On the Death of Terry Pratchett

Sometimes,

They tell you little stories,
  When the good ones die,
Sometimes they're even sweet, or bittersweet,
  But in the end, they are currents in the river.

And, a current is kindly, after all:
  Its a medium for carrying on.
A current could rush you from the rotten moorings
  Could tumble you through the bramble on the banks.

Sometimes,

They roll out anecdotes,
  When the good ones die,
Sometimes they're even wise, or funny,
  But in the end, they are wind on the stream.

And, a wind is kindly, after all:
  It fills the sail and tugs it gently forward.
A wind could carry you over the murky bits,
  Could rush you into the free and open sea.

Sometimes.

But only if you've already a ship,
  And the ship is sound.
And when the good ones die,
  Your ship sails off without you,
And sometimes, after all,
  You need to stand just so,
And feel the aching chill
  Of a still pool,
And not, - just yet - rush forward,

Sometimes.

(Terry Pratchett died today. I did not know him, or his work, really, but I've been listening, and watching some of my friends who loved him dearly. The best to you all, friends)

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Nymph, Sylph, Mirror-glass

The water suspends,
As warm as a womb,
It whispers currents,
From the bloom of my own
Languor.

The air, she lays the steam
So soft and slow against the mirror-glass,
So soft and slow like mother lays
Her child in the bassinet.

Then, unburdened,
And left fresh-skirted and alive with chill,
She kisses me in the lover's nook -
The crook of the neck.

Her tease is tender:
She is right.
Its time that I got up.

My eyes wander to the mirror,
But the steam lays across,
So I, still and humid,
Am a ghost-in-the-glass.

Too tall, perhaps?
Yes, that.
The spectre, it is foreign --

But perhaps a strange and elder sister of myself
Looks back through a glass darkly.
And when I nod to her,
She nods back.

Cold, heartfelt, compassionate.

And this gentility,
Perhaps,
It is enough.

(image courtesy of nutmeg designs)

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"The God of the Bitter-Black Wood", or, "Seven Glass Eyes"

Once there was a wicked man, who lived far too long, and on his belt was a leather sack, and in the sack were seven glass eyes. And each day he would open his sack, and the eyes would turn and look at him, until one day, they would not look away, and he could no longer live in the city of men. So he left, and went into the empty lands.

And on his belt he had another leather sack, and in this sack were seven berries, bitter-black and dry, with the seeds rattling in the heart of them. But the empty lands were so empty! So he took from the sack the seven berries, bitter-black and dry, and buried them in little mounds, and waited for the rain. The rain took a long time in coming, but he waited, for he had already lived far too long, and he had time. And then the rain came, and the little berries sprouted thickets, bitter-black and thick with thorns.

Then the man went round to the seven bitter-black hedges, and opened up his other sack, and in the nook just above the roots, he nestled, in each hedge a single glass eye. And then he trimmed the low branches, so that the hedge grew high and broad into seven trees, and the gnarled thorns wrapped round themselves into a trunk, and in the wrapping, wrapped around the eyes, and closed them in tight. And the growing took a long time in coming, but he waited, for he had already lived far too long, and he had time.

And then he waited, for the trees to bear their fruits, for the winter was coming on, and the flowers were fallen, and the buds displaced. And the fruit too was slow in coming, but it came, too, rich black-violet, and heady with its own smooth bitterness. And the birds came down and gnawed their beaks against the bitter-black skins, until each thousand-fruit split broad, and in the center of each fruit was a pink and mournful tongue. And all the tongues cried out against the man.

And though the growing had been slow, the song was quick, and the hearing quicker, and a great storm came down, and it tore and fought, and heaved and wept, and buckled and drank, and vomited all that it drank down. And when the storm was gone, the man came out from under a brake of ferns, and six trees lay before him, snapped off at the trunks, just above the ground. And in the jagged stumps, laid clean and clear and watchful, there were six glass eyes. And the man rejoiced and took the eyes, and put them in his leather sack. And the tree that still remained stood quiet in the empty-lands, and said nothing.

But God came down then, and sat by the man and watched him as he tied the sack up tight. And he watched as the man went to the lone remaining tree, and from it plucked seven berries, closed up and shriveled, dry and rattling, and he put them in the other sack. And then, the wicked man, turned and he looked at God, and God was what he always had been - not God, but just the God of the Bitter-Black Wood. And the wicked man reached out his hand, and the God of the Bitter-Black Wood plucked out his glass eye, and set it in the open palm of the wicked man. And the wicked man put the eye in the little leather sack, and turned to walk back toward the city of men.

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Swan Song

This is my swan song,

Oh, my sweetling, whom I have taken to breast,

Whom I have kissed and petted -

This is my swan song.

I have made it sweet for you,

Soothing and soft,

A lullaby tone.

I want you still, to sleep,

And seldom sleep alone.

Do you know? I never met your father -

Though he did try!

A thousand times he came

To introduce himself,

Each time I would step backwards,

And put marbles in my eyes,

Extend prosthetic flesh,

And let the creeping lipsmile come.

But no, my darling,

I will make it sweet for you,

So gentle it will make you smile in your dreams.

I want you still, to sleep,

And seldom sleep alone.

But, you came of it.

You poured forth from me

In a storm of rose,

You fell from me 

In a hail of gobbets.

I vomited you forth,

And we wept together,

The tears of the empty 

And tears of the suddenly full.

And oh, I shiver to remember! 

You were so warm against me.

I was Adamic:

My true love ripped forth and laid beside me.

What is loneliness when 

There are other lonely eyes to look upon?

But no, my darling,

Do not leave, now, I need you to hear,

I will make my song like honey on your tongue,

I want you still, to sleep,

And seldom sleep alone.

This is my swan song,

Oh, my sweetling, whom I have taken to breast,

Whom I have held to the very last breath -

This is my swan song.

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Fire-bright

The soul demands constriction --
  The knotted cord
Biting epiphanies into the tender flesh.

Kind-eyed angels holding irons
  Fire-bright --
  From the depths of God's own bosom --
Press close to us---

Teresa did not mention how
The golden dart
Had flickers licking from a slender head.

The spirit is willing.
But the flesh? Perhaps--
Too strong.

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Legion

My skin is cast in plaster

And the mold is long since broken.

Limestone induction.

Birth by force of will.

The spirit of the long dead,

Set up to dry on the windowsill.

Your costumer, she found me

In a charnel house,

The bones like yellow bells,

That clicker-clacked against each other,

Form in search of shell,

A heart as well, 

She dug 

From underneath the soil

That still clings beneath her nails -

Heart of someone,

She would not say who,

A cast off costume from

Some long forgotten show.

She formed this plaster flesh,

And carved the sigil in

My forehead's plaster skin, 

And whispered in my ear

The only honest word:

The secret name of God.

She swept the floors all still and clean.

She did her best.

This monster-mass of living flesh 

Among a forest of 

Automatons.

For I am Legion,

Cast into the swine,

The swine then trained to stand

Upon hind legs

And speak the tongue of man.

Lord do not keep me here

On cloven, trembling feet.

Oh gods! Release me!

Let me run the grassy grade

To drown my self

At last in the salt-sick sea!

(Image by Javier Flores)

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Showers

I stand beneath the angry steam,
Unhinged from all my armors.
As empty as a scoured kettle.
As solemn as a clapperless bell.

My hands, my rough, hairy-knuckled hands:
How could I have expected more?
You darling monsters,
You have done all that you could.
My face, a pimple stuck with crusted ooze,
Oh, face,
You were the best that you could manage.

Imperfection is a spectrum,
I have learned.

All things possess their faults,
They say - this is not quite true.
Some of us, weak specimens,
Are rather by our faults possessed.
The ghost of error tickling up our spine
Directing us,
Benevolently sure that it knows best.

The water runs,
Spittle from old pipes of verdigris.
The water runs and licks the dust and tatters,
Leaves behind, insoluble,
The sticky grease of sin.

(Image by Jerry Bowley)

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For the Young Blades

Heavy-lidded, aren't we, 

My Friday morning damsels?

The young blades canter past

The dark window of a once-apothecary,

Eerie shadows of a hazy red bulb 

Cast upon the Asphodels of skin.

My arms are a pornography,

Oh so ever pure, and slender smooth,

My face rests on a strumpet's neck,

That begs for fingers, implements:

There is nothing so delectable

As virgin flesh. 

Yes darling one, put on a subtle pout,

Yes little bitch, half-close those bedroom eyes.

Whicker those palms like a horses chuckle:

The way my skin shivers -

Taut and plump with my hydration.

Languor running,

Manicured,

A single finger up and down

The muscle that embraces

My vulnerable throat.

The young blades canter past

The dark window, of a once-apothecary,

Eerie shadows of a hazy red bulb 

Cast upon the Asphodels of skin.

(Image by Anderson's All-Purpose)

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Love Song From Time to Space

We two shall Sisters be:
You shall be space, and I shall be time.

Space can exist alone, my love,
Tableau is  a beauty of its own.
But what is time without space?
What is a second, a minute, an hour?
What is a year? An eon?

I am the beast of the empty page,
Who yearns to write you
O'er its thirsty breast.
And I will change tableau to tale.

And as with all space
Once you accept continuum with time,
My love,
I shall one day
Bring unto you
Death.

Sweet tableau,
Push away my insubstantial hands.
Sweet tableau,
Push away my insubstantial hands.
My fingertips may plead to lace with yours,
But listen to my lips:
Push away my insubstantial hands.

(Image from G-Rome)

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Poplar Fruit

My friend Chris at Stuff as Dreams are Made On wrote a post for me the other day answering a question I had for him - so here I am repaying th favor. He asked me if I would write a poem based on a Billie Holliday song, how can anyone resist a prompt like that? If I were a great poet, I would write a whole book of items on Billie songs! Well, I chose an obvious one, I didn't want to pick something obscure, and I remember on NPR hearing an interview with Norah Jones, where she was talking about in high school, one of hr teachers asked her to do a Billie song for a talent show of some sort. She figured shed end up singing something light hearts, I think her example was "What a Little Moonlight Can Do." Instead, er teacher picked Strange Fruit, one of the headiest, darkest songs on Billies repertoire, a song about racism - in particular Lynchings. I remember thinking how hard that would be, singing a song so bitter and angry and personal, about something ones own ancestors might have participated in. So, this week, i wrote "Poplar Fruit." Hope you weren't hoping for a HAPPY poem, Mr. Chris...

My thighs are plump and sturdy,
My face is butter fat,
My belly filled with poplar fruit
My grandfathers planted.

My children are both quick and pure,
Rich with education,
Their fingers stained by poplar fruit
My grandfathers planted.

My heart is sick and heavyset
My heart, she's over fed
With strange fruit hung from poplar trees
My grandfathers planted

I wear a dress of samite silk
Dyed black and white and red,
From flesh burned ash, from bone, from blood
From poplar fruit grown rich and sweet,
From growing on the poplar trees
My grandfathers planted

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Once on Monday

Once on Monday
Twice on Tue,
Thrice for Thursday,
Friday - once.
On Saturday, tis deeper done
So Sunday's rosy rivers run.
Then Monday comes,
And once again,
The kiss against,
The clammy skin.
The children's laughs
Are beet-juice red
And echo 'round
The riverbeds.

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Duetto

My enemy, each morning in the chill
  Of shining white and biting light,
My enemy, so close at break of day,
  Our lips too close to kiss,
  Our eyes too close for sight,
My teeth are bared,
  Your flesh too close to bite.
 
        Your smile is strange, this morning, oh my love,
           Did you forget the chessboard that we set?
        You slid your bishop, can you then resent,
          The queen I prod against your parapets?
          The knight your king's engaging in a tete-a-tete?
        The same way that we spoke
          When first we met!
 
My enemy, I thought that black and white,
  Sufficient stirred, by deed and word,
Could blend into a self-sufficient grey.
  My enemy, a thought occurred:
  That I was like a broken-winged bird,
And broken winged birds must learn to love the rats.
  In retrospect, it seems absurd --
 
        Hush now, my best beloved! You are mine.
          Bound closer than a wedding band,
          Upon your shriveled hand.
        Hush now, my best beloved: You are mine,
          Bound like the tide is bound unto the land.
          You be the lady, darling, I will be the man.
        Our body is a little girl's tea party, now,
          Where we two sit, and play at pat-a-pan.

Mine enemy, I beg of you, one day,
A single day, let it be today.

        Hush now, my best beloved! Go to sleep!
          You wished to be the one who lives within the mirror-glass,
        We signed our banns, and you agreed,
          You said that all you wanted, now, was rest.
          Your labors, then my darling one, are past.

(Image: Madame Jeantaud by Degas)

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Sonnet on Friday Nights

On friday nights, I feel as if the world
  Is so intense and fragile it avoids
  My clumsy hands. I listen to the noise,
Alone, my ear pressed tight against the door.
To hear the snap, the rustle, the dull thud
  Of heavy buttons dropping to the floor.
  My own heart, so unsteady and unsure,
Sends rattles through my frame. I know I should
Lie down across the room, and go to sleep,
  But I've held sin against my naked skin,
  And felt the beating heart of it therein -
What point in seeking virtue? So I keep
My ear upon the panel, and what's more,
My hand, upon the knob of the unlocked door.

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Love in November

What is love? A pillow for you head,
When you're falling from a thirteen story ledge.
What is love? A smile before your eyes,
While sinking to the sea-floor.

                                              I imply,
Perhaps, that love is futile: not at all -
The falling soul wants comfort in its fall,
It is her place to learn the pillow's place:
to cushion? No -- it's something to embrace.

The sinking soul must take a crooked mouth
As evidence the business she's about
If not to get afloat, at least might be
To rage against the power of the sea.

(Image Credit: Dan Barak)

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Racontreuse

It is my way to make the cruel blade laugh,
to entertain the heavy knuckled fist.
I tried too long to tuck myself away,
to be the one that nobody would miss.

And? No fist thrown towards me ever did.
But silence only deepens for so long,
it is a sea that has a fathomed depth.
So I raised a storm of stories and of song

and threw down bolts of just-a-tale among
the fists and blades, and wrap about their necks
a drunken arm. A jolly joking lip
drools bonhomie along their poisoned backs.

And no one misses me -- just like before.
Nobody misses what they've never known.
They glad to see the shriveled limerick,
the hollow-echo-laughter of my bones.

Reduce yourself into a silent stone:
An angry hand will hurl you at its hate.
But silent stones! It still is not too late!
Reduce yourself into a plot device!

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Mutter-Love-Songs

I've stitched myself inside you now, my love,
  So cosy-close I'm drowning in your hair
    And worming rosy fingertips,
      Into the weak spots of our seams.

I'm tucked into your corners now,
  To keep your brooms from sweeping me.
    I'm growing sticky-brown and grey
     From capturing the dust of you.

I've put my hands inside your lips,
  Endorsed your gums with snivelled need,
    Shut down your sight, and feel my hands:
      Don't look, love, at my eyes.

Don't look love, at my eyes,
  I'll hide them just behind your own,
  I'll twist and screw them shut with bone,
  I'll tie the bindings closed,
  I'll needlepoint the entry wound I've left:
I've stitched myself inside you now, my love.

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Things Unsaid

My eyes were telling you,
Why can't my eyes be enough?
My hands were broken winged birds, and
My tongue lay on my lip like a stiff-boned fish,
And love could not revivify its clouded eye,
Its slime-suckered gill.
Why can't my eyes be enough?

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Passing a Man in the Hallway

I looked at him and only saw: his beard,
His tight-trimmed hair, his square-boned, jutting jaw.

Ungenerous instincts of the victim.

I watched him watch me lace up lazy lips,
And pull the cheerful corners of my mouth
Into a casual kindness, one that shouts
'Hello'.
And leaves it at that.

Imagination crippled, fear invoked,
By nothing but a shortened chromosome.

Ungenerous instincts of the victim.

(image from mkuhn)

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White Page

Write me on your lips, my love,
Write me on your hands,
Write me on your fingertips.
Write me on the hollow of your neck,
Write me, love, between your breasts,
Write me on the plain of your belly.
Write me down the bones of your thighs.

Now stop and write me on your wrists.
Turn them upright, hold the steel nib close,
And write me, write me deep, and clear,
So that the letters will not wash away.

Be thou the book of me.
I am nothing, my love, a story orphan,
Only words and lips to say them,
Only pantomimes and hands to act them,
Only love to season my milk,
Only a hunger beneath my navel,
A shiver within my thighs.

But words silence,
Pantomimes fall beneath their curtains,
Milk shrivels,
And hunger wastes away,
The shivers still,
The story is forgot.
Be thou the book of me.

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Sol Invictus

My cold, bare arms, my ragged throat
  Have never summoned you before --
I know, much more, the light no longer
  Holds the tinder that can burn in me.

But for the sake of midnight, sun,

Rise!

Sol Invictus, epithet of gall!
Unconquerable!
Fire-eyed Napoleon, unconquerable:

Rise!

Thy lips of vital fire, strike into me thy revelation:
"Virtue alone is sure!"

But dark is a virtue, oh my beloved,
  For it wants to end.
Sorrow is virtue,
  For it wants to end.
Jealousy and Anger, those two sallow sisters, too,
  Beneath their shifts are naked virtue,
    For they want to end.

Only Hatred,
Hatred and Pride,
  Feed on themselves -- Ouroboros of vice!
    Two circled snakes, a disc of lost eternity.

And now?

'Tis midnight, oh my love, and in the dark
  All pride will waste and wither,
  Hatred, even, needs the light.

Listen close, thou molten resurrection stone:

The morbid hollow of the night,
  Alone
  Stands
  Pure
And cannot cry, but whimpers:

"Oh thou sun, thou long forgot eternity --


Rise!


Rise!


Rise!"


(Photo by schaaflicht)

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