Where I Go on Wednesday Night

Mark Anderson is my second cousin and a hardworking Spokane poet guy. (Mark and I are both 23rd great-grandsons of Chaucer, by the way. Someday maybe we’ll collaborate on The Spokane-turbury Tales.) The guy in the wheelchair is Travis Naught, another Spokane poet phenomenon, whose book I blurbed and with whom I did a reading recently. The author of the article is the father of a four-year-old boy who has the hots for my four-year-old daughter. (Keeping my eye on you, son.) “Intentional facial hair” is a fine turn of phrase.

Speaking of Gioia(s)

Naught ‘n’ Pot

Y’all are invited to a poetry readin’:

Σίμων ὁ μάγος

 

The fisherman-wizard spit-sprayed a bit
When he growled, ‘Grace is free, if you pray for it.
Damn your dough!’ Not too nice!
But there must be a price,
And as hell is my witness, I’ll pay for it.

Tulips for Elsie

The day before you died I thought I’d bring
You tulips for your bedside table, bright
Ones, pink and white, to give your gaze a place
To rest, to make your labor seem less harsh.
I told my daughter so, my four-year-old
Who’d told me I should visit you, who’d hinted:
Your work, this dying business you were in,
Was making worldly things seem flimsy, thin.
The day moved on and tulips left my mind, though,
Until I thought of you again, too late,
The night descending, bringing sleep’s regrets.
The morning came and with its obligations
Distracting me, I let my dream of tulip
Fields plow under and turned to hear the news.

God Has Pity on Kindergarten Children

God has pity on kindergarten children.
He has less pity on school children.
And on grownups he has no pity at all,
he leaves them alone,
and sometimes they must crawl on all fours
in the burning sand
to reach the first-aid station
covered with blood.

But perhaps he will watch over true lovers
and have mercy on them and shelter them
like a tree over the old man
sleeping on a public bench.

Perhaps we too will give them
the last rare coins of compassion
that Mother handed down to us,
so that their happiness will protect us
now and in other days.

Yehuda Amichai

Finding Our Pensione on the Thirteenth Floor

The thirteenth floor does not exist, but here
We are. The elevator door won’t budge
And we are stuck inside with luggage piled
High. But when I turn around I see,
Beyond your giant suitcase and bright eyes,
Another door that opens towards a room
With Roman bed and blanket hemmed in lace
Waiting for us to lie down and embrace.
So I stop ringing the alarm and out
We step, your lovely brown and glad eyes laughing,
Mine blinking at equations my whole life
I’ve stumbled on, love the happy prime,
[You the prize beyond all superstition],
And thirteen years like days in Italy.

Holy Saturday: First Draft


There’s a rumor that runs down here under the barrow -
the mound that marks the spot in all our lives
when we stopped getting chances, stopped making choices
when the loudspeaker spoke and we all lost our voices
no more succoring widows or cheating on wives.
But the rumor doesn’t really run, it flies, swift as any arrow

Flies, or rather darts, or flits, more like a sparrow
I guess, the sort of thing that needs to fly
to stay alive, one wing’s beat ahead of the whip -
the slavedriver’s friend, with despair at the tip.
And they never quite catch it, however they try
As it pierces through joint and slips into marrow

And nestles there, although the space is narrow.
You know how rumors are; it’s hard to stop the ear
No matter how outlandish is the news they sing
And this one’s so outlandish that the whip has lost its sting
For it’s the sweetest song we ever hoped to hear:
It says a lockpick’s come, and his heart is set to harrow.

Dominican haiku

For IC and Imelda Jean, O.P.

Deep in forest of
High shelves, ripe with old knowledge –
Yellowed leaves’ perfume.