July Poetry, Week 3

Day 15

You Are Stardust

I see a comet of colors sweeping by 

in my garden, a peacock with a fiery tail; 

I see the glitter of the mollusk’s trail

over blades of grass that once were stars

you longed for when day broke 

the spell of night, its salmon face 

beaming light. This is the history

of our lovely rock, our teeming oceans

that lie upon the shore, running away

then returning like a pensive child

rejects its toy only to miss it sore.

We’re all related: snail & star,

blade of grass & peacock’s tail.

It’s a dialogue between mirrors.

We’re shadow and man come together 

after daylight when the sun is long, then goes

like tide and melody, like you and stardust.

Day 16 

The Room

Whatever it’s called, 

I like sitting there, or seeing it

from another room, frail light seeping

in from behind thin white curtains

to coat everything with itself.

I say it’s my pretty room, my soft

place, my blue cloud room, yet I cannot

name it well enough. I sit in it and feel 

the fizz of tide against my ankles, 

the crush of surf against my waist. If I lose

myself here, I can always find myself

rolling up on a beach like a shell,

filled with something delectable.

If I cup my hands over my ears,

if I blow breath out slowly, if 

I let myself drift on the silence

of the sunset, I am not afraid

to paddle out beyond the offing,

to wait for what might come.

Whatever it’s called, it calls me.

In the company of silence, I hear it.

I’m still thinking about you

when the eighth wave comes 

with its delicate belly, its lip

of foam. I’m still thinking about us

when the roar of the wave pulls

me under the way you always do

when we find love

has no limits or borders. No matter

what it’s called, this room, I sit in it 

and find the beginning of everything.

Day 17

Beached

Up it comes, rising in the storm like a ghost

from under the beach where boys and girls

make castles with pails of wet sand,

where teens learn about magnetism

in bikinis and speedos, where the aroma

of suntan oil and salt reign

over every summer day. Up it comes,

this pincke’s skeleton cared for by the sea

in thanksgiving for its rescues off shore.

That’s a pink, said Captain Dean,

nothin’ like ‘em to nose in and out

of a rocky coast.* The historical society

issues a stay away, itching on its own

to take souvenirs, just a few slivers 

of town history for display. 

Days from now, the pincke will vanish

into the sand again, hiding her secrets, her bones

trembling with every footfall overhead.

* lines from Kenneth Roberts’ novel, Boon Island 
[NOTE: I would not say "rocky coast" in one of my poems if it were not a quote]

Day 18

To a Pair of Old Poets

I’m reading Bly, listening 

like a donkey, ears flapped open,

waiting for a poem. My eyes are closed.

I see Donald Hall, old — with legs 

like a young poet — striding

across New Hampshire, pages

crammed into his pockets, shoved

into the waistband of his old man pants.

No one would confuse Bly with Hall,

mix up their lines, no one but me.

In my donkey state, they become one poet, 

all wood smoke, pine needles, & grump.

I’ll read Hall tonight, summon

ghosts, church singing, farmhouse attic

smells. Off in the woods, Iron John 

will beat a drum, make poems 

for all the wild hairy men who don’t. 

I’ll give up on which poet wins at cribbage,

which poet cares about life after death. I’ll go

on writing until morning, digging ditches

with no hope of treasure. If Ben the librarian

calls to say my book is overdue, I’ll say

it’s due after the last poem in it knows

the difference between Bly and Hall.

Day 19

Dreamland

As the hand vanishes, the child appears

to miss something, can’t recall

the taste in her mouth as milk,

waits for nothing she doesn’t know

she wants. Like me, missing you.

It’s an itch just below my skin, 

the slight feel of a breeze

on my cheek, there a moment

then gone, leaving me 

to wonder if it was there at all. 

It’s your voice not on the phone 

when I swear I heard it ring just now. 

All that’s there is a cold call, request 

to do a survey that will change the world.

It’s the dream I had this morning

beneath my eyelids:

your hand on my breast,

my breast brimming with milk, 

tingling with the pull of your lips. 

Feed me you beg, I’m your baby.

I wake to a wet place on my pillow.

Day 20

Sweet Territory

It plays again this evening:

in the mist of a memory, 

you wander on back to me, breathing 

my name with a sigh —

I feel young with you again, dancing 

in my parents’ living room,

them asleep upstairs, or not. I sing 

along with the music in my head, hear

you humming into my hair, feel 

your hand on the small of my back.

I am comforted by you, this 

younger version of you, 

in the sweet territory 

of silence, broken only by music.

The carrion artist works underground, works 

in darkness, is a thief.

When did you stop dancing? 

When did you stop singing? 

When did we stop?

Day 21

Travel Plans

Go to Holland, forget it isn’t Holland

now; look for fields of tulips

and windmills. Buy a copy 

of Hans Brinker for the trip. Book

a Rhine cruise from Amsterdam

to Basel; be the only one aboard

who speaks English; eat asparagus

with your fingers at the Captains Table; 

play cards until midnight, drink 

strange liquors in crystal glasses.

On the return train from Basel 

to Amsterdam, count your money —

save enough to buy tulips.

Open your English/Dutch dictionary;

practice saying, let a hundred flowers

bloom, and only one die.

Laat honderd bloemen bloeien, 

en slechts één bloem sterven

Go to Holland, forget everything else.