Not me, annulled in this season of the lung
though each breath mimics leaven, assumes
Eternity's aspirations, but...(where was I?) ...
not me, not long for my tongue to sing.

Meanwhile, bright petaled mouths flaunt, gape,
gulp in early spring, whereas, I flop here, leaden,
landed, banked, a carp brought to heel from bluer
lake pulling gills swallowing nothing that can sustain,
or not much. I sympathize, yes, then down another
pill for more air to clutch, breath an almost perennial
memory of last spring when it first edged me in,
clipped my singing short, when seasonal flowers so
easily rhymed but in a minor wheeze for a minor voice.

Fine then. Some one, some other poet write a
line for when I've gone under forfeiting all final drafts.
Those yard yellows spoon dirt to a useless
feeding sun, useless because I'm soon done in.

I'd do the same for you, Mr. Keats, in a soft, bleating tone of voice.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon