of echoes buried deep, lasering
stillness to a shrill point B
embedded in point A
by line alone, and only then
after the flight is over; not the discipline
to lift a mouth and eyes
from food, from coloring,
or the fundamental music
wingbeat speed produces.
What figures is the wanderlust
for flight, the worry
the one that flies inside inspires: how
to chase it out? The shooing
of the bat that matters
most; or all too fast, the blur
of the hummingbird whirring by.
Stream Water, Stream Light
Stream water, stream light in the easy creek
that snaked and hissed at the bottom of the hill
all summer long, while houseflies at the crest
assembled to swing in signatures across
garbage bags ripped open by raccoons,
regalia of the driveway. We ignored
this festival of feastful decay whenever
we came indoors or left—the stores of moisture,
pools of light prismatic in our eyes
transfigured those peripheral scenes and stenches.
How we held on to an unswerving comfort,
reclining in our shared stretch of the bank,
groping among the termites in the wicker,
staying naked, since our clothes weren’t clean.
Michael H. Lythgoe
Orpheus In Asheville
Every Prelude is a beginning; preludes begin in the heart.
Carla is the diva of the opera at the Biltmore gala;
her moves are melodies; she is soprano of the samba,
Telemann, and Gluck’s Orfeo, a Brazilian with the Vanderbilts.
Her curves are smooth as polished wood. He plays her
on his hand-crafted lute . . . lingering on each swell & hollow.
His fingers work wonders on each fret; he feels the timbre
in each string of her. Each of his tunes is a prelude to love-
making; a prelude is a love song old—beginning anew.
And he knows, as he plays the theme song from Black Orpheus,
that he is creating a multilingual score; she leaves him a scent
of gardenias, on the arm of a tuxedo; in the lobby Orpheus plays solo.
He is the grandson of an old-world stone mason, an artisan
who built the Biltmore Estate to last. His musician’s hands
trained to knead deep as in a spa’s hot stones massage.
The guitarist loves her operatic interludes caressing his guitar.
Gliding away in a limo, she leaves him composing in the lobby.
In a midnight slide off Black Mountain Road
she is a skater in a love story ending in broken glass,
black ice; mezzo in shards; rime ice clasps her body,
clouding Craggy Cascades in icy droplets—a glistening freeze
on the windward face’s mountain limbs at dawn. He lost her;
she left him on New Year’s Eve for a mountain in fog; he searched
underground for her, charmed cave mouths into a chorus; the trees—
around the Highland Hospital where Zelda burned—learn arias.
Orpheus’ fingers melt Looking Glass Falls every spring into lyricals.
A mythical musician, ever-improvising Preludes, plays instrumentals;
stones—cold Blue Ridge stones—break into Bel Canto.
Schumann Composed For Cello
On the car radio, NPR plays a concerto.
Schumann, they say, was soothed by cello music.
So he composed slow paced compositions, to soothe
his troubled moods. No longer does a duo
make beautiful music together on violin & cello.
A woman screams at a man—waves her bow.
Their romantic instruments, left unplayed, soon break.
The duo flares, burns up, flames out before their libretto
ends in ashes, breaking the ancient Dao of Ying
& Yang; no smooth curves fit Dao harmony
into place. Artists cannot last if love is less
than their music. He leaves for the Beijing Symphony.
She stays to teach. They shared a bed before bows
crossed their strings like electric shocks. No concerto.
Frida Kahlo On South Beach At The Bass Museum
I had no idea I was going to miss her so much.
—Diego Rivera
Frida wore white on SoBe for art deco,
a floor length native dress to hide her legs—
(Madonna wore a man’s tuxedo)—
peasant beads, bare arms, scooped neckline.
A floor length native dress hides her legs
as she lies recovering from a miscarriage, in body cast.
Frida loved folklore, peasant beads, scooped necklines.
Next to her, Rivera—muralist—is an elephant.
Lying, recovering from a miscarriage, in body cast . . .
Picasso gave her golden amulet earrings in Paris.
Next to Frida—a dove—Rivera is an elephant muralist.
Frida’s features in photographs line the gallery walls.
She wears Picasso’s golden-hand earrings from Paris.
Her dark eyebrows, thick as fur, are wings in flight.
Frida’s images in photographs line the gallery walls;
an unsmiling face reveals hints of hair above her lips.
Her eyebrows—like dark fur—are wings in flight.
The dove was crushed by Rivera’s seduction of her sister.
Unsmiling face, Jewish blood, hair above her upper lip,
superstitious artist, loved by other artists taking her picture.
Rivera ripped her heart, seduced her sister.
At Casa Azul, she paints from a mirror, exposed in black & white.
Photographers fall in love taking her picture.
She paints nudes in jungles, poses with parrot & monkey.
In Casa Azul . . . gored by trolley handrail, exposed in black & white;
Frida unbuttons her white native dress to the waist,
she paints nudes in jungles, poses with parrot & monkey.
To reveal solitary, pale fleshy pearls—plain pink nipples.
She unbuttons her white peasant dress down to the waist,
clasping her hands under her bare breasts with pink areolas,
revealing pearl twins of pale flesh, plain pink nipples.
Bewitched by her Tejuana look, I feel her spell; another lover.
Clasping her hands under bare breasts with pink areolas:
Frida, Nude Torso, 1938 photograph—alive—by Julien Levy.
Bewitched by her Tejuana look, I feel her spell, another lover.
The third eye in her surreal self-portrait, an exotic tattoo, hypnotic.
Alive in her art, Frida, Nude Torso, 1938 photo by Julien Levey.
Kandinsky leaves his tears on her cheek as he kisses her.
The third eye in a surreal self-portrait, an exotic tattoo, hypnotic,
hooks me like Picasso’s earrings, her mythic scarves, ex-votos.
Kandinsky leaves his tears on her cheek as he kisses her.
I leave Robert Deniro to drink in art deco at the Chesterfield,
Frida, mythical in her scars, Picasso’s earrings, ex-votos,
pass Casa Casurina, where Gianni Versace was murdered.
I pass Robert Deniro drinking in art deco at the Chesterfield;
Al Pacino played a Marielito—Scarface—at 13th & Ocean Drive;
I see Cas
a Casurina, blood stains gone, Versace murdered.
I taste Frida’s skin even after the iced bitter lemon drink.
Al Pacino played a Marielito in Scarface at 13th & Ocean Drive.
Selma Hayak wore a white peasant dress at the Bass Museum.
Frida’s taste lingered on my lips long after the bitter lemon drink.
Versace models slink & strut as I leave a lover, artists in art deco.
Driving to Columbia
Last night I heard Thank you
for taking care of me.
I was reading A Handfull of Dust; last
night I heard the icemaker cough.
My dead father stares at me
from an empty store window.
I smell coffee, raspberry, rain,
and Old Spice this morning.
The pink rose in the garden fell
into petals before I left the house.
People gather on Route 302
for a horse show. A horse trainer
drove his horse trailer 21 hours
from New Mexico to run for roses.
Used cars wear their worth
on their foreheads. Confederate
soldiers, on their way to a war
in a pickup, stop
for a red light. Smooth Jazz plays
Bony James covering
Stevie Wonder—
a song I no longer remember.
I heard you say to me thank you
for taking care of me.
Ars Poetica
Our words are words for the clay, uttered in undertones . . .
—Charles Wright
If you keep your ear to the ground,
you will hear oceans form shore lines.
Each line is a breath, a complete thought,
a lapse, a story, a Station of the Cross,
a meditation. Some words are as heavy
as a horse’s hoof. Others are nimble
as a dancer with ankle bells. Some drum.
Always sing words out loud. Don’t let them fall
flat. Pick up the vowels to roll like marbles.
Spit fragments out. Consonants cut a rock face.
Carve or break the stone of the line;
what is left is what you mold; what you speak.
Then you chisel it in. Then you put it down.
Keep your ear to the ground. Words are coming.
The ocean sends shore lines to ground.
Maybe the dead walked in your room
last night, looked in the mirror,
touched your body with the gloves off,
left an envelope on your desk.
Open it. Listen. Try to get the words right.
It takes a certain mind to read between the lines.
Silence is the space, the air, the pause worth hearing.
Feel absence in your bones; a heart beat is a tone.
Atone. Let yourself go in the undertow.
To hear clay utter undertones, go alone.
John Wentworth
morning people
Like the twisting, turning path that at last breaks
into a clearing where you can sit among wildflowers,
and the cacophony of noise along the path at last disperses
into calls of birds and leaf rustlings that you can isolate and truly hear,
the hours of another day and sleepy night bring you at last
to another early morning and to the worship of the stillness of the moment.
How is it that the you you most truly are is so concealed?
When along the path so many stop to talk and listen?
When so many truly care to know who you are?
How is it that they never know?
This pencil, this crack in the window glass, this dead flower—
pick any image you like—
is not the same in the stillness of the morning as it is at night
and for anyone who fails to understand this, well, they can
try to understand you as hard as they will,
but they will never get it right.
Watching My Love
Pick something to watch
And there is so much there to see
Almost no matter what you pick—
A mushroom on tree bark in the woods
A cat’s-eye marble under bright light
A leaf floating in a fountain
The night sky
An envelope stained with a lipstick kiss
A fly-covered horse hind-end twitching in the sun—
If you pause at nearly any image for long enough
You discover something about the image
And about yourself.
“I see.”
(“Look closer.”)
“Oh, yes, I see.”
While my lover sleeps, I watch her face
As the streams of breath through her nostrils are in my veins
As the lashes over her eyes are rich, webbed thickets
As the shiny slope of her nose trembles in the scent of dust
As her matted hair curls delicately around the lobe of an ear . . .
And as her plump lips trace faintly just the notion of a smile
I understand that I love her best while she sleeps.
“I see.”
(“Look closer.”)
“Oh, yes, I see.”
But I am so sorry.
I am so, so, terribly sorry, my darling
That through teary eyes I watched my love again this morning,
And it was you that I saw
It was your breath in my veins
Your sweet whisper at my lips
But all in the past, or in my memories, or in my imaginings as you sleep.
For when I bent to move my lips onto your hand,
Your fingers had moved on your nightgown into a fist.
I watched so closely.
I watched so closely I could hear myself watching in the silence of the room.
And what did I understand? What did I believe I knew?
That this fist was your heart toward me, clenching tight, never to open again.
A tear slid down my cheek onto the foot of the bed.
I turned from watching bitterly, my eyes blank and empty,
So that I did not see the fist blossom like a flower, open into fingers
That might have held me yet again if I had looked closer, and longer.
Saying Goodbye
Five times we have said goodbye,
and there will be more between us.
Have we built our love on our goodbyes?
I see you in bed, on the streets of Alexandria,
in airports, and in the brown grass of muddy fields in fall,
saying goodbye.
In dreams, I see us in the places we’ve been together,
and also in places we’ve never been,
and from everywhere, it is the same—
you are waving goodbye.
Learning from both slow, frozen tears shining in glass
and the torrential bursts of heartbreak,
we are becoming fluent in the language of goodbye.
Even now, from a car window, your fingers deftly spell our alphabet:
goodbye, goodbye.
Of course there is only one true goodbye.
And I wonder, will I recognize the day I never see you again?
Will I wake up with that heavy knowledge,
or will I never know, always hoping
for one more hello, yearning for the broken promise
of one more greeting?
If you’ll let me, I will share a thousand more goodbyes with you
before our last one—
and that very last time I see you, ever,
I will say hello,
as we settle in together into our home
of my heart’s memory,
where, even while you live the minutes of another daily life,
you will live forever with me in a
n eternal goodbye.
1929—for my father
“You’re tracking footprints in the house,” she said.
Was he dreaming? Wasn’t he asleep on the screened porch,
The midsummer breeze touching his toes hanging over the couch,
The fat part of his arm a pillow under his head,
His eyes closed to the golden sun glinting in through the screen,
His belly full from a burger and four bottles of beer,
His day behind him a spent dollar on a lazy Sunday,
His night ahead a warm glow of lamp light on his bed,
His memories mixing with his ideas of how things were &
How they were meant to be?
“Have you even thought about it?” she said, somewhere nearby.
He breathed a breath, felt the breeze on his toes,
Aware of her somewhere near him, sweeping the floor,
Stirring dust, mixing tomorrows with yesterdays.
Half-asleep, he was dreaming, seeing his future
Laid out before him as sure as the radiant days already lived—
But now with his boy, his first child, his son.
It’ll be a boy, all right, he thought. It’ll be a boy.
The sun glinted through the screen onto the porch,
And the breeze was a whisper, a promise, a secret.
Christopher Jelley
Double Exposure
Dad rattles into the family room,
groans down in his big yellow chair.
Trying to focus warped vision on the album,
he puzzles over the faces.
Our first time canoeing through Bull Sluice:
we broke a paddle, nearly wrapped the boat,
rammed the bank, snagged roots.
We both nursed an ice-cold Murphy’s stout.
Dad, all smiles, pointing to his beer, me dripping dry
in a spring sun that set almost forty years ago.
A camera flash:
I’m an old man in a new photograph.
Love and Waffle Fries
We rehearse The Tempest,
conjure fresh magic
from five hundred year old prose.
Reciting our lines into a mantra,
more than mere meter and verse,
an ancient incantation,
a transmutation of flesh—
we are Miranda and Ferdinand.