Glacial Dreams



  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