"blank-verse sonnet..."

questions, indirect

too often i will question lives gone past;
i must begin to think of future days,
like: where upon the map my foot might fall,
what words might sprout once there i plant my feet,
what paper i might ink my life upon,
how, bound into the spine of open roads,
a freedom steers me out to quiet fields,
to sleep between the rooves of car and sky.
somehow i keep forgetting how it works:
there is no mystery left to the past,
there is no question marking its events.
it crosses state lines, leaves statements behind.
as roads are paved by chasing unpaved roads,
leaps landed by faith, books by reading writ,
so life remains...a forward, leading question.
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on the world

lately, i've been losing my grip on the world.
my feet are beginning to slip on the world.

Thales' head was bent to otherworldly things.
he fell to his death when he tripped on the world.

perhaps i haven't yet fallen to my doom
(though i've bled and broken my lip on the world)

beneath the moon i am walking Thales' path.
from here, that hole looks but a dip on the world.

the hole is a grave, the grave is a ladder.
i must wrestle and break my hip on the world.

i'll ransom an angel to gain God's good will.
i'll parley with a witty quip on the world.

every limping footstep is a passport stamp
i'm leaving my citizenship on the world.

i am walking, with words, through the path, through the hole
i'll leave a turn of phrase to flip on the world.

ghazal

poetry for you

i wanted to find new forms of poetry for you.
i traded in my prose for love poetry for you.

i looked inside the epics, i read between the lines.
i looked beneath prose and above poetry for you.

i saw you as an ark, carrying my flooded heart.
i stormed it with olive-and-dove-poetry for you.

i wear words like garments, you can read them down my sleeves.
and written down from wrist to glove: poetry for you.

i have pried at your heart, and saw it empty of me.
into its vacant parts i'll shove poetry for you.
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i never realized what a fine line there is between good and corny. i think this takes more than one step across it.

what am i doing trying to find rhymes to 'love'?

because they give me a sense of accomplishment...

the separable soul

if i knew how to separate my soul
i'd draw it out like poison from a wound
give up the ghost and catch it in a bowl
to tranquil rest, commit it on the moon
and in that silver body, in a grail
far from the earth and its forsaken cries
my life would fester there and never fail
immune to those who kill and that which dies
if, from the body's moribund decrees
i could conceal the dying of my death
and so exchange the language of disease
to gain a tranquil, trance-entangled breath
i'd shed the contradiction of your charms
and shuffle off your mortal coiling arms.

valentine's day offerings

i wrote something today, that i'm not actually all that fond of. i am posting it here in the comments section. it is a heptina, which i think i may have made up. i accidentally wrote seven lines for the first stanza of a sestina, and just decided to go with it. i had to crack the nearly indecipherable numerical pattern upon which the sestina is built, and change it -- a monumental and historic achievement, i'm sure you'll agree. anyways. that was what i wrote today. and like i said, i'm not entirely fond of the product. i need a break from poetry and go back to prose. it will be nice to say what i actually mean, and do so with emphasis. anyways. check the comments, if you're interested in the other stuff....

i would rather

i would rather you live forever
in the well-furnished mansion of my heart
than with me, here, today.
my apartment is small, and
it is a mess.
(there are things all over the floor)

Teach Me, Benvolio

(an english sonnet)

o teach me how i should forget to think
do more for me than liberate my eyes;
though roving, my eyes see her when they blink,
in blinking blooms the face of rosy lies.
give me something with which to replace her,
a potion with which i could cast her off;
ever if my eyes again do face her
my abled mind her image yet could doff.
show me something lovely in a new face,
in the dawn of some new mistress's eyes;
give me the sun, if moon cannot keep pace
or an enemy, if you think it wise.
so let us crush a cup of wine, and drink
and there perhaps i'll learn to forget to think.

re: January 15th

started it then; picked it back up today.
unflattering to all parties involved.

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i love you, Moonlike
vain, tidal, turning new
best when you are full
you reflect better light
than i have thought to cast
but that is a lonely
day every month...

is it fair
to love you only full,
to love you
less when
you pull me
less,
less when your
head is turning?

i love you, Waterlike...
moving in your dancing-mirror-likeness
best when your lips roll in to kiss boat's prow
i would westward sail you
forever together under
the never-setting sun
if daily you did not
snuff out suns and sailors alike

is it fair
to love you
only as you lift me?
...to love you less
when you are
restless,
less when
you are
drowning...?

i love you moonlike; i love you waterlike.

everything new is old again

in space there is a galaxy (i forget where), shrouded in its own cosmic breath that is humming the Music of Its Own Spheres.

the new men like to say that there is no sound in space; that, in space, no one can here you scream.

but there, in its own sphere with its own cosmic breath, mathematically, undeniably, there is a singing galaxy, perhaps from which we were all exhaled and to which we are all headed one day to be consumed in its fiery musical ether....

and it makes you wonder if there wasn't something to
that story about Xibalba and Greek musical clockworks and a Christian heavenfull of voices singing one song in a living, breathing galaxy, sharing the nebulous breath of a living, breathing God.

i've written...

i've written some of my worst poetry by moonlight.

i am building

i am building
my future
one
word
at
a
time

Happy Candlemas....

...or is that tomorrow? and i used to be so up on my pagan-turned-christian holidays.

catching up on e-mail today, hopefully. and making sauce.

if i can see your name in my list of frequent contacts, expect a letter soon. if i can't see your name, you should e-mail me more.

and if i can see your last name to the right of my front door, you will be getting the best sauce of your lives.

thanks, Tunte, for the blender.

love,

Wayward Nephew