Over the past few years, I've written quite a lot of poetry. Here are a few selections. Most of them (but not all) were originally published in the Haverford Review
A snake bit him and he fell down, dead
almost like a shock
or a jolt of cold air—
only burning and hot
and the stinging wholeness of it,
that's both him and me, brother.
And he falls onto the forest floor
onto the wet leaves and dry dirt,
the red slithering leaving him
as though we were newly-separable.
Past the sullen boughs and the whispering
groundplants, the trees grow huge
like sky-scrapers, only we don't notice
because he is dead
and we are alone in the woods,
watching his body
and shivering. The roots plunge
beneath us and carry their messages
while we are so entrenched within our
selves, hidden by the shadow of his death,
that we miss them,
we see the snake leave
and watch the end of it
long and sinuous—
never-ending in the dusk
turned to night.
In the back of the room
(in the back of the room),
in the littlest corner
(where the writing desk sits),
there's the tiniest crack
like a faint vein of gold,
or an infinitesimal
letterbox:
it doesn't bear notice
(it will not be noticed).
Yet should it be noticed
(should it be noticed?),
should its paint flakes peel away
(like so many dead leaves),
then the writing-desk key
pulled from the warped drawer
might fit like an orange
returned at last to its peel:
and it might turn
(it might at least turn).
Here the opening door
(in the back of the room)
might swing widely whole
(a maw gaping broadly)
and in the littlest corner
(in the back of the room)
something might be discovered
(something could be unearthed)
and it might point the way
(yes, it would show a way).
Drinking from the well atop the crag
Says, There're these Japanese monks,
Buddhists maybe, ascetics,
and they mummify themselves alive.
They meditate and eat only roots and seeds,
they poison their bodies to such an extent
that when they die,
their bodies don't rot, they only desiccate
in the darkness of their cells.
Her voice like scented oil. Draws a breath,
Says, Years later, they're disentombed,
and most of them fail: their flesh has rotted,
their bodies have been decayed. Some, though,
the devout, are deified.
All that remains of them has been preserved:
their bodies are testament to their effort.
She sighs, and we move, quietly;
the cushions crinkle and whistle.
Closes her eyes tightly, and says,
Where does the perseverance begin?
How do you choose to destroy yourself?
Dollar's Time / Not Quite Right / Timothy and the Clocks†
When he was seventeen and the clocks started moving again,
batteries a dollar from the fifteen-minute walk into town
and the glass door swinging open to air-conditioned bliss,
Timothy found out he'd been ten minutes late all his life.
The clocks oriented themselves to the black-banded watch he'd borrowed
from the old gas station operator, whose worn eyes with their crinkles
and their sloughing, slack skin
spoke of better days, once, for automobiles and for Daton.
And Timothy plugged the batteries into those clocks,
with their old-fashioned alarm bells
and the gold trim that had mostly faded to cheap plastic,
their hands ticking that slow tune of time,
and Tim, he heard the house, swirling with dust mites,
each reflecting the sun back into his eyes,
he heard it echoing those ticks, and time, it spoke back to him.
And the clocks caught up all that lost time, they clattered
through the last seventeen years, a year a minute,
and Timothy thought he could hear them as they went,
a clock beating through his chest, out of the room
and into the cabinets, wood grains vibrating aggressively,
until at the last they all faded into past,
and all he could hear were clocks,
exhumed from inside of him, from the depths of the house,
ticking ten minutes slow, and Timothy moved the arms forward.
† Yeah, so what? This poem has three titles.
Hunting‡
Hsk hsk,
dream the sailors,
asleep on their trip down the coast.
Cush cush,
sing these whalers,
although they've got little to boast,
as they cut through the seas
holding their wheel with their knees,
and their eyes swinging off towards their host.
And he,
with a laugh and a smile,
stands atop the main deck at ready.
At ease,
spot the sailors an isle,
and they whoop and they hold the wheel steady,
as they pull in their sails,
and they look out for whales,
which they envision in each wave and eddy.
At long
comes the flip of a tail,
and the sallow long swath of a creature.
A song,
then they're hot on its trail,
using past experience as teacher,
as they ready a harpoon,
and they pray for a boon,
and they watch for that unmistakable feature.
And then,
what a sound, what a growl,
as ambitions are pulled from the throngs.
Strange men,
all in orange, on prowl,
have been searching to halt all such wrongs,
as they circle for whaling,
on a save-the-whales sailing,
saying, "No mammal to any man belongs."
And hurrah! shout these soldiers,
slapping at each others' shoulders,
and they herald their success with such songs.
‡ There are some mixed feelings about this poem.
Inna and the Baba Yaga (a series of haiku)
I
Snow fell heavily
on the macabre parade as
it wound through the graves.
A mother had been
lost–a father's loving wife.
The sun fled the scene.
The poor young daughter:
her father re-married soon,
to an icy wife.
From her evil womb
had sprung a thorn child, wretched,
thieving; a fey thing.
Our poor heroine
was cast aside from loved pa,
sent to grand-mother's.
Inna walked along
the sun path by blooming trees;
went through the forest
to the house of her
arch-step-mother's grandmother,
the Baba Yaga.
II
The house stood alone
in the clear filtered sunlight;
'top a bony foot.
Leaves fell as she watched;
the house turned in slow circles.
Finally, she spoke:
"Turn your back to the
forest; turn your front to me."
The chicken leg turned.
The house settled down.
The daughter entered slowly,
leaving cold winter.
Inside lay Yaga,
Baba Yaga bony leg,
her eyes wide open.
The old witch rested
atop the stove; her long nose
scraped the cold ashes;
her breasts hung from the
rafters. She stretched from corner
to corner, breathing.
"Why do you bring the
Russian scent, after so long?"
she asked, horribly:
her breath stunk of rot
and snow. Inna said nothing;
the witch was not pleased.
Baba Yaga sent
her to the back room as snow
piled around the house.
The chicken leg moved
and the house trudged through the snow.
She worked for Yaga.
Inna sewed and washed,
cleaning the warm clothing, her
eyes wide and afraid.
III
The days passed slowly,
and one day the young Inna
ate in a corner.
Now, as Inna ate
a mouse edged onto the floor.
Inna offered food.
The brown mouse thanked her
and Inna began to cry.
"I am dead," she said,
"Yaga will never
let me leave and return home."
The fire burned brightly.
"Do what I say to,"
said the mouse to her slowly,
"and you will be free.
But once you are free,"
the brown mouse said to Inna,
"leave your step-mother."
The small mouse whispered,
"Take Yaga's new-washed kerchief,
and place it on her
closed eyes as she sleeps.
She will sleep deeply and long.
As the snow comes down,
oil the door's hinges,
so that it will be content.
As the moon rises,
give the cat her milk,
and bathe the beasts of the woods.
As the windows freeze,
hide the dog's good bones,
so that he will leave the house.
As the night grows long,
steal from Yaga's pouch
its contents—you will know when
their use is needed."
IV
At last Yaga slept,
and Inna drew the white cloth
over bulbous eyes.
Inna washed the beasts,
and as she passed, she oiled the
hinges of the door.
Inna poured fresh milk
for the white cat, quietly,
and warmed it by flame.
Our heroine took
the dog's bones, and hid them all
in different rooms.
The dog buried them
one at a time, and Inna
took the rowan wand
from Yaga's pocket,
and the small bag beneath it,
shivering from cold.
Yaga's breath shone white
as Inna stole to the door;
its oiled frame quiet.
V
Inna stole through pines,
but Baba Yaga wakened.
Furious, she sniffed
the white frigid air.
"Where has she hidden herself?"
she asked the white cat.
"She gave me warm milk,"
said the cat, and fell asleep.
Yaga growled low.
Her witch nose twitched up.
"Why did you not stop the wench?"
she asked the old door.
"She oiled my hinges,"
said the door, and closed its eyes.
Yaga raged loudly.
She opened the door.
"Dog, chase after the young girl,"
she called to the night,
but the black dog was
busy chewing on its bones,
and did not answer.
Her eyelids flickered.
"Rend the little girl apart,"
she called to the beasts,
"She gave us all baths,"
said the beasts, hiding themselves
in the snow and trees.
Baba Yaga roared,
and she leapt out of the door,
into the forest.
She called to her steed,
and it came: a dark mortar,
in which Yaga sat,
and she drove herself
with long strokes from a pestle,
swept away her trail.
When Inna saw her,
she tossed the wand behind her,
and a thicket formed.
The day grew warmer;
birds chirped in the now-clear air.
Inna returned home.
Her pa welcomed her;
and with the gold from Yaga,
she moved to a town.
VI
Birds flit through the trees
singing of woeful Yaga.
The sun sets beyond.