glacial dreams
by erik black
Copyright 2012 by Erik Black
www.spinningtrees.webuda.com/
Coming soon: The Trees Were Spinning, my book on the two years I lived in Kenya.
Coming later: The DRWN Trilogy.
If you would like to make a copy of an individual poem for your personal enjoyment, you may if you use a fountain pen with Noodler’s ink on fine paper, as this is how I prefer to write poems. You can also send me a S.A.S.E and I will write out a poem of your choice for you. Feel free to contact me through one of the links above.
Cover photo taken by the author of his son on the Moroccan coast.
Introduction
I suppose I should introduce either myself or my poetry, which often overlap. I find poetry everywhere: in the laughter of children, the blooming of flowers, the trials of life, the grace of fly fishing. Poetry is music, it is art, it is the expression of the soul. Some people say they do not get poetry, but really they haven’t read much I think. For poetry should get us.
We were taught in school that poems should have a certain rhythm, like iambic pentameter, and always rhyme. Certainly there are great examples of this kind of poetry. But what I write is free verse, partly because I cannot rhyme well and partly because I want my poems to flow naturally and not be constrained by form. This is how I speak, so this is how I write.
These poems were written over many years, starting when I was in college taking Poetry classes, though the majority of them were written more recently. Some poems have dates or notes under the title, but all are open to interpretation.
I would have preferred a hand-written book of poems, to view them as they were created, but in that case only one or two people would ever have received a copy since such projects often fail for lack of time. For poets as all artists would rather be creating than editing or marketing. As such this little book from a poetaster will have to suffice for now.
Here now are 41 poems for my 41 years.
Erik Black
February 2012
glacial dreams
(May 1, 2006)
i dreamed a glacial dream
immensity creaking and cracking
on the long slow journey of time
to the sea
enough water for a thousand lifetimes
unattainable, uncontainable
i content myself with the trickle runoff
i do not have it all
but only enough for one glad day
and each day my cup overflows
love poem #10
(for Her, whoever she might be, July 2006)
fire and water
breath and body
the elements meet in this
elemental kiss
i stir with passion
dreaming of Her
yet unseen, unknown
i sigh with passion
and perhaps my breath
meets Hers somewhere
an elusive kiss
given but not yet received
stirring the winds of time and change
the turning tree
(viewed from the kitchen window my last day, May 27, 2006)
the leaves are turning with the wind
in the maple tree behind the neighbor’s house
they turn from dark to light
and return again in waves
leaping from branch to branch
darker green on top,
silver light beneath
as though the world had turned
and we walked upon sunlight
and looked up to shadow
4th of July
(2006)
there were fireworks on the moon
at least from where i sat on my earth
spinning sitting by the lake water
the brilliance of flash and boom
made uneasy rhythm of drums on drums
and contraction of pupils
but i was writing of the moon
obscured by smoke and haze
and diminished in the intensity
of burning gunpowder, colours on fire
a remembrance of freedom
won and lost and won and lost long ago
but luna shines luminously
ever changing, ever constant
unaffected by our pomp and pride
a grander and more permanent light
than our little fires and explosions can ever make
Silent Reverie
(written in college after a chilly night with friends)
i lie
smothered in love
and a pile of November leaves
i dwell
upon star clear nights
and naked limbs
hanging from the ground
i fall
and become the sky
ethereal winds disturb my sleep
and my collected dreams
blow away with the leaves
she was sleeping beauty for Halloween
(for Eden, written Halloween 2005)
shoes sparkling
like ruby fireflies
bouncing along the pavement
and on up the hill
to a door where treats are given
if you know the right words
a princess should always be polite
she is learning,
and a princess should have a servant
who can carry her things
so she can keep her skirt
from collecting dew
and getting stepped on
by the ruby sparkling shoes
and so it is,
with her eyes and shoes sparkling
and her golden curls bouncing,
i follow behind her –
keeping a respectful distance of course
as a common servant should –
but ever watching,
for princesses and little girls
are likely to grow up quickly
when it pleases them
leafpile
bury me deep
forget the world of light
with its familiar smells and fears
embrace the near darkness full of warmth
and pale golden light
and the scent of death and life
the children laugh
as they fill the shallow grave
with such substance as cannot hold me
even as the real me cannot be contained
in this earthly heaviness,
but the light in my soul
lifts me out of ashen clay
shake off the worldly cares
like aged leaves from tall trees
giving and taking from the leaf mould,
joy and sorrow, decay and rebirth mingled,
trading golden for green
after a winter’s rest
ember hearts
(June 6, 1992, 2:00 A.M. the next morning, after the McElmurry’s wedding)
i saw the moon die tonight
an ember heart like mine
blood red fallen through the trees
the star were tears
upon the deep waters
mourning the passing of a season
or a night
You were there holding
my hand and my heart
my strength has not left
an imprint of peace remains
you are there where only you can be
with me tonight
the round wooden casket
(D-Day February 1, 2007)
the ring is cold and in the grave
and i no more to be its slave
the freedman walks with strength anew
never again will he choos
e you
willow tree
(November 29, 2005 I drove through my old neighborhood of Chapel Woods today. Both the tree and a hollow stump I used to play in were gone, but not the memories.)
the climbing tree is gone –
the willow by the stream
where three boys each
had their own branch;
mine was not the furthest out
nor the nearest one,
high enough
to make you think before dropping,
not that the distance really mattered
to a boy not yet learned in algebra
where is my climbing branch now?
i like to imagine that it’s still there
hanging in the sky
bending creaking from my weight –
only now there’s no trunk to hold it,
only the branch in the sky
and to reach it requires more
than mere strength and skill
those versed in higher mathematics
would tell me proudly that such things
cannot be
to which i would reply
what’s the good in learning
if you forget how to dream?
they gain the world but lose their soul
and so my climbing branch is still there
a place to dream and swing
i often go there
when i am troubled by algebras
and rotting wood in a compost pile
i see it clearly in my mind’s eye
and so i know it must be
a walk in the woods
(with my kids in the Parkville Nature Center, August 2006)
i saw the blackwings
by the trickle stream
in the humus-scented wood
sunlight dripping through the trees
my children are calling
further up on the path
come to us, hurry,
but i linger to breathe in
another moment
my heart lifts a little more
in this moment of life full of life
i take in the woods, the water and the wild,
and with it i am growing young
the wet cello
(April 21, 2007 for Deb, who played it far from my hearing)
music from the gardens,
the scent of rain from your cello,
and you standing unaware of yourself
how easily you call the Music
as if it were yours,
a play thing to tease and charm
but it is we who are charmed,
enraptured by the beauty, the sound, the scent,
a chorus of flowers singing
The Bronze Boar
(to the statue on the Plaza, where we met and were engaged)
lucky stiff
he got to see the beginning of us
twice
the perfect stone
(written in Maine)
i told them to search for the perfect stone
left by the waves upon the shore
one to carry back home
to remember evermore
one found a heart stone
kissed by the salty sea
the other a rainbow rock
discovered there by me
but i, searching for the one stone,
came away with three
Penopscot Bay
(on our visit to Maine, the islands really did seem to float)
two girls sitting upon a rock in the waters
two mermaids at play in the bay
singing songs and making rhymes
and chasing the cold away
i walk with them, they walk and run
two daughters on the shore
i must keep them young in my eyes
before they are no more
two islands appear to float above
the brightness of afternoon sea
i imagine us going to them
on a skipping stone, we three
to Tir na nog we will go
land of youth and light
to islands floating on shimmering sea
beyond the land of sight
empty mailbox
waiting for the letter
never coming
never written
but the thoughts were written
upon our hearts
letters of gold leaf crinkly
shining in the moonlight
these thoughts i send to you
from my state to yours
from my heart
golden in the morning sun
to yours
the last walk
(not with any thoughts of my own, to a place in Japan)
the forest path ended miles ago
lost in some tangle of overgrowth or under
my life ended years ago
siphoned off and choked by the tangles of life
the compass doesn’t work here either
in this forest of silent trees
Aokigahara
i am alone
or worse than alone
my companions the dim spirits lost long ago
Yurei
we stumble on together, lost and found
in this wilderness of life and death
coming to the end at last
will i become faint like them?
fading finally out of this dim life
into the dark unknown
nights in Fes medina
the obcene call wakes me
three hours before the dawn
“God is great!”
yes, i agree with that part
but do you have to shout it so loudly
so early in the morning?
this foul beast of an alarm clock
ancient chant in an ancient tongue
and now my daughter’s year-old cry
to join in the chaos
a thousand and one nights
a thousand and one minarets
each one striving to be the loudest
but the one closest to us has them all beat
i imagine him climbing the steps
so early in the morning dark
going to the very top of the minaret,
but this time he stumbles and falls,
too weak to wake me tonight;
or perhaps he swallowed a date
that went down the wrong way
and so lodged in his throat,
not enough to choke, but
oh-i-am-sorry-you-will-be-in-bed- a-month
and for that month we sleep in peace
la la salama
but no, it shall be my bane
for every night in Fes,
ancient city of an ancient people
my home for a thousand and one nights
i do not have power to crumble the minarets
but i do have the power
to calm my crying baby girl
and each night we walk the tiled floors
together
there is much comfort for us both in this
sleeping with my shoes on
(from an article on NPR March 1, 2011 about the dangers in Somalia)
some think me strange
say I’d have more peace
with bare feet
poking through the holes
in my thin blanket
but here there is no peace
not even for those with two blankets
every night the same
rat tat tat
gunfire in the next village
how soon will they be here?
when it’s time to run
you have no time
grab the photo
and run for your life
that’s why I’m sleeping with my shoes on
someday dreams
(October 27, 2011)
i will have a garden someday
flowers, herbs and a rabbit to chase awa
y
i will sow the seeds
and reap the bounty,
will see the harvest
i have children today
they take so much time
that my garden languishes
weeds and rabbits have chased away
my bountiful harvest
come again another day
i will have a farm someday
an acre of wheat,
a field of beans
chickens, ducks and geese
to chase the blues away
i sow my seed and reap the bounty
sickle and scythe cutting low to the ground
i have children now
they take the time and money
i was saving for my farm
but they are my bountiful harvest
i have sown and i will reap
and they will outlast any earthly harvest
and fill every need with joy
the bee walk
taking the bee walk
on a lazy afternoon
to the secret apiary
where gold awaits me
the unwanted passenger
(to one still unfound)
i didn’t invite you in
i didn’t even know you
driving to work in the fast lane and
whoa! there you are
touching my leg, i’m
brushing you away
now searching for something to hit you with
and you all coy
with your eight spindly legs
scrambling under my seat
running away like the coward you are
friends close
and enemies closer
but this is too much
are you watching waiting
in some dark crumby crevice
or has the darkness taken you?
perhaps had we met on some
green lawn in the summer sun
we could have been friends
but not now, not ever now
i think it time to get a new car
the holy fly line