Three Hearts

1. Ambivalence (Reverdy)

heart of the thornbush,
rosehips, bloodflower,
flos Adonis, anemone:
sublimity, ephemera,
beauty, loss & love.


2. Endocardium, Lub & Dub (Klink)

in the middle of things: the push
of pressure, release & hold,
cusp & valve, no click but systole:
thump, thump, diastole: dub


3. Ultrasound (Cummings)

the heart inside the body
inside your body does not
beat, beat so much as
whoosh, whoosh:

there is no knowing what living
with this double drum does
to a body so close to giving
everything only to hear, so
soon that cyclical whirr turn
to crying out the first time.

there is no way to repay
the carrying of a heart
that, one day, will give
itself away to someone else.

Winterlong

“I will use the coal you gave me/ make a timeless masterpiece”
[Kelli Schaefer, “Black Dog”]

We learn when we are young that even the destruction of fire preserves;
The conservation of energy, he said, means there is nothing in total to be lost.

Ash packs the road side, thick from the stacks smoke rises each morning,
We never imagine its eventual fall as we sleep or lie awake in our cold or warm beds.

This is useless, this keeping warm, essential heat escapes like breath, like smoke.
What is this we burn when silence won’t obey, when the masterpiece evades?

We huddle together for warmth, so many hands around the fire telling lies,
so many uttering tongues, so many chances for a verse to catch, so many germs.

Time burns, colors shift, cloth fades, even marble crumbles back to ashen heaps.
This is process, there is nothing else, let forms change, let potential collect.

Energy: a thin black line, a cloud transforming, a vein of mineral, a dusted plain.
This gift given, without intention, will someday explode into being & disappear.

Son

a quiet cry, after
midnight, early sun-
day, that might have
been a dream or
discomfort, lonely-
ness or phantom pain,
I thought I should
have let ignoring settle.
forgive me my appear-
ing there without any
help to give but
fatherhood or lack of
sleep to match yours.
as it turns out,
it was thirst &
just one story:

when there is some-
one listening there is
always reason for cry-
ing out & when some-
one cries out there
is always reason for
rising & to go.

Is this not the
meaning of all
our music: cries
& listening? Thank
you, son, for song.

Dubito Ergo Sum

or The Philosopher in the Bread Oven

[A Play in one Act]

Desy (eyes closed): It is lonely here at the bottom of things.

Mouse (perched on back legs, hands out): Friend, you are not alone here. You are never really alone.

Desy (eyes still closed): But I can’t be sure of you, pal. After all, I might just be imagining you, right?

Mouse (hands slowly dropping to his mousy sides): And would that really matter, friend?

Desy (eyes wide open): Pal? Where’d you go?

Mouse (gone): Je suis partout.

Desy (eyes closed again): Il y a beaucoup à regretter.

Blizzard?

Association & Noise

the temptation is to start with the four letter word I’ve talked about once with students

after finding the sounds repeated in a particular poem brought violence at the tooth & lip.

sometimes I stutter, not only speaking or typing but thinking, say the same same-thing over

not knowing if either utterance was what I meant, finding that it wasn’t what I meant at all.

the danger of such talk is that its cheapness has a cost over time, if it wasn’t that the askers changed

so often, they might see that what they mistake for knowledge might just be fear or worse, futility.

the stand up knows how a nearly empty room might either be a place to try the bit for diagnostics or,

more certain that it kills, might save it for the packed house lined with listeners thirsty for the kick.

more often, lately, I’m dying up here & audiences dwindle down to something too precious for dregs,

I can’t believe in superaddressees when even the close know the lines, long & short, at best are foppery.

then, for that small cohort that care, let some last lines dangle in case they stay away a while:

when I say bird, by now, you know what lost soul I seek that never read a word of any of this.

when syllables slide along a line & count to three or four or five you know that it’s the same as breathing, & when the long vowel  hides between the short it’s just the need for singing.

I’m through with making noises now & all associations fail to conjure more than ordinary doodlings.

let this be a lesson for the lazy lovers of the word: there’s more to making art than simply wanting.

___________

[Note: "— but poetry is talk altered into art, speech slowed down and attended to, words arranged for the reader who contracts to read them for their whole heft of association and noise. Donald Hall, "The Unsayable Said"]

Acorn, Axe

                          

Donald Hall, "The Flies" Old and New Poems

 1.

born young & growing,

slowly, aspiration wasn’t

something born into, sibling

rivalry fizzled at five & a half

years removed. I knew & took

what was entitled: expecting

a little shame for all the spoils.

youth offered several smiles

for every shed tear: sensitivity

was strong suit & weakness all

at once: there was no crying

at the breaking of a bone:

a tender heart shows no scars,

but there was something obvious

about the blue eyed stare &

Donald Hall, "The Bone Ring" Here at Eagle Pond

look away that made bluffing

too hard a sport for such a boy.

all of this is apropos of poems

that lie their way into being,

saying: only a minute, start here 

& end up there, once more with…

only to find the end of the page

is just more blankness—

unfilled with dashes,

dash off another one,

dash off little boy, little

boy, where are you?

2.

here, at the middle of my

three score & ten, there is

little sign of sure fame, no

fortune, no guarantee of

longevity. I chore through

what should be work &

tap out would-be poems,

willy-nilly, hand to mouth,

for fun & for spite.

there are enough

what-might-have-beens

to populate a thousand

self-portraits, a thousand

noisy poems balanced

& unbalanced between ephemeral

emotion & the gravity of real things.

but it is those real things that

make this making so appealing,

as they speak to you from

somewhere unknowable,

because unknown, these poems

do not attempt to say the unsayable,

that being above my poetic pay-grade,

but they do speak to me, as today:

a stand of oaks, in winter, made full

on the south side of town,

after fifty cold, tired miles,

a head of foggy hair, ridged in ice,

or, rather, what glowed like ice,

saying: there is more to this than

any season shows, but the heft of each

can only be collected one at a time,

like poems one by one by one by one.

these ghosts that populate a town

that comes before the town that grows

& grows speak to me because the

who I am now was there to notice them,

the years & days that led this man

to that point through ignorance to doubt

& between the heaves of ambition & delusion

have made me desire the end of desire more & more.

what is it about contentment that is willing to wait & wait?

3.

there is surely a day to come in which

the ghosts that speak will beckon more than poems,

bones that have already begun to ache

will creak like floorboards with heavy feet,

suggesting the steady sound of the slow axe.

what hope knows is that there is a tipping point

for time, this speeding cannot hold forever,

though I know my eventual slow coincides

with my sons’ accelerations, but I am far beyond

the need for the neatness of a single universe

or a unified theory of anything, let alone for dying.

this should not be the last word on the movement

from childish happiness to the foolish skepticism

of adulthood on the way to some small enlightenment:

may that road be tree-lined & full of prophesying ghosts,

may we gather acorns knowing all the while the swing of the axe.

[This is not quite ready yet, but I decided to put this draft out there. Not sure if or when I will revise. I suggest to those interested to look up the poet Donals Hall's prose works such as Eagle Pond. Reading (listening to) him helped this poem happen.]

A January Notebook [2011]

1.4.2011

because it is winter & I’m tired:

the cold dark sky outside the window

of this moving vehicle

steals away all the light

& it seems that on the cold horizon

there is always a toothache

waiting to nestle in to a snug bed

1.10.2011

there is little that comforts

like waking to a white world

you did not expect but welcome.

a phone rings too early, waking,

& it’s not an emergency,

but the warning that says:

go ahead, stay home.

the little ones that remind you

that you are every age you’ve ever been

beg for the old fun that,

once a year, never gets too cold.

1.13.2011

the cold lingers as smoke

around citylight that bends

in hazy vertical bands.

there is a physics of cold

that will not suffer

the unprepared,

& those who know

know how to avoid it.

1.20.2011

the winter finches know

something I can’t figure.

somewhere the cardinal

waits for me to look for him.

that sparrow hawk,

the one that just headed east

across the embankment,

out of sight, is not out of mind.

there is so much of winter

that I don’t know what to do with,

but I am thankful for the companionship.

there is something about snow

& the company of birds

that takes some of the sting

out of winter’s slow days.*



*Note: I have to say that I always enjoy snow days. I like the snow; I love being home with my family. Today is a good day, and today is not one of those slow, winter days. But looking out the window at the snow, the birds (even though today is a great day) reminded me that winter always hurts--at some point it gets to be too much and we ache for spring. I'm not there yet, but these birds reminded me of the long, slow cold. Now, I am back to enjoying my day. Next order of business: Hot Wheels Criss Cross Crash!

Heartbreak & Disappointment

Every new semester as a teacher brings with it hope & anxiety, excitement & fear.

The return to school in the winter, after a short, relaxing & busy break, is always hectic: grades are due, the classroom needs reorganization, schedules must be rearranged & class rosters must be examined to get a sense of how the deck has been reshuffled.

This winter's beginning is no different. Administrative mistakes were made, schedules were flawed, I was unprepared & feared a lack of essential energy, but as rosters were perused reality sent its jolt: they will be here--tomorrow!

As a result of a series of administrative errors, my first teaching hour of the day changed into a creative writing class that was under-enrolled: 12 students. This would be perfect for a serious workshop for confident & interested writers. This not the case for a 9:15 am high school creative writing course. This could be bad. Furthermore, as I looked at the course's roster, I recognized only a few names. Then, there was one I knew. As a first semester sophomore he was in &out of class and in & out trouble. I never had to remove him from my class, but he was forever on the verge of a blowout.He was volatile; he was interesting; he was smart; he was a ticking timebomb. He made it several weeks, struggled through a novel & two essays before he had to leave school. I never heard from him again. The following fall semester he was back, but he was not enrolled in my course. He quietly made it through the semester, apparently without passing his courses. Here he was now, an 18 year old high school student on my creative writing roster. I was apprehensive. I had students put into my creative writing sections before who did not want to be there and made the course suffer, but I had also witnessed the emergence of a few amazing writers who found themselves as artists almost overnight by simply allowing themselves the licence to create. I was not sure which would be the case this time: hope & anxiety.

The first day of the semester: he attended class. He was polite, calm, & he filled out the paperwork, listened to my opening speech, read the first poem & seemed like a part of the community. Excitement was winning. Day 2: He did not show up for class. On Day 3, as the course began to fill up as counselors dumped the defectors, exiles, and latecomers into the course, I saved his seat for him. On Friday, day 4 of the new & hopeful semester, he did not show up for class.

This morning, I received a link to a newspaper article from a friend who also worked with this young man. The article reported that an 18 year old man had been found guilty of armed robbery, among other crimes from the past summer. He would not be coming back to class. I didn't know what to think as I read the article, but my heart was breaking. It is not guilt that makes me wish I could have done something more for him a year ago. It is disappointment: no more anxiety, no more excitement, just disappointment. This is not the only way things could have turned out; this was not unavoidable.

I have decided to keep saving his seat. Not because I think he will return and not in his honor, but as a reminder that the chances you get sometimes slide right by you while you try to figure out whether to be hopeful or afraid.

The Hardest Wait

I am waiting for the last turn of the year
to bend its way into a cold corner & relent.
For the stacks of to do & to buy to be done.
For the messages to go ignored & the smiles
to settle: a body sinking into warm bed heaven.
I will trade this corner for the corner of a couch.
I will trade the daily driver's seat for an 800
mile holiday triangle: home, away from home,
old home, & back again.

                                     But you will be waiting,
won't you? Like the books, unread for time,
the stacks of half-ass scholarship & unlooked
lesson plans. An unlocked door between us and
nothing but a rising & setting sun holding time
from tearing itself apart.

                                     But the windows will
not fail. Not these that share a morning moon,
the lost seabirds circling, the semiotics of wind.
I will gladly trade them for a windshield view:
the sly Missouri bending near Rocheport,
the sad, dead paddle-wheels seen from a steel-
bridge view above the stubborn Mississippi,
the snow-stubbled fields of southeast Kansas.

There is no mistaking the way we slide through
time collecting familiarities. Though everything
changes, the way we see & the way we wait
remain. The rest is the stacking of goods.