Saturday, May 29, 2010

Weekly Worded






















the history of anywhere

survive if you can
grumbles the rubble
pushed into a hole
another layer of civilization
built on ruins
in the crypt outside notre dame
roman roofs
arches and walls
stones fleshed feet worn smooth
beneath roman homes
pariisi bones
gnawed by a penetrating cold
old as the blood
the seine’s ebb and flood
city of lights
lit from below

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Weekly Worded






















Bilingual Drama at a Tiny Patisserie

Pee?
Oui.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Weekly Worded

















At the Louvre Nobody Cries


Loud voices are not permitted.
Along the gallery of agony,
the gallery of gore,
the gallery of unspeakable horror,
couples stroll
pointing out their favorite saints
shot by arrows,
beheaded,
beaten and brush stroked with blood,
nailed to crosses,
gashed by spears,
hanging in the air
five hundred years.
Everybody wondering
what is art.
Nobody asking
why is art
obsessed by such masters,
persecutors of the persecuted,
crafted-out-of-pain
exhibition without inhibition.
A niche in history
to stand and stare,
a few in disbelief.
The holy mother holding her baby
everywhere.

Friday, May 7, 2010

Weekly Worded

















Noah Fills the Cow Pond

I’ll start with ducks,
most common of fowl,
then add a goose and its mate,
a couple Blue Herons
for the dignity they bestow,
two egrets
and two gulls.
Next I’ll import a brace of otters,
rhinoceros and elephants
to remind the neighbors
how exotic the old testament could be.
Maybe a hippopotamus
because I like the sound of its name.
For the sake of drama I’ll include
a pair of alligators or crocodiles.
Crayfish, snakes, and slugs
by the bushel, since I want
something to survive.
Frogs for the crocuses that blossom
at sundown and a basket
of worms to aerate the soil.
These days I just open a valve
and water arrives from the mountain --
enough for the cows, more than enough
to share with the animals
that don’t belong to me.

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Weekly Worded

















Only Seeing What’s There


Geese on the pond gliding
like geese on a pond.
Nothing else

to compare them to.
Materialized by memory
or chance, a downward glance
during a fly-over,

a flash of light reflecting off water
exactly like light
reflecting off water—

this, the reason they are here.
Had I landed a comparison near the pond
it would
swim like a sailboat,
float like a lily pad,
dive like a submarine.

So complicated.

I prefer a flock of wild geese
arriving in formation.

They know what they are,
not what they’re like.

A simplicity,
more surprising.