Posts filed under ‘Ancient Poetry’

Let the Buyer Beware

Let the Buyer Beware

Let the buyer beware.
It was in winter
that he met you, and
shyly touched you:
frost-whitened trees, and grass,
disconsolate…
he gave you a stone,
a small flawed agate.
(“I look for them on the beach,”
he said. “It gives me
something to do.”)
It was in spring, perhaps,
that he loved you, though
he never claimed it.
You took him
or he took you…
the definition troubled you,
at times.

It was in sered summer
that he left, still
saying nothing of love.
Weeds in the socks,
in the hose…and if
you could (somehow)
clean the heart, too?
Let the buyer beware.

April 21, 2020 at 2:01 pm Leave a comment

truth

truth

it seems long since
i accosted the
strange-eyed god.
and, o, the gifts
that he gave me:
all
have brought some joy, and all some pain:

but the worst–the best–
is sight.
_____________________________________________
There will be a lot of repetition from earlier posts in the ‘voices’ category, which is an ancient poetry manuscript. I lost the computer copy of the ms. that I cut each poem I posted from. Pardon the sloppy grammar.

April 21, 2020 at 1:58 pm Leave a comment

rebirth

rebirth

…in the years of my decline
(i can recall this
quite clearly, you know)
i knew visions well.

i would not speak
to strangers: i was
an unruly tyrant
with my kin.

but i still was
foremost counsellor (though
given to sudden rages, and no one quite dared
challenge that).

mostly, of course, it was
the unseemly pains of age, acid gut and aching joints,
and other discomforts…

o, but i had my power!
i was dressed in pomp, all attended–for i was,
despite those rages, still wise.

ah, though: reborn, freed
of both pains and pomp, i wonder; who will requite me
for all the smiles i lost?

April 20, 2020 at 1:34 am Leave a comment

The Blind Woman

The Blind Woman

The blind woman is dancing
out on the dimlit floor, shaking
her head
and tossing her golden hair
(i have felt her
heavy, well-kempt
scented hair), her gestures somehow formless,
unknowing.

She doesn’t even know
i watch her.
(I sip my beer, and sigh.)
What does she think of, who
does she see, lost
in her private world?

Later, walking away, muttering silently to my self, i wonder:
who watches my
private dances?

April 19, 2020 at 2:20 pm Leave a comment

dawn

dawn

having woken from some dream
of holding you, still
tasting your mouth’s imprint, clasp
recorded by warmed skin’s cooling, i
sit and shiver, waiting for dawn.

____________________________________________________

Yes, actually, that’s real.  Some partings are occasioned by necessity, and any bitterness (apart from deities and the like) directed not at self, not at her–not at life–no, the bitterness was the experience itself.  “No blame.”

January 1, 2019 at 2:03 pm Leave a comment

anagrams

 various anagrams

     1.

a rusted plow
half-buried in sand;
hexagrams.

     2.

i saw you
paused in your flight
before your fall,
Daedalus.

     3.

i have not yet forgotten
her touch, subtle
as desire.

     4.

clasp slipped, hand cold:
the touch of truth.

     5.

flight encircled, ended,
at return–
silence.
That word
cannot be said.

December 24, 2018 at 4:23 pm Leave a comment

meanings(II)

meanings (II)

meanings. this land
is drenched with meanings.
but the dead
are merely dead.

December 20, 2018 at 4:20 pm Leave a comment

for missy

for missy

at the shore once
i watched your hair fly
in the surf’s windy spray

i had not touched you
all that day: was it
anger or a game? (honestly, i can’t
remember…)

we had been becalmed
by strange coilings of mist
that seemed to echo
inner, unspoken fancies

(a rat ran through the surf:
you didn’t shriek, but merely
looked, and wouldn’t let me
kill it)

…it was our last day, alone
in the fog’s-sphere of sight…

the next day you disappeared.
if you were ever there, that is:

perhaps, conceivably, you
were only a fantasy, born
of the wind, the fog, the spray.
.

December 7, 2018 at 5:44 pm 1 comment

mountains

mountains

have you seen those
hand’s-span mountains?–and
have you climbed them?

December 6, 2018 at 8:47 pm Leave a comment

for S. Delany

for S. Delany

tormented and wounded
in her words’ tearing lurch, he

be-sandalled and be-spectacled
had wandered the tired
the metalled street

and tasted the stale fog/perhaps-smog
of three o’clock of a weekday
three o’clock in a greyed City morning

considering various
heroes, villains, and other fools,
having

run from the worded woman
who skewers him at times
with her merest glance

but has birthed these various
worlds, these unlikely
(and moving) protagonists; when

i stiffen in my last breath,
surely,
i shall see Kid Death

November 14, 2018 at 3:32 pm Leave a comment

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