Poetry
Berry Hollow
As a flame blown about by the wind goes out and no one knows where, so the saint released from body and name vanishes, no one knows where . . . Buddhist scripture
in memory, Richard Spector, 1948-2007
There are ghosts.
The civil war goes on.
Here, in the mountains, south,
it is not warm.
These rocks are millions of years old—
as long as the rocks remain
we will be restless.
The mountains are phantoms hiding in
trees and air, they are soft animals
sleeping and their sleep is just.
What’s to eat? The berries are gone.
In the musty cabin, who leans over us
while we sleep? The snakes are gone.
Time drones on, loading and unloading its charge,
the tongue picked clean: not this, not this
Herbert Hoover’s bathtub behind the house
is full of empty bottles. Where will Herbert
Hoover bathe—at his retreat
on Graves’ Mountain?
The print of cloven hooves in the meadow—
they scratched the dirt, ripped up the grass,
gleaned rotten apples from off the ground, there
at Clark’s where deer have been.
Apple trees collapse even as they live,
so old and brittle, branches snapped in the wind,
dead limbs weather on the tree like barn siding—
it is as if the whole earth is rusting here.
There will be ghosts as long as there is air.
—-
as if he were holding the sea in
his black hands,
as if, after giving him all that power
she could now give him pity and consolation . . .
from “The Same Moon Above Us” by Gerald Stern
Lament for Bob Dylan
Lament, lament for Hibbing, for Duluth,
lament for Marquette, for Munising, for the Sault;
Let me lament the raw earth, its skin scraped off;
Lament for the grass pulled up by the roots;
Lament, lament for the pure child, the pure dirt;
Let me lament the sheer rain of words–each pure
note harnessed to the right word;
Let me lament, let me lament, let me lament for the electrician’s
son with the sizzling hair; song searing the mouth, cracking
the lips, lament caught in the throat;
Let me lament the swirl of ash on the tongue, the charred word;
Let me lament the downy hair on the young neck, the suspicious eyes,
the walking debt;
Let me lament the dumb repetition of hunger, faithful generations
of want;
Lament, lament for the gate open and shut;
Lament, lament for the locked box of luck;
Lament for the rain both inside and outside–blistered tear, smooth
cheek;
Lament for the money borrowed and stunned;
For the rank cruelty and unintended harm;
For the useless car and the wailing firetruck–
for the phony false alarm–
Lament for the stiff mask strayed from the shelf; and for
the electric son plugged in, playing himself;
For the risky kitchen where you freeze, where you bake–
weep for real pain–the phantom ache–
Lament for the authorities, for the agents, for the brakeman,
for the promoters, lament for the undertaker, the agitators,
the commissioners, the free-loaders, lament for the sword
swallower, the throat-borrower, for the war horse, the riot
squad, lament for the scentless roses;
Lament for the pillar of salt corroding in the sun, he thought he had
everything, he never looked back–he didn’t know what he’d done;
And for wise incorruptible love–gone like ice–gone like air–lament
for the quivering bridge;
Lament, lament for the angel visions of Johanna–were they hers?
Were they his? Were they mine? Were they yours?
For the harm done unto you, the harm you did;
For the love done wrong, time mislaid, scratched face at the window,
rain tracks on the pane;
Wolf moans at the blue door–jowl sagging, smoldering eye–his one
song, his sole idea of order;
And Woe sing the wholly free, released from the strings of the body;
Let me lament the busted windows of the sea;
And for the ship stalled at the shore, deranged harpoon, impostor
cabin boy, manic crew;
And for the delusional captain adrift in the dunes–his fevered
pocket, his drunken shoe–
Fire thirsts, unquenchable, guzzling the parched air,
tomorrow’s long past, the hours rust–
And the little boy lost in the blinding snow, bitter cold–
fire, the fire full of holes;
Lament for the north country, jumping off place, end of the
world, mines closed, the borderlines blur;
For the bootless weatherman, the aimless wind–and for
the ghost of electricity whistling its scorched hymn;
Lament, lament for the ground, insects that play there, delicate
snake in the weeds, the purposeful ants, lizards, turtles,
everything that breathes;
Lament for the National Guard guarding the wrong door, for the
bored slave, escape artist, cold Joker–traitor kiss;
Let me lament the strangled voice cut off of the vine, lament for
the words that have shriveled and died;
For the homeless, the ruthless, the witless, the clueless,
the deathless, the reckless, the eyeless, the foolish;
Lament for the feckless nickel, the friendless dime;
Let me note the little red hen’s lament, and the the evil step-sister’s lament,
and the great ape and the little elves dancing their lament;
Lament, lament for this old man, his house full of knick-knacks, his single
thumb, his dog Bingo, his nameless furious wife;
Lament, lament for the mutilated mice, the triumphant cheese, lone-
some cornbread, juicy frog, the innocent knife;
Let me lament, let me lament, let me lament for the hoodlum persuaders
of song–scattered dust–desolate carnival boys, their wild high-
wire rhymes, their sisters’ speechless science;
Lament, lament the low ringing of the law;
Lament for the tambourine giant, the silver saxophones and the flutes;
Lament for Jack-a-Diamonds, for Gypsy Davy, for Mr. Jones “Don’t-
Know-What’s-Happening-Do-You,” for the cocky punks, the plucky
scoundrels, the scorned lovers, the jealous monks;
Lament for the city of truth spoken in song;
Pity the shadow of the laughter of youth–burned–gone–
their god knocked
down–the icon broken–rattlebag of bones and a polka dot rag–already
the prophets mourn–the robin falls mute–and the dove–and the raven–
black fire flailing her unfeathered wings–their illegible scrawl–soft white
underbelly of the brain–tick of the heart hung in its sack, roiling, swollen–
golden bead of sweat;
And the windowsill and the tattered ceiling–
And the cowboy angel astride his cloud-horse, twirling his lariat candle;
And the renegade physicist fiddler, fiddling in anger;
Naked emperor at the edge, howling for his lost dominion, his soldier-
clowns stuck in their coffin phonebooth;
And his junkyard bed, its skeleton mattress, his black tooth;
And Maggie’s farm, what she grew there, her lunatic ma, her raging pa,
her cerebral servant, her well-scrubbed floor;
And Rita, and Annie, and Mona, and Louise, all the saints in the penitentiary;
Let me lament for the 18, for the 30, for the 50 years’ wait;
For the price you paid–what you had to say–what you were offered, what
you didn’t get straight;
Let me note every lament, and lament each note:
Let me lament
the choked wind, the dry rain
the shattered hand and the wall
a shell, a shard, salt sand
unmanned man the endless highway’s end
lion’s breath footsteps silent abandoned name
letmelament, letmelament, letmelament
letmelament, letmelament, letmelament
Ah mama, can this really . . .
the golden bead of sweat
letmelament, letmelament, letmelament
—-
In the Dreamtime
–although a time without sleep
there being no work from which to rest–a tiny gorge, an abyss vast
as a grass blade or a thorn
(as if cut by fish or bird bone)
first divided the world.
A mighty trickle, slight torrent,
seeped through this fissure,
rushed slowly between velvet
banks blanketed by moss
so fine its filaments glowed
translucent green, burning,
the raw color of spring.
And there we were: dreaming–
not sleeping–the first people,
like ants, scuttling under mayflower,
violet, squill. Engineers arranging
earth grain by grain. Our legs
thin as whiskers, our arms antennae
as if we were blind. Perhaps we were–
most likely we were, but of course,
we didn’t know it if we didn’t know
words for “eyes,” for “sight.”
What we knew was color, the taste
of color: the crisp, moist
savor of blue, green’s fresh
bitterness, bright spicy snap
of red. And yellow, pale
yellow, almost ivory or pearl,
it coated our lips like cream.
And sienna, taste of clay, would become
crust of bread. The soft, summer
night air, chocolate. But this was the time
before “bread,” before “chocolate,” before
“cranberry,” unctuous, sour,
when Dreamtime’s larder stocked
milk, bee juice, pulverized seeds,
acorn-cap baskets oozing vermillion fruit.
We opened our mouths, our pink
tongues wriggled like worms,
the earth’s food slithered down
our purple throats, filled our bellies
until we leaked, until we lay,
beached, like overturned boats,
hulls basking in the heat.
And then we played, water our instrument,
our toy. We drenched everything we touched,
our green hose no bigger than a straw,
we sprayed. No longer blind we watched
rainbows cascade in drops against the sky.
Let the rain’s cold kiss claim us as kin.
Then the songs came, line after
line, we reeled them out of our throats,
the notes teaching us their tune,
our tongues tasting words awake.
And how ripe, golden, we did sing.from my chapbook, The Good Body, Finishing Line Press 2007