Monday PoemOct 22nd, 2012 | No Comments
A Sister of Perpetual Indugelnce explains it all for you.
Monday PoemOct 15th, 2012 | No Comments
Nature copies Art, said Oscar Wild
Out therefore with the old inheritance,
Rooms so overfurnished the heart sinks,
Moulding and fringe, high ozone-whitened panes,
Precious woods and mirror cataract,
The million doodad species catching dust.
In with lack of clutter, starkly styled,
Only the fittest vertebrates and plants,
Cactus habitat and goldfish bowl,
Little to smarten up our costly prefab
Unless a holoraph of (say) Einstein –
Bespectacled, white-maned, a breathing sphinx –
Prints ever-thinning air with the myopic
Simplicity of those who live here still,
Their sad knowhow, their fingertip...
Monday PoemOct 8th, 2012 | No Comments
It’s lucky to hear the flutes for dancing
coming down the road. The ground is glowing.
The table set in the yard.
We will drink all this wine tonight
because it’s Spring. It is.
It’s a growing sea. We’re cloud
over the sea,
or flecks of matter
in the ocean when the ocean seems lit from within.
I know I’m drunk when I start this ocean talk.
Would you like to see the moon split
in half with one throw?
From The Essential Rumi, translations by Coleman Barks with John Moyne (1997 Castle Books)
Monday PoemOct 1st, 2012 | No Comments
When I see the first light
touch treetops on the far shore
I launch my canoe without a sound
and float into perfect calm.
Not til the lakefloor disappears
do I dip my paddle
And begin without a sound
for the other side.
Not a drip or a ripple
I go slow.
When I reach the center of the lake
the sun is up enough
the far shore glows.
Soon I’m paddling in sunlight,
mist rises in wraiths.
On seeing the bottom
as I near the other side
I stop paddling and glide,
not a breath of wind.
Bird sings. Fish jumps.
Monday PoemSep 24th, 2012 | No Comments
He rings my reaches
He wings my wording
He instructs me in
the songbook of the Sun
He fingers my edges
He sparks my wick
He teaches fire music to
all my flesh
He asks for attunement
He answers in anthems
He breaths a language that
enlightens my throat
He performs his canticle
on the pulse of my being
My soul ejaculates in
time with his heartbeat
— James Broughton
from Ecstacies (1983, Syzygy Press)