snow

when fire falls off the air
lost in the tumult of atmospheric descent,
when the silence of the birds
is lost in the hushed whisper of imminent winter,
when the swollen sky's belly
loses itself in the enormity of november's gray,
and when what would be rain
is impregnated by the stillness of its joy,
then water is kissed by crystal
and the ivory feathers fall,
blanketing the earth under the smooth dream,
the furious placidity of the immense white wave,
the snow.

the air is silent, all sound is from within,
the multitude of falling flakes
reflect the inner quiet:
all things, time and space,
earth and sky,
are frozen for the long moment it takes
for winter to let loose its endless white-haired wisdom.

and the children sing, cry out,
let's go! for this order of tranquil perfection
is not to last forever when a child's boots come stomping,
when the sleds and mittens and imagination unhinged
are set loose upon these white planes.
the whole world is an amusement park ride
and the cold bite of winter's icy teeth
do nothing to slow the advance of children at play.

and when at last, through hunger or exhaustion,
or for steaming mugs of warm cocoa,
they take respite from their conquest,
the wood stove hisses from the icicles accumulated
on pant legs and scarves and hats
now hanging above.
skin gone red and numb now glow crimson
with blood rushing to reunite with warmth.

the day progresses, the snow continues,
the tracks are covered up, more feathers
adorn the winged crystal dream
of the hibernating earth,
and from inside the windows steam,
heightening the sense of this life we live
from inside an ever-changing
molecule of water.

the fist and the thorn, by neruda

it's been a while since i posted a neruda favorite...

it is not about forgiving:
the forgiven does not forgive,
nor is it about giving
because he who receives
remembers your kindness as a wound.

on what did it feed,
i ask you, your joy?
where did your eyes emerge
if they didn't poke them into you?
what makes one smile
and the wind dance
and a touch last
and on what does your song subsist?
inside the fist the thorn
wounds you to defend you
and the stone weighs heavy in your hand
or the revolver in your insomnia.

so, then, you do not kill anyone
when everyone is killing you
as though you had provisions
for the life they kill,
because the weapons are heavy
or the words are blue,
or because you must not descend
when you refused to ascend,
or because they do not exist, they tell you,
those who stomp on your head
or because those who proliferate
will leave to proliferate
or because you hide your pride
like a dragon of seven souls
or because if you are guilty
it's guilty of having been born, of growing,
of buying grapes at the store,
of giving up and of arriving.

for these myriad reasons
--or simply from sadness--
you coil up the evil they inflicted on you,
you gather up the stones of the damage done,
and you leave whistling and whistling
in the morning and across the sand.

unsure, to be sure

it is the early hour of the night
that crept through the sheets
and icy mist until it appeared as today,
it is the end, or beginning:
the end of a long fitful dream,
the off-ramp for distressed sleep--
or the beginning of knowing,
of remembering that which remained
after the kiss was consumed by flames.

i am not sure of these hands,
this hair, these percussive heartbeats,
i am unsure of the tide that leaves twice
and returns twice as many times.
why, i ask, do i need the bitter spoon
to stir the sugar in my throat?
is it absolutely necessary, i wonder,
to probe the wounded parts of me
with so much salt in the pumice stone?

when, in the course of crashing her waves,
does the sea reinvent the desire to cry,
to wail, to shriek weeping at our feet
when at other times she sings us to sleep?
had i not known i could not swim
i would not have left the shore
with a broken umbrella and featherless wing.

leave now, bitter wind, silent and invasive beggar,
stretch your arm to the next horizon
and take with you this lingering hope yet to be born.
i abolish my slavery to the chains of this unknowing,
here by this sea, by this sky, everywhere,
this i declare.

What I like tonight

I like this:
The warm
Wood stove,
The red
Wine lips,
The long
Soggy night,
The burning
Hash spliff,
The sleeping
Black bears,
The melodic
Mali music,
The dirty
Dishes piled,
And the poetic
Solo sojourn.

Autumn

Welcome now
The ragged
Tattered wing
That is autumn.

We call it fall
Since all things
Fall into ruin,
Ain’t it true?

Or is it leaves
Falling, leaving
Their blueprint
For spring?

This season
Descends like swift
Swords, sometimes
Like solemn sighs.

Mostly it surprises
Because last month
Became this month
Just the other day
And I still have
Yet to properly
Prepare for it.

Ode to Ali Farka Toure

He was born on the back of a donkey
At the edge of the world.
As a child the snake hypnotized him
And taught him to sing the songs of spirits.
He held centuries of African memories
In his rice farmer’s hands.

What he accomplished in seven decades
Transcends time:
He caught the echo of enslaved Africans
From across the Atlantic
And turned them into a gift,
Reuniting a broken family.

His music is not his music.
It is the spirit of the Niger River,
The soul of the Sahel
And the shadow of the Sahara;
It is a djinn that sings in a dozen languages
As it asks you to lay down in the grass,
To let the serpent look into your eyes.

He was a Grammy-winning rice farmer
Who toured the world
Only to be content to be at home
Tending his crops
Upriver from Timbuktu.

What he did was for all people,
For all people.
When will we in the West understand
This basic guiding principle?

*a djinn is a spirit in West Africa. they inhabit all forces of nature: the wind, rivers, trees, rocks, etc. they can be either good or bad and they are thought to be responsible for the order of nature and human relations.

Ode to Toumani Diabate

When the wind
Passes
Its hands through
Trees and soft grass,
When the river
Slides
Through the rocks
Slapping the banks,
When a bird
Flaps
Its feathered wings
Through the air,
And when his fingers
Dance
Like a fisherman
Walking on water,
Then a certain
Beauty
Takes on a life of its own.

What he does
Is not done,
Rather
It is merely a heart of gold
That has found its way
Into sound.
He tells a secret
Revealed
Note by note,
He tells a story
Centuries old
Yet never told
In this way.

He makes wine of water
And intoxicates your ears,
Unveiling a polished gem
That the colonizers ignored,
Mistaking the Mande musicians
As handfuls of Sahel dust;
But really he and his kind
Are the hands that worked
The unforgiving land into the priceless
Mineral and bone that is Mali’s legacy:
Its music.