SEE ALL TAGS & MOODS
Who is this black coat and tie?
Christian severity etched in the lines
he draws from his mouth. Clearly a noble man
who believes in work and mission. See
how he rises from the red velvet chair,
The rain set early in to-night,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
A thousand martyrs I have made,
All sacrific’d to my desire;
A thousand beauties have betray’d,
It is never easy
Walking with an invisible border
Separating my left and right foot
We cannot know this statue, this satyr
with his head propped on a wineskin;
we cannot know if he dreams. In fact,
Someone waiting in the lobby of a Hotel Imperial amid
the spaciousness tourists and peeling gold leaf
might see it all as too hesitant for truth
Your best friend falls in love
and her brain turns to water.
You can watch her lips move,
If this brain’s over-tempered
consider that the fire was want
and the hammers were fists.
Queen and King, they rule side by side
in golden thrones above the clouds.
Her giggle and wide eyes remind him
60s pulled us from starvation into government jobs
antiquated Indians in Saskatchewan danced for rain
Manitoba Indian doings were hidden for a jealous
At the end of the garden walk
the wind and its satellite wait for me;
their meaning I will not know
oh papa, to have you drift up, some part of you drift up through
water through
fresh water into the teal plate of sky soaking foothills, papa,
the re-invention of oneself
through the tongues of whispering mountains
the re-arrangement of the universe
Here at Woodlands, Moriah,
these thirty-five years later,
still I could smell her fear.
sometimes I find myself
weeping
at the oddest moment
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
Somebody said that it couldn’t be done
But he with a chuckle replied
That “maybe it couldn’t,” but he would be one
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
Rain at Muchalat, rain at Sooke,
And rain, they say, from Yale to Skeena,
And the skid-roads blind, and never a look
These poems, these poems,
these poems, she said, are poems
with no love in them. These are the poems of a man
He wants to be
a brutal old man,
an aggressive old man,
It is 12:20 in New York a Friday
three days after Bastille day, yes
it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine
Calved from a glacier near Godhaven coast,
It left the fiord for the sea — a host
Of white flotillas gathering in its wake,
Cedar and jagged fir
uplift sharp barbs
against the gray
My father bequeathed me no wide estates;
No keys and ledgers were my heritage;
Only some holy books with yahrzeit dates…
Breathe dust like you breathe wind so strong in your face
little grains of dirt which pock around the cheeks peddling
against a dust-storm…
You are still on the highway and the great light of
noon comes over the asphalt, the gravelled
shoulders. You are on the highway, there is a kind of
The snake can separate itself
from its shadow, move on ribbons of light,
taste the air, the morning and the evening,
At the beginning I noticed
the huge stones on my path
I knew instinctively
Where there’s a wall
there’s a way through a
gate or door. There’s even
What torture lurks within a single thought
When grown too constant, and however kind,
However welcome still, the weary mind
Wild Nights — Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
dont worry yr eyes
dont worry yr brain man th snow is
If I when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
I remember when the unicorns
roved in herds through the meadow
behind the cabin, and how they would
Backward & down into inbetween as Vicki says. Or as Robin teaches
the gap, from which all things emerge. A left
handed…
Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea.
Susie Asado.
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
Hidden in wonder and snow, or sudden with summer,
This land stares at the sun in a huge silence
Endlessly repeating something we cannot…
a glass tube
for my leg says Hugo Ball
my hat a cylinder
Down from the purple mist of trees on the mountain,
lurching through forests of white spruce and cedar,
stumbling through tamarack swamps…
There are things you have words for, things you do not
have words for. There are words that encompass all your
feelings & words that…
Sometimes a voice — have you heard this? —
wants not to be voice any longer, wants something
whispering between the words, some
Constantly risking absurdity
…
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading — treading — till it seemed
All Greece hates
the still eyes in the white face,
the lustre as of olives
Sent to the ice after white coats,
rough outfit slung on coiled rope belts,
they stooped to the slaughter: gaffed pups,
1
In view of the fading animals
the proliferation of sewers and fears
I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall
after an Indian woman puts her shoulder to the Grand Coulee Dam
