Poetry

from THREE WHITE HORSES

Midnight kneels in the park
by the river like a blind child.
No one can hear or see
and the light that comes
unexpectedly around the corner
is black at the core.
It drifts in its own darkness,
scattering to shudders
on the windows and ledges
of slow gray houses, remnants
of voices on a rising wind.
The secrets of the street
whisper across the thin cut
of the moon, clouds brushing
invisible through the dust
of the rooftops and walls.
Ghosts loiter on stone benches.
Cold crouches in the passing bell.
The mute white horse sleeps
with eyes open, swept free and frail
in the refuge of dead branches,
one of the shapes of the world
that cast no shadows in the glass.
Its sad bones land soft
and low on the dark street.

*
The shapes reflected
in the high windows
erode in the snow, lights
moving through the backyards
in bewildered echoes, dying
twice on the stained wood floor.
It is the thing that is important,
seeing with open eyes beyond
the mind’s eye, the new day
driven through the gate
even when the dark is too deep.
Tomorrow will die by your
hand, the end not yet written,
and the war will end.
The mirror mocks the sky’s
decline, ticking like a clock.
*
He flaps his arms like a white bird
and flies along the ground in the old
square, collar turned up to the wind.
Black birds settle on tired
statues, not moving, barely visible
under the streetlamps, and lean
against the snow as it covers the world.
He floats between the ground and air.
The trails of his breathing coil dazed
and pale as he sings memories
of superstition and mud, ice binding
his thin shoulders and wrists,
chasing the slow nothing of despair.
The statues kneel, persistent
in the crouch of night, the hollow
wind on eternity’s coast the sad
remainder of the day, and beat his
burdens mourning to the ground.
They know together who will die,
know the sound of judgment
as it kicks the door that shrives
the world in the chill of the year.
There is no other way home tonight,
no other custom to hallow the street.
This is what the black birds knew.
This is what the black birds know.

*
They lead the white horse at midnight
between the fence posts and rails,
watching which of its legs, right foot
or left, steps first in the furrows of each
marked row, its halting movements across
the stones a conjuring or divination.
The earth blackens and splits like
a dry seed as the gate slams shut, the land
infertile on the horizon, and the snow
drifts down to a burial of cold smoke.
I never wanted to see that place, branching
into hard lines that beat across the street,
the future a single hour under a dark November
sky squared to a sunken thing under the stairs.
There, the consolations of truth in ambiguous
circles leave no tracks and silence deepens
by degrees, brittle variables of a temporal mind.
There, the moment before the storm falls away
invisible and time braids together mystery and faith.
There. The clock unexpectedly strikes three.
The horse in the distance in the dark by the fence
winces with snow then bites the air.

 

from ST. BRIGID’S WELL

The pitch of the rag tree
across from the eternal field
is indifferent to the solitary
bird hung like a piece
of old cloth on a branch
with a thin black wire.
The silence of dry grass
ripples down the rows
of ordered fences, darkness
lumbering toward the barn,
one lit lamp in its hand.
On the pile of strange rocks,
a blue rag flutters toward
the hole in the ground,
marred in a helpless sprawl.
The hour passes,
lost in the shape of light.

Rain begins
as morning rises,
circles and passes
on the clear surface
of the bay.
It’s summer now.
The holy fire,
narrow and formless,
moves among
the spirals
of spider webs
and weeds
up across
the headlands.
Tiny blue flowers,
moulting feathers,
three of us
dreaming of small winds
as lights in distant
houses go out.
As they gather their nets
from the prophecies
of darkening water,
fishermen pray
for a way home,
for the taste of dust
to settle again
in their cold mouths.

The consistency of birds
in the higher branches
twists to a weaving of green
threads that drift along
the dimming hills.
To be sustained and free
in this place
is to conjure
a world of unbroken
circles and denser meanings,
the open strand
perfectly designed,
perfectly contained.
Five miles out
past Dunquin,
the last parish
folds to the west.
The earth rises
from a hard shore
and the vastness
of the sky
is more tangible
than the sea.
I stand, arms extended
in every direction,
in a pillar of light,
triumphant and immortal.
I know at last
the brightness
of all my days.

The first words
took shape inscribed
on tree and stone,
the naming of the dead,
coiled deep into sky
and earth, cries from
the ancient narrows
and the sudden
unfoldings of truth
in the voiceless sea:
the interlaces and plaits
that struck us
with the radiance
of an eternal light.
We are not yet there.
Sing me home.
I am the word,
the dust in heaven’s eye,
my skin carved
in hieroglyphs and runes.
Divinations of light
huddle against
the summoned ghosts
and wind inherits
time’s hollow stump.
A sweet breeze blows
on blue wings,
the sun clouds over.
I stand ready in the tide.

I am overwhelmed by birds:
cormorants, egrets, guillemots,
grebes and gannets,
gulls and terns and auks,
skylarks, swallows, blackcaps,
shearwaters, petrels,
pipits, dunnocks and chats,
and the hooded crows
that follow me everywhere,
everywhere, follow me
with their song and their whirl,
shaping their own full spheres.
Here, by the harbor wall,
their world perches on my head.

The reflection of the sun
on the ample passing clouds
comes in angles and planes
along the stone wall
and through the kitchen window.
The past is peeled away
and the present moment
shelters and flows.
I know I can live
forever in this hard
coming of light,
in the echo of the world
in these words and art.
The sun traces truth
on the changing air,
musters the essence
of love and night.
Ephemeral and eternal,
it awaits the dry
blessing of salvation
along the edge
of the distant ridge,
grays to nothing
in the thousand shadows
of my hands.

I pressed her down
among the bluebells
and sang to myself
as her eyes opened
and closed and her hair
brushed lightly
against my face.
The blossoms fell
fresh and alone,
sunlight glancing off
her arms and thighs
in the meadow
near the sea,
and I knew then
that God and I
are both still alive,
still magical and rapt,
in the flowers and reveries
of this secret place.

I heard my name
called by the trees,
saw my face
in the meadows
and flowers,
felt my hands
wrapped
in spider webs
and down.
Wings open
at the other edge
of the sea,
tip to flight
above gorse fields
and marshes.
I want to be lifted up
where evening falls,
move high above
the dancing waters,
sing like the pipes
across the crowns
of birds –
letting go letting go
letting go
of the constant sorrows
of this place.

The sun cut early across
farmhouses and stonewalls
half up the blue mountain.
White butterflies, faultless
on the horizon,
transformed to rose petals
and seeds of wild dill
in the cold of early morning
and the dogs in the barnyards
scuttled and coughed.
A strange world lingers here,
stubborn as the sea recedes
and the wind blows
its own unrest –
then the lift of pure sound
as the soul ascends,
dark green and gold,
and skimmers for hope
in the grasses and ferns.
The turf embers cool
in the open hearth
in the corner
of the front room
and the blue vase
on the wooden table
breaks with white flowers.

The margins of the meadows
and sands are diminished
by the changing light.
The balance of the day
shifts to its close
and time is arbitrary
in the bodiless disorder
of becoming and being.
All around me
are the opening patterns
of the flights and calls
of birds, incantations
that rouse the wind and sea,
the divinations
of spoons and waters
where the future rests.
On these cliffs, the sun sets
to a darker blue, a sanctuary
for the struck and blind.
Their visions heal
the hidden women as they rise
from the liberating ground,
dancing white in the ashes
of the holy fire.
I ascend and descend,
reach through the light
for an easier seeking,
prepare myself
for eternity, for rain.

 

 

THE HABITS OF FALL

The day was a bowl of cold water tipped on its side at the edge of an old field. A black bird perched in the highest branch of a tree that reached toward clouds stirring across the permanent spread of the sky. The last leaves were still. The door to the bedroom in the house below Walnut Hill was open, the room’s white walls absentminded with daylight, deep and watchful as eyes that fill unexpectedly with tears. A voice spoke, carrying past the high ceiling, then a long dry pause trembled across a sky half full of stars. He leaned toward her and kissed her, his arm around her waist, the sweet smell of her skin unsettling and slow. He thought his heart would stop, breathing hard, and felt his face flush as her legs moved. She was quiet for a moment then, touching the wall, longing for the place that picks our bones apart and rebels to desire and love. And the light flickers, the door closes and locks. The world is divided in two. Time’s dissemblance the sudden echo in the hall that stumbles back into itself, her name the quiet agitation of the eye when the last song ends and the circle breaks.

 

 

THE ABRASIONS OF RAIN

The mind is a still distraction.

The white blankets burn in pitch dark

and night salts the blood of heaven.

The men at war at the turned gates

of the torn city plant their heels

among the spider webs and dirt,

not terrified of loss or death

or the hinge of mud washed across

the hesitation in their eyes.

Think of nothing. Let the body

become a pale reflection of

ancient wings in the wind’s cold glass.

*

The short breath of night runs shallow

and slow across the city’s streets

and rain slides, thin as hunger, on

gray diagonals of iron.

Angels made of straw, luminous

as wind in bags of vague paper,

turn their backs to the dark red house.

I touch the star above the black

canal, bewildered and endless,

and the world quickens at my feet.

Beyond the square, the lost dogs bark

the secret names of fire and ice.

*

I measure the passage of time

outside the smallest window with

a stick that scratches the outline

of the sickle moon on the dust

of the floor, watch a thousand years

lying gray and naked under

the wounds of the cold horizon,

count out the abrasions of rain

on the old woman’s umbrella ―

and understand how to endure

my longing for eternity

and the impermanence of birds.

 

 

 

THE ANGELS OF WINE



He died before my children were born and I tell them 
about him sometimes, when I tell our family's stories -- 
uncle and godfather, raw-boned and visionary, alcoholic 
son and failed father, in the end a weak reed no one leaned 
upon, who struggled with his gloom and self-loathing and 
was caught in a trap he laid for himself in the teeth of the 
wind.
     He would listen to me in moments of clarity, 
drawing a breath as if waiting to speak then letting it out 
in a sigh and waiting for me to talk myself out.  He would 
nod when I said that life is not something that was waiting 
for us around the corner but was here and now, and then 
would ask me for money for a bottle of sweet wine, too 
tired and shaky to invent another lie.  It was not for his 
thirst, he would say, but because with it everything grew 
remote and the stars in the sky began to swim and the 
horizon expanded again.
     Once he said he thought we gave birth to our death, 
like something lifting inside us, like the tunnel where he 
thrashed and choked and could not breathe because there 
was no light.  That's how they found him early one 
morning as the sun touched the edges of his room: the 
artery in his liver spilling his life out into something 
scarlet and black, his nose burrowed between the thighs 
of the woman he lived with like a small lost dog looking 
for the place he'd come from and where he wanted to 
return.
     I think of him like that but do not tell my children 
the details of his final story: lying in the dark in a pool of 
his own blood, not knowing what was rolling over him 
as a veil of grayness covered his eyes, perhaps dreaming 
one last time of the daughter he had abandoned or the 
grandchildren he would never see or the angels that 
would come to him with the wine in the dead of night.

PRIAM’S DAUGHTER



I.   Touching the Moon

A slice of light, half-curled above
the tree line, settled to smoky threads
along the horizon as night dimpled
snow in the dark fields and the creek's
cold edges thickened to a polished spill
the color of old birches.  After dark,
the wind right and pines hovering
close to the ground, clouds rubbed
against a cut of stars that slipped
in a darkening slide to a clearing
half-lost in the mountains.  It was a place
where dark flowers grow and cicadas grate
in solitude and vacancy, the sound
of their strumming suspended
like dust in the faint light that draped
the faded edges of the sky.  She found
that place alone, listening to the wind,
as we quivered among the noises
of that starlit night and watched her
climbing over shadows that lay
like dark bruises on the season-plowed soil.
She climbed to touch the moon,
to break the trance of the nightfall
that surrounded her, push through
the cold clouds that curled north on the wind
where the hill ascends and reclaim
the emptiness she said was ours.
We were all divining life in those
dark corners then, skirting
its dangerous edges, each stirred
by a different pulse of the wind.
Caught there like a sift of leaves
against the tree line, we did not want
to understand when she said that nothing
lay beyond the things she feared
and lived by, that morning
always came to her in a heaving
under clear sheets of water,
that hollow trunks of trees
are warm as blood and their dark wood
opens to seed beds where the year's dead
are transfigured by the moon
and skim the earth like feeder roots
pulled loose from the lost ground below.
We watched her, in a dream
without sleep, waiting for a signal,
a wisp of smoke or quiet tapping of stone
to pierce the shadows.  Her face was
as disconsolate as the moon she reached for
and all around gaped open burrows
where small animals slept, their soft skins
hardening white in the unaccustomed thudding
and jostling of the night air.  Its odd light
seeped to our marrow and we moved
toward that place with arms extended,
drifting past each other like dark footfalls
in empty passageways before stumbling
into silence.  The patterns in the sky
unexpectedly changed and she was
suddenly gone, a rustling of birds
in the veerings of the wind.
Although we had come to sink with her
into a nuzzling of thorns
in the gray scrub bushes, there
was nothing else we could see
in that place, only clouds and trees
awash in a dark green light
that dissolved to an abstract of angles
and lines on the water.  The chill
in the wind smoldered in the darkness
and the hours before dawn opened slowly,
like the shell of a dying newborn bird.
In that light, traced like panic against
the paling sky, we knew she was gone,
a scuttle of mist thickening to the cool dark
of the earth, a quick return to dust,
and we were left alone with the moon
hanging black against the stars,
silent and forbidding, and the sound of the wind
whistling endlessly across the hills.

II.   The Nightingale's Song

The air tasted of metal and the sky
was passionless as glass.  In that slow
realization of light, as clouds 
unraveled the fine dust and swept lines
of the moon above my head, I stretched out
my hands and the frozen flowers
in the meadows blossomed, rainbows
in the trees' hanging branches
glowed with the bodies of fragile butterflies, 
time drifted like moonrise across wet ice
in a spark and warp of heady smoke. 
Wait!  I can hear them.  But I don't think
they pity us.  We blend to sorrow and strife 
in the wounds and leavings of new birth, 
and hunger advances in the wild hour, 
and I wait here for my breath to settle, 
for the fear to go away as the nagging surge
of needled hearts startled in every direction
probes like braided wire for the parch and peel 
of blood.  I lay for a long time near the stumps
of the yellowing pines, a patch of fallen white
against the fading green, bristling in flutters 
and shivers, and heard their voices
pulling my bones this way and that,
whistling in the caverns behind my eyes
like the climax of some unspeakable hour.
They could not hear me when I cried 
that this dream was not enough, 
the work of the spirit falling to elegy and ruin, 
the way back a lost moment hammered
in secrecy hard as steel in the forge of night.
I am blocked whatever way I turn, in cough
and blind panic.  And I know there is nothing 
beyond the things I've feared and lived by, 
nothing they could find or name, only the darting hiss
and click of the moon's pale blood, slow hunger
stinging eyes fixed on the grass, stamens
veined and coiling.  They don't believe me,
bloodless and apologetic, though all my life
I've named that weariness of the heart
that scatters quickly into the night like dry leaves,
building patterns that long for extinction,
a hundred gray shapes that pass among the trees 
like a tide of blind mouths flying off to oblivion.
Root clenching root, blending to hard earth,
the hypothesis of dark desires,
and the life that moved within me
silent now and thick-fingered as roots
sprouting from clods and dead holes
stretched and laboring forward, sinews oiled, 
tasting stone.  I know they didn't pity me
even as the years passed across 
the dry-veined sky and clotted hard 
among the oaks and pines and lines
of cedar angled thin in the snow.
They don't remember that now
or understand why I need the moon's 
pure light above me, high in the hills, 
a vacuum into which everything collapses,
stripped to the numbness of bone.
I cannot reach it.  I cannot reach it.
Listen!  Do you understand I am not
this empty space that splinters to light, 
the womb of earth, infinity's blind shore?
I climb only to touch the moon, to reclaim 
the thing that once was mine, afraid 
that my story has already had its end.  Deeper
than the eye can follow, its pale light stiffens 
in the mist, plain, placid and clear, and trails off
forever in a welter of silver that glowers
and pierces every shadow.  I've heard them say it,
and in my deepest heart I know it's true.
My life is sprung bone, dull with reluctance,
longing to be filled in a world in which nothing fills.
And so it begins.  I can hear them behind me,
voices borne on the wind at night 
in a rustling of birds.  The moon is up, 
a halo of clarity that thins and thickens 
and is sucked out again into the dark
like the ghosts that vanish as I touch them.