Posts Tagged ‘Crickets’

why can’t I
just be another guy?
but I’m a person
with a snake-sharp tongue
and I’m a ripped flannel…
I shoot my mouth like a shotgun.
riddles and rhyming and rhythm,
not taken seriously enough to stay honest
just another number in the GTE phone list.
I lie and I lie and I lie
to convince you all
that the poet is just another human being;
that I am just another guy.

I thresh through these lines
like a dog wrapped in seaweed,
thrown with stones in the ocean:
I can’t breathe –
there’s all the smoke from the fires I’m lightning,
I’m telling the sheriff that I’m struck by lightning.
when does it all stop echoing ‘round in circles?
I think it’s just another dream.
I’m on a porch with a candle and a carpet;
there’s crickets all around
and I feel wonderful without the world dragging me down.
look, I see you don’t understand with a frown.

I can’t even repeat what I’ve said.
I can’t think of a poem I’ve written,
then read,
and thought that this is it, this is perfect!
I’ve even given up trying to rework it.
I don’t want to write for a living anymore
I feel like the homework that’s always lost to the dog
and I don’t remember whatever
I expected from myself anymore.
these fireworks of joy that I wished to paint the skies with
are nothing more than explosions
of white-winged moths from a log
that I’ve kicked walking alone in the woods.

I
this poetry, on this midnight
runs through my veins:
all this hurting, my purple pen
is my blood,
each word a corpuscle –
and to let it out to the world,
sometimes my poetry is simple:
blood,
cut from my flesh,
bleeding my emotions free.
Self destructive
so that I can leave the world
with impressions of fire and intensity,
of feeling.
This is how I feel.
And a poet is a job of living,
breathing, suffering, sacrificing
money home security comfort
for the fleeting knowledge that I am writing.

II
I am smoking: I will die quicker.
I am drinking: I will die quicker.
But I am leaving what I have,
these words
the blood of my existence.
The blink of an eye
and the full moon is gone
waxing, waning:
soon so will I, another man
will die and fade into obscurity,
but these ideas, thoughts, memories
will not disappear quite as quickly,
eroded into paper or computer.
Crickets die – they begat children
to carry on their simple song;
this is human responsibility.
Treat this as information
of a life.
Swallow it whole or in pieces,
pass it along;
someone will find it useful:
the memories of me,
who and where I am right now.

A Hole in the Sky

Posted: July 24, 1992 in Poetry
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I thought I saw a star fall
In Sherwood Forest.
I wonder what it means
About our world.

I swear I saw a flame walk
Through this grove of trees,
Stepping from curl to curl
Of the bark on the forest floor.

I cannot grasp what my mind
Is saying; not yet,
Speaking from the corners of my eyes,
Running past my nose
At odd times, odd scents, odd sounds.

Sometimes I feel that
I’m surreptitiously burying
My heart again
In the middle of the night,
Something someone is whispering
For me to do.

Lying awake as I imagine the fall
Of gravedigger dirt
Cascading in sodden clumps
Upon my wooden soul.

The light wanes as I write,
Listening to the stereo of birdcalls
Scratching at wood,
And the organs of crickets
Calling and calling
The stars to the night’s work,
All except one.

I Take Time to Tell You

Posted: June 24, 1992 in Poetry
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I saw the moon come
From behind a cloudbank.
It took time to see this;
I take time to tell you.

My pipe glows cherry-red
Deep inside; smoke drifts apart.
I watch it fall away,
Clasping this time to me.

Faces twist in the veils of smoke
From the cauldron of my pipe
Melting to the orchestration
Of so many crickets singing
Farther and farther away.
I tell you of a porch somewhere
And a row of old trees
Stretching up down the road.
I’m no poet; I’m not quite sure
Of what to say.

this is the box that the spider came in.

here is the molt
of the mad spider
who came in this box.

this is the rock
from the cage where I kept
the spider, who was mad
and wouldn’t bark
after he left the white box that he came in.

these are the pictures I took of the box
that the batty spider came in
before I found that it was not him
who barked.

I am the boy who also came in the box
with such a grizzly spider,
put was not put in a cage
with a grey rock and a clock.

this is what happens to the crickets
that my spider hunts around the rock
by the light of that ridiculous clock.

this is Ezra Pound; a sailor, a spider,
who winds the clock in the closet of crickets.

here is the ward
where the mad spider and I are,
full of wind and white sheets and flat paper hats
and a rock.

here is the boy that bought the box
and found the rock for Ezra Pound,
that mad grizzly spider who wore a paper hat,
who gave it to me for the molt
that lies in the House of Bedlam.

this is the box,
the House of Bedlam,
where the spider molted even though he
was supposed to be hunting by the light of the clock
that Ezra wound.

I am the clock that tells the time
that the closet crickets die in the white box
– the cage in the House of Bedlam.

these are the legs of the mad molted spider
who ran around the rock in the white windy ward
of the house of the box with a paper hat.

this is the picture of grizzly me,
the boy Ezra and that deadly spider
who still wouldn’t bark after returning
to the House of Bedlam.

here is the box that is all that is left
of the boy, the spider,
Ezra and me.

[based on a poem by Elizabeth Bishop]