POETRY

HEART Some sell their blood. You will sell the heart. Either that or the soul. The hard part is to pull out the damn thing. A kind of spiral movement, like an oyster shell, your spine a pulse, and then, hey presto! It is in your mouth. Nearly you put yourself in turmoil, like un’attinia ejecting a stone. There is …

ROSE FLOWER Rose flower, body like honey. He rose garden, hair like night, hold the white snow of her swollen breasts. It brings snow, outside the door of snow two glasses of wine covered with white snow. Window of snow, in the window of white snow two valleys rose flaming, or two candles flaming two candles burning burning himself, to …

FROM A NOTEBOOK The whiteness near and far. The cold, the hush. A first word stops the blizzard, steps out into fresh candor. You ask no more. Each never taken stride leads onward, though in circles ever smaller, smaller. The vertigo upholds you. And now to glide, across the frozen pond, steelshod, to chase its dreamless oval, with loop and …

POETRY IS A BOMB ATTACK CELESTIAL I’m absent, but the bottom of this there is no expectation of myself, and this expectation is another form of presence, waiting for my return. I live in the other objects, giving a little trip of my life in certain trees and certain stones, which I have waited many years. They are tired of …

I WANT TO GO BACK I want to go back the ancient sweetness crying alone. So I said to her not to separate us. (Takuboku Ishikawa) http://www.amazon.com/Knowing-Oneself-Too-Well-Selected/dp/061534562X/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

DREAMS As he slept badly, he woke with anger for wanting to redo the loss. Loss of what? He was not sure. At his age, hardly love, perhaps a spasm. A narrow dense core, no more, He assured himself, breathing on his own in the dark. Why then he watched the door as if someone had come, and then walked …

IN THE DESERT OF SOLITUDE Even in the desert of this solitude, sparkle still images drawn from your words. And in the dust and ashes of the distance, still flourish jasmine and rose dell’esserti close. Right here salt the warmth of your breath, warmed by its own scent, gently, gently. And there beyond the horizon spark, drop by drop hesitant, …

THIS TRIP   I do not know how many dreams ago began this journey, the shore of the sun, the shore of death. Like a veil sinks back into memory, apprentice of exile. Oh mirror, moon ominous. From which mountain will ask the way to the waters, the shore of the sun, the shore of death. The time has stopped, …

BETWEEN THE BATTLES AGAINST MYSELF What are my work, type of weapon and fight change, one of us always wins, usually is the other. There is a dead time, punctuated forage coitus drug talk: life. It’s too long, the wounds are closed too quickly. (Heiner Müller) http://www.amazon.com/Heiner-Muller-Reader-Plays-Poetry/dp/0801865786      

THAW   When we brought you home in a taxi, through the steel-grey thaw, after the coldest week in memory – even the river sealed itself – it was I, hardly breathing, who came through the passage to our yard, welcoming our simplest things: a chopping block, the frost-split lintels; and though it meant a journey through darkening snow, arms …