Time (Into the Pandemic)

 

Who understands this beauty? 

(I know)

hours are not the apocalypse 

(imagine)

I search their mists and dusts

for security

composting fair warnings

once again

I have searched the horizon 

where sun blinks 

this day into some montage 

of time-lapse

Louise Glück: Matins

Matins

You want to know how I spend my time?

I walk the front lawn, pretending

To be weeding. You ought to know

I’m never weeding, on my knees, pulling

Clumps of clover from the flower beds: in fact

I’m looking for courage, for some evidence

My life will change, though

It takes forever, checking

Each clump for the symbolic

Leaf, and soon the summer is ending, already

The leaves turning, always the sick trees

Going first, the dying turning

Brilliant yellow, while a few dark birds perform

Their curfew of music. You want to see my hands?

As empty now as at the first note.

Or was the point always

To continue without a sign?

---------------------------------

I presume a four-leaved clover is the "symbolic/ Leaf" Glück is looking for here? Here's At's hand holding some luck he made himself: A four-leaf clover engineered with spit--he told me he tried sweat first, but it didn't hold. (circa 2008, SD's outdoor wedding in DC; Baby Nu in the stroller.)

I've loved this poem for years and am so happy for Louise Glück's Nobel--poets so rarely get big prizes; but are there non Eurocentric writers who are being overlooked? Absolutely.

Benediction

So I'm coming back, I'm coming, I 

run rabbit tongue 'neath rabbit teeth.

Sift half a laugh through salty hands.

Lift away grand new memories, but

only say: So-sorrySo-sorrySo-sorry.

Remember when I traveled--was it last

winter--and you said I'm with you, but 

you aren't me, never will be. I still bring 

prayers to this plague. Will sing through 

whispering airways: O-stayO-stayO-stay. 

_

First Flicker

In the beginning lives 

a first flicker of flame

that lick of loneliness

lighting an underworld.

The sky may be still

dark with our leaving

life,  it is difficult--all

tall ideas, left as yes.

Poly

My trunk like that of a tree trumpets

unexpectedly where before it had been quiet

and out of breath

My hand blooms open like a nest

busy and persistent, becoming in niceness

and folding to stress

So Many Meetings

So Too many meetings, an eternal leap--just so 

But some things are useful; anyone could do this. 

They say I mean a thousand things--warning:

I may have cried about it and made it important

but it's just the spin of the world, a spell shortened.

Doubts nest together like spoons--they question

smarts or scope or if I'm dope. I'll fiddle with my 

mic, memorize hopes cresting the tip of prayer,

behind my curtain of tongue, my blanket of sleep

and an inevitably unreadable ticking to tomorrow.

(Here I am bundled up for sitting outside for hours in barely 60 degree weather, looking like a fool, and I kinda secretly love it.)

Six Months; Six Words

indefinite night-day-night / no insight

(Six months since our stay-at-home order and a six-word memoir inspired by the NYT pandemic poetry piece.)

YTD

 

Badtime Story

Like siblings of yore on the landscape,

ribboned close always: rivers, railroads.

Playing--in plain sight, side-by-side, not hiding;

where you seek one--oh, look--there's the other.

Long, rowdy sibling things: one loud, one low--

now masked, now sparring--whatever--they are 

like pandemic warnings, insistent--more forlorn by the day:

I think I'm meant to mourn, and--following them--get away.

_________________

Note 1: We live between the river and the railroad, so I have lived experience of course; but this insight is from Krueger's This Tender Land.

Note 2: Toddler Nu used to pronounce the open e almost as a schwa eg. "Natflix" (for Netflix), "grat" (for great, which we still emulate for cuteness on family chat). 

Note 3: Things seem much quieter along the railroad these days--fewer goods traversing the continent or whatever--I don't know.

Note 4: I took this picture of the Red Cedar River last week; L claimed to be able to see hints of Fall.

Talisman

When tongues tip to farewell

--fare well, fare wonderfully.

Like strangers, like heartbeat:

"Thank you for my childhood."

"Thank you for being my child."

* I tried to tell Scout this isn't yoga, but he just pouted.

A Little Love / Chorus (On)Line

wait and know the coming / of a little love ~ Carl Sandburg

Beginning is quiet

a blink, a tap, then waking

our eyes, the screen, and yearning

I think about people 

we used to know, used to date   

how we lost them to love and--fate  

How we used to see them 

now and then in waning memories / 

when tagged in other people's new stories.

I hug care's sharp blade

through tongue and thoughts

histories, our hearts; hear it whistle

where they're not, no return

Why? Asking did the virus happen--

Are they ghosts? Are they ghosting?

First School Day

I mean to write of pomegranates 

and roses in fairytales, how even

the pierce of your stare is a star.

You my child, have been puppies, tigers,

bees, snakes, and a praying mantis. You

say, today's animal: "sickly Victorian boy."

So pearlescent with scattered energy

stay stationed in understories of care 

and humming to the surface, beyond

yes--the press of your face on my shoulder

but holding fast like the ink-paint-print-stain 

koans growing on your arms for years. 

On a day that refuses to end

My evenings are survivors

carrying--valiant as ants--

relics of their fallen friends.

They see me turn muddy, as I 

drink me (60% water, baby)

You'd think I am called grief.

I'm keeping an eye out for you  

yearning for you for when you 

are already inside (my head) 

Snare

I can start pushing the sticks and stones away from my bones

when I pull the sorries out of you another after an other 

like a magician's set of knotty scarves

Hey! There's so much time, there's time till the end of time

Let's hope you get there still improvising your innocence

fucker, the deadline went yesterday

Maya

It was in Chennai that grandmother first died, many years ago
so it's surprising she is here today, her words pleating
back and forth with mine

Wanting ghee-fried bakery bread topped with three sugars
Walking slow slow as though ready to change 
her destination at any time

Then lullabies are on the radio; she sings to her five babies 

(and the infant son who came and went

so quick after my mother).

In her lap, my toddler mother had tried to console her, said: 

"Don’t cry mama, or see--all your face powder  

will wash away

and oh, everyone will know your skin is as black as Kali's."

A hand on the cheek is tender, yet cousin to a slap,

darkened heads fold into armpits like birds.

Skies blur red as if we break open every night--they're lost 

in other stories, arguments--I'll listen for a while, 

before I can open my eyes.

One-Way: 8/∞

It seems days move only one-way

away/anyway 

My shadow is mingled with flowers

ohhh whore/for hours

It will be difficult to go home after

now/noon/no

I have caught madness and sunshine 

in the air/in my hair

And all my machines are dying--even paper 

even pen/pain

Small feelings

Small feelings

A Different Season

Perhaps I asked the wrong question 

of this place

at such a time

Imagining what we've become

at that time

in this place

Discovering us borderless 

I open to shelter

--maybe laughter?

Like a wave in our spacious sky 

--I who cannot swim

see my shadow float

Parataxic

#MSU Radiology Gardens

Bright, they flow in at our voices
showing brilliant as hard candy

Through their flicker of doorway
our pour of elastic questions

How much might be washed away
before we are here again

Here if we're drowning, are we
reached by arms? By voices? 

I'm awake in the dream

praying silently, receiving silence
these are drugs, my thoughts drag
reciting pretty pretty pretty atrocities

something about zombie limbs
climbing, blooming
gift-wrapped in colorful skin

*

he surprised me when
he said his daughter
was an angel

I was really surprised she
wasn't as dead as
I imagined her

*

I'm dying to ask everyone
how is a six-year-old an angel?
what has been done to her?

1/2 2020 Sonnet

Fond of sun,
my children and I
our thoughts tail us--
or are afterthoughts--
quiet and still as stones
our bones are sinking, singing
their fantasy of thanks to the earth.

Lulled by sun,
my children and I
are adrift on a river of
unhurried afternoons straining
only with birdsong, brilliance, buzz.
We'd say we are quite, quite ruined for the past
why--even the ghosts who call shine bright with future.