Stanzas At Maresfield Gardens
The dream manifest as ruin. He feared forgeries
and eliminated suspicious items from the
Still, after his death, many fakes were
The ruin manifest as dream. He deployed
of ancient deities at which he gazed. Those
half-turned heads he positioned over journals.
His antiquities: the buddhas, the protectors,
the instructive voids he saw in Roman jars
half-filled with a crematorium's ash and
Those heaps! Their inimitable deserted air
out of that clay and back to clay, adamah!
What to will from these shapeless mentors
What utterance lifting powdery blackened
to something human? What voice to throw
against those other gods always in miniature
in their cruel presiding,
in their fixed vesseling in bronze and stone?
Time-maimed fickle Isis-Osiris, noble
whose raised hand is a gesture to the named
who stand guard over the scriptor. And
are the onyx-faced ones, scowling at heresy
Do not look askance; do not miswrite! Thus,
each persona in the room utter form,
in babbled hope
of words poured back over the eons, in
hope of words
given to gods as sacrifice, as exigent futures
of sound, divinities claimed in flawed
The collection was a dream unmarred by
he ruthlessly eliminated. Manifestations
of half-turned heads
he thought of as ancient deployments, listening
as though gazing on collections of ruined
He deemed these manifestations as collections
Half-turned dreams of patients gazing toward
of ancient figurines he looked at ruthlessly
under deities lay open manifesting as his
Water, Heads, Hamptons
"the unbearableness of idyllic literature"--Canetti
it is summer. Time to be out of time.
Let us read together the world's newspapers.
But the wind blows away the pages of the Times
they rise, stretch full-length in the breeze
any vacationer wanting a day in the sun, an
to return with to a city, to proclaim "I too
have been away."
Let us read. We can! Memory is our language.
We are two
minds that lie athwart each other, two continental
with errant nationalities that articulate
via subterranean grit.
In time, we will grind this world to powder,
to be upraised
and bleached by processes of the seas.
But the wind blows. The surf ripples and slaps
with the sough
of all the living and dead it has dissolved,
and, with a great
respiratory suck, deposits on the beach what
must leave even as they take back what must
be taken back.
Ah, you hear the anti-noise where gusts expose
of crumpled newsprint buried in the sand.
What is written
is written. But we will lean close, intent,
wind-blown grains pepper the page with faint
It is one of those days when my will seems
than the will to conflate utter laziness with
or with roiling sleepily in some good sex.
O langorous sleep where I am forgetful of
of history, my brutal West, a dozing Prince
before which all gives way.
lightning at the sea's rim transforms the
gorgeous blocks of clouds into a dance, a
of our imaginable gods: blue Buddha, Shiva
of the knife,
Kali who follows footsteps in trackless sand,
A weird pang of nameless joy. Look, a swimmer's
is bobbing in the sea. And I point, my finger
like a sunbeam in a barrel. Here's this head
that moves from horizon to beach, this flesh-dot
that seems to swim away from the end
of an entrapping sentence, re-opening its
and so, for once, is at work against
premature closure. So I identify
a brother eidolon against the tide's flat
Summer's paradise. Its rhythm. But not
the incessant flights of midges swarming in
alighting on the body through which hope and
those substantial rivers flowing to the seas.
Will you swat the tic of memory and enter
ever-present babble of flies? Madness of the
Old tropes like brilliance of coral shoals
waves break and shipwrecks and glittery cabin
are extinguished in the deeps.
To the white sands who will speak a name?
The quiet of dusk comes back. Noiseless flight
of gulls inscribes the air and the world goes
in a rhythm of deepening colors.
Surely the gods we invent bring out the night's
flux into perfection,corollas and auroras,
St Elmo's fire
for all those who suffer the agonies of speech.
no longer offer up yourselves for ceaseless
no language anyway, our mouths are on each
Some lord of silence rises with stars and
At The Muse's
The long eerie sentences were fates as
the savannahs of Georgia
and the Carolinas were endless stanzas in
pine and swamp water.
Searches were made among the word-habitats
consonances of landscapes and self, half-geographies
from remembrances, shadowed and opaque.
The rest, the unexplained, the transparency,
the mirrors and the
dust, were to be talked away as dreaming.
The investigation missed horror.
Yet no one complained, preferring to imagine
a pale language,
paler than a linen tablecloth or the desert's
Poe's white Baltimore stoop mounting to
Nothing to ennoble the passion for measure
and number, for the
hard precincts of form, that uncanny love,
surely as indictable
as any great crime or gratuitious enormity.
Yet, with one's attention span, the mind
wandered out, a weighted
thing to be pushed forth on a cloud of moistened
breath, to soar
and curl itself about a street or a city.
Hungerings occurred amid the silted isobars
of hope, in love's
calms and tempests, sloughs of logic gone
astray which had left
us open to chance and to a desiring to persist.
The self's tellings were another moon
haunting its own sublunary.
It sought itself as a name high over soil
it had made, rocks,
cities, isolate worded beings.
O Mother memory, yes!
I had visited in Spain, did my Goya-walk
to the nth, but it
barely got me to Lorca.
The duende, mysterious visitor,
came and went.
The dead war ravaged among villagers.
And suddenly the muse was no longer a
headstone stippled with
Actually, by accident of birth, I was
born to homelessness and
Later I opted for the local, for the 63rd
A. D. election district
and its bands of refugees who vanguard at
the doors to ATMs.
Also to what the city advertises, gunk
or hair-gel, the
stickiness of lost meanings, of signs secured
by ripped awnings,
foreclosures on the dark, dry pavings of
a night skittish with deaths.
Beyond words' portals, I was always turned
back, a bewildered
Orpheus, city gentleman to Eurydice, an
Amphion who gathered up
stones into another hell-heap.
And now I feel a bit sickness-haunted,
peering at the ineffable
from an alley.
Media voices overwash all, blurring the
credit-card sorting of the selves into collectives.
From the great engarblement, words are
lifted out, and, in the
current lexicon, crowd aside columns of
pictures, taking one past
new literals for contemplation among metonyms
I was thinking about memory again, writing
its letter home.
Before she died, her face, her favorite
Breakfasts were sweet, even...
On the table, the plunged gold plate of
the bell on a silver
Someone left a world in it, a layer of
resembling a page, viscous, absorbent, richer
than the néant
Mallarmé inscribed on.
Because it is almost sound, it was meant
We watched together the sun pour in the
motes of light on glass and wood.
Who was home to this homeless light?
Together we dreamt of transports, of residences
as glints off
mica-ed rocks, centerless sheens bouncing
from the frozen lake.
One felt the very slightness of being,
almost validity's dusting
Yet also love, which hid us from the fiction's
Pointless to ask for the addressee of
Or that the mind misspoke its sonic phantoms
and conjured the
self which erred and brought us to this
And now, the demiurge possesses a lightness,
a wet nuzzling of
hope blind to the part played by the geometer's
Bleached one, O muse, I think of you,
your silences where the
throat catches on emptiness, that free
flight into the wordless.
O teacher, the sky's light is fading, and
I have sought that one
place, speechless to the moon, an omen blossoming
at its own
edge, a bizarre portraiture in the rush
of things portentous.
Bleached one, what was strategy?
What was truth?
The plangent lucidity, the glass through
which the light flowed.