If this were a man
if this man were poisoned
if phosgene invades
the man inhales
the phonograph issues
broken
sanded
washed
if this were a man
and his photogravure
his image
etched
scratched
came to my life
representing life
coloured
measuring light
walked and spoke
eyes shining and alive
I was convinced
if a man came buckling
up from the hide
seasoned
cured
had rotted in his blanket
at night
if my man had steamed
like Jesus
in a cave
delivered
a man a philosophy
a phobia
a blue knuckling voice
sang and cried
warbling
bloody
if this man died
in 1914
in a war he inhaled
and he curdled
down into himself
resurrected his death
flocked
his tall tall tree
his reverse breath
dimpled his reverse breath
his cheeks collapsed
livid
purple
as his eight day rock
and his sap let loose
if this man had sap
he was then wrapped loosely
and tied whitely
if this were a man
his burning watermark remains
his bearded water stamp
remains
Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow; I am the diamond glints on the snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain; I am the gentle autumn's rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft star that shines at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there; I did not die.
Odd things, like a button drawer. Mean Things, fishhooks, barbs in your hand. But marbles too. A genius for being agreeable. Junkyard crucifixes, voluptuous discards. Space for knickknacks, and for Alaska. Evidence to hang me, or to beatify. Clues that lead nowhere, that never connected anyway. Deliberate obfuscation, the kind that takes genius. Chasms in character. Loud omissions. Mornings that yawn above a new grave. Pages you know exist but you can't find them. Someone's terribly inevitable life story, maybe mine.
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
Posted:
Oct 30, 2023 - 4:57am
Sonnet 29
Shakespeare
When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featur’d like him, like him with friends possess’d, Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate; For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
Posted:
Oct 22, 2023 - 6:01am
TO BE A PERSON
by Jane Hirshfield
To be a person is an untenable proposition.
Odd of proportion, upright, unbalanced of body, feeling, and mind.
Two predator’s eyes face forward, yet seem always to be trying to look back.
Unhooved, untaloned fingers seem to grasp mostly grief and pain. To create, too often, mostly grief and pain.
Some take, in witnessed suffering, pleasure. Some make, of witnessed suffering, beauty.
On the other side — a creature capable of blushing, who chooses to spin until dizzy, likes what is shiny, demands to stay awake even when sleepy.
Learns what is basic, what acid, what are stomata, nuclei, jokes, which birds are flightless. Learns to play four-handed piano. To play, when it is needed, one-handed piano.
Hums. Feeds strays. Says, “All together now, on three.”
To be a person may be possible then, after all.
Or the question may be considered still at least open — an unused drawer, a pair of waiting workboots.
I have heard about the civilized, the marriages run on talk, elegant and honest, rational. But you and I are savages. You come in with a bag, hold it out to me in silence. I know Moo Shu Pork when I smell it and understand the message: I have pleased you greatly last night. We sit quietly, side by side, to eat the long pancakes dangling and spilling, fragrant sauce dripping out, and glance at each other askance, wordless, the corners of our eyes clear as spear points laid along the sill to show a friend sits with a friend here.
There are hermit souls that live withdrawn In the place of their self-content; There are souls like stars, that dwell apart, In a fellowless firmament; There are pioneer souls that blaze the paths Where highways never ran- But let me live by the side of the road And be a friend to man.
Let me live in a house by the side of the road Where the race of men go by- The men who are good and the men who are bad, As good and as bad as I. I would not sit in the scorner's seat Nor hurl the cynic's ban- Let me live in a house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.
I see from my house by the side of the road By the side of the highway of life, The men who press with the ardor of hope, The men who are faint with the strife, But I turn not away from their smiles and tears, Both parts of an infinite plan- Let me live in a house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.
I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead, And mountains of wearisome height; That the road passes on through the long afternoon And stretches away to the night. And still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice And weep with the strangers that moan, Nor live in my house by the side of the road Like a man who dwells alone.
Let me live in my house by the side of the road, Where the race of men go by- They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong, Wise, foolish - so am I. Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat, Or hurl the cynic's ban? Let me live in my house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.
