Beauty is in the eye (and ear) of the beholder

http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1772684

Poem

Lovers and Aliens in Tijuana

“…for charity after all is only a word.”
-- Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums

1.

The full moon was there above the Coyote
Mountains and asked, “What have you got to say
for yourself?” Celina was there
and her friend Brad but I was the one
who loved her: that was what I had
to say for myself.

2.

Con la luna solamente para luz,
we had to feel our way along
the concrete building, the walkway into Mexico.
Halfway across, footsteps thundered
all around us in the dark;
there was nothing to hold on to.
Out in the border fields the moonlight glistened
off the water in the gullies and trenches.
I thought of postcards received from friends
from their faraway places: Venice and gondolas,
the Seine river and Paris park benches,
and an Alaskan lake surrounded by mountains,
waterfalls and streams where you could only
enter by plane or bird.

The sound of footsteps passed into nowhere.

3.

In town we walked past a line of taxi drivers
who would take us anywhere
for a dollar, rows of lawn statues for sale,
and inexpensive leather shops.
Campesinos, their heads bowed,
milled the alleys and streets
with their eyes fixed on us –
us gringos.

I stopped at a strip joint.
Celina shook her head and grabbed his arm,
yet I was the one who loved her.
The moon’s reflection blotted out the head
of a naked, Rubenesque woman on a poster.
I thought of all my distant loves:
my sixth grade teacher, Ingrid Berman,
and the picture of a pretty woman’s face
in a wallet I bought for my Father
when I was nine.

4.

In Rosalita’s bar there was only a bartender.
In the corner a TV showed
American football.
Celina and he sat together, kissed,
held hands and whispered things
I could not understand.
But I was the one who loved her,
a abrazar y besar la luna.
The salt on the rim of my Margarita glass
stung my chapped lips. I watched the game
and wondered if the moon would be out
to guide the way home.

5.

A little girl with a dirt smeared face and ragged
flowers in her hands approached our table.
“Cuanto para las flores?,” I asked the girl.
Celina said, “No, you’ll have every kid in Tijuana
in here trying to sell us something.”

But I was the one who loved her.

I looked at the girl – the thin dress, the bare feet,
the brown eyes – I reached for my money.
Celina said, “Ah, go ahead, you know everything.”
But I didn’t. I didn’t know anything at all.

6.

When we left
the moon was behind the clouds.
Y el cielo negro observo nuestro viaje.

7.

Walking back into America
through that cavernous border building
the world separated for me

into those who could love, be loved,
and those unloved:
the two people feeling their way along ahead of me,
the little flower girl, all little flower girls,
and every alien running past me in the dark
bound for some new beginning –
it was all an attempt –

and I, quemada por la luna.
I, alone, but not alone,
who loved only that
which I could not possess,
let the woman ahead of me
go.

sculpture: The Hand of God by Auguste Rodin

Mari in the Hand of God

All that we are…

You breathe and I design
your hand juxtaposed
against the sculpture,
two white, naked bodies
entwined in the marble background.
If you were a statue
you would be these
wrapped figures of smooth
light and dark
curves and sensuousness,
still cold, still hard, defined
in a final design
of expression. And the Hand.

All that we are…

You breathe and I design
a moment in the hand
of my imagination: a careful
sun, glittery sand, pelicans
frozen over slinky waves, you
in a tank top and cut-off
jean shorts. If you were
alive you would be on
a blanket in the sand, toes
curled deep, grains scrunched. And
the Hand.

All that we are…

You breathe and I design
the hand of my imagination
where you are uncoiled,
now warm, now delicate,
sinewy. And sexy.
I write you into this sculpture
of form by Rodin:
the varied interpretation
of a single form, my
desire for you in my hand.

…a shadow that never leaves…

Reversing Falls

The Reversing Falls are better described as the Reversing Rapids. They are a result of the area's large tides (28 feet) and a narrow gorge where the mouth of the Saint John River meets the Bay of Fundy. The gorge is slightly dammed by a submerged ledge.

At low tide the water level in the bay is lower than that of the river and the river flows naturally out into the bay. At high tide the bay is at a higher level than the river and the sea water pushes back up into the mouth of the river, reversing the flow. The combination of this reversing tide and the underwater ledge result in an amazing display of rapids and whirlpools.

Poem

Travels with Ana

I.

In the bone yard
of my lost love
scattered among fallen
eyelashes, chapped
lips, and blood-
shot eyes, I weave
a pattern
of historical myth
and find a way to smile
tomorrow if it
will rain.

II.

In the graveyard
of the heart’s longings
tossed among skeletal
remains of love
letters, broken
promises, lost shooting
stars and soft comet
tails, I weave
a mythical story
of portent, learn
to fight for
myself, trust silence,
have mercy.

Clocks

A man died and went to heaven. As he stood in front of St. Peter at the Pearly Gates, he saw a huge wall of clocks behind him. He asked, "What are all those clocks?" St. Peter answered, "Those are Lie-Clocks. Everyone on Earth has a Lie-Clock. Every time you lie the hands on your clock will move." "Oh," said the man, "whose clock is that?" "That's Mother Teresa's. The hands have never moved, indicating that she never told a lie." "Incredible," said the man. "And whose clock is that one?" St. Peter responded, "That's Abraham Lincoln's clock. The hands have moved twice, telling us that Abe told only two lies in his entire Life." "Where's Hillary Clinton's clock?" asked the man. "Hillary's clock is in Jesus' office. He's using it as a ceiling fan."

Keep going

Can you tell me what's bothering you?
Does your heart race after the look
of another one, skipping down an endless
dirt road like a polished stone thrown
along a glassy pond, up a hill, round
the bend, night falling, stars mocking
your joy, your fear with palpitations
wrecking the words caught
in your throat you wish to say to him?

Ahem, "But you cannot make the dead walk or right wrong.
I see you at the end of your tether sometimes...
Then coming to in the smell of dung again
And wondering, is this all? As it was
In the beginning, is now and shall be?
Then rubbing your eyes and seeing our old brush
Up on the byre door, and keeping going. "
(from "Keeping Going" by Seamus Heaney)

Poem

Metamorphosis

I.

Sea spell
deal with me. Roar
of your system
of lore: wavelengths
of her voice, Aphrodite
on the half shell. Take a-
part the moored vision I
have of her; the scent
and taste of everything:
jasmine lacquered
skin, night dew frosted
eyes with star
sparkle, vanilla lips,
cinnamon feathered hair,
mint-chocolate layered
ears. Here, take my hand.

II.

My monkey hands
over my eyes, ears
and mouth distort
our evolution: see no
evil, hear no evil, speak
no more. I intuit;
you change. Here, take
my hand, lead me.

Poem

In the Backyard by the Beach All Held Still

Mid-day sunlight and shade,
all color is green and gold.

All clouds are motionless –
the earth’s rotation has stopped.

All smell is honeysuckle and rose.
The quiet breeze is but a tickle

against my nape and forearm hair.
All flowers bloom within buds.

Bees rumble through clover beds.
Nearby, my friend snores, dead

asleep on a blanket in the grass,
as removed as the moon and stars.

Nearby, all ocean waves crash
with the measure of a waltz.

Two squirrels bounce all laundry
hung from a line, tied dogwood tree

to bush, clothes falling to ground,
starting the earth’s spin again

as all the world’s scientists’ rise,
bow to the sun and go mad.

Poem

New Hampshire Night

August moonlight:
the echo of possibility,

shadowless soil and bright grass,
pavement cool and sandy under foot

your fingertips glance against my
forearm, tickle skin, take my hand.

Head back, staring at the stars,
can you name any of them?

You tell me: Little Dipper, Big
Dipper, Sirius, Andromeda, others

you touch through me. The hair
on my arms rise, static, alive -

modern day Frankenstein.
I group my heart, on its’ own,

with desire. Go ahead. Go.
You, monster, are not alone.

Poem

Happenings

Too late, summer, nothing
happens in autumn
except love and death.
What can you love, Love?
What can you hold in your arms
that isn’t death? Fallen

leaves gathered up to my lips, the moment
you stood in my field
of vision, the happening began,
‘X’ marked the spot, the hard sow,
the trauma; squash and pumpkin color
filled my veins and heart. Your

head lay in my bone lap,
the moon half-risen and night
half-fallen. The moment
you arched your back
to my silence, the October wind
happened to sweep all of us away.

A Vision

Poem

Ciara in the Field

White rose in hand; she ambles
down pasture, dreams
How can the heart know light?
stuck
in the mud,
It does not see star shine.
plucking sandals
from muck.
It does not see moon light.
She watches lapwing
It does not know brightness of eyes.
dart across field
over cow,
barbed fence
It does not know the mystery of shadow.
and rosebush. Jean bottoms
waterlogged,
soaked through
It does not seem to know its way.
a brown frog croaks
and she stoops
It acts too fast; reacts too slow.
to kiss,
pricks her arm
against a blackthorn
‘A poor torn heart’* never tears in a day.
sloe fruit tart
against lips and tongue.

*from Emily Dickinson’s Part One: Life #49

Poem

Scarlet Fever

Enlargement of the heart,
hands peel, skinless feet,
boney parts; my eyes tear
effortlessly.

My flesh pierced
by the French nails
of the magical dancer’s
fingers and toes. My
eyes tear seductively.

I cry rheumatic volumes
into the hollows
of my skull
and magistrate the length of swelling,
my eyes tear pages
of a heart in motion.

Big Dog

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/6291130.stm

Be still my heart, its...its....Sinead.

She's touring. Her new album is smashing.

Unique for Ciara

To lie still
in the web of her smile
your tongue in your mouth
until she unleashes it
from its lair to wag
and roll,
to lie still
when she rolls her body
hip over hip,
a mountain you wish to climb
and contemplate
this one question:
is this, ‘the house of Bedlam*?’

This one answer:
to lie still
upon her, a breath,
an exhale, is to lie still
amid the collections of the day
and reflections of the night
sky and lie still
in the color of the night,
the color of my hands, the bed linens,
the bed knob, the pillows,
the cuckoo clock
everything motionless white
and morning.

*from “Visits to St. Elizabeths” by Elizabeth Bishop

Poem

Attention for Ciara

Overshadowed
by the moon
I crept into her
light as a monsoon.
Simple touch of fallen
leaves would have been enough.

Seen me come; seen her
go.

Bedeviled
by the night
I leapt into her
shadow entranced by
the light; the light
does not hold me
unless at night. I can see
your eyes clearly show
the moon and stars
splintering into a million
slivers caught by my eyes
and tongue.