“And those who come together in the nights and are entwined in rocking delight perform a solemn task and gather sweetness, depth, and strength for the song of some future poet, who will appear in order to say ecstasies that are unsayable”~~Rainier Maria Rilke, translated by Stephen Mitchell

“Where the wolf roams, the plough shall glisten; on the gray crag shall rise temple and tower—mighty deeds shall be done in the now pathless wilderness; and poets yet unborn shall sanctify the soil”                                                        —-Thomas Cole, “Essay on American Scenery,” 1836.

“I will name wilderness the castle which you were,
Night your voice, absence your face,
And when you fall back into sterile earth
I will name nothingness the lightning which bore you.”

From “True Name” by Yves Bonnefoy, trans. by Galway Kinnell

“And therefore this paradox, lodged in the heart of the poem: to posit the reality of this world, and then to cross into it, even as you find yourself barred at all its gates.  The poet as solitary wanderer, as man in the crowd, as faceless scribe.  Poetry as an art of loneliness.”                                                                       —— Paul Auster, from his essay, The Decisive Moment.

Dans ce pays la foudre fait germer la pierre

—Jacques Dupin, from “Le Règne Minèral”

Breathe, utter something 

soft and sweet between your lips, 

a prayer to this.

This is an ekphrastic poem, inspired by a painting by Jeremy Geddes.  If you aren’t familiar with his work, you should check it out here:http://jeremygeddesart.blogspot.com/search?updated-max=2008-08-15T10%3A42%3A00%2B10%3A00&max-results=20

Head drooped,

nuzzled into his turtleneck,

the old man grieves;

lips quivering,

wearing a raven’s silhouette

for a scarf,

he says farewell

to the lighthouse,

knowing 

its light is always scanning,

always turning, 

never stopping,

not even 

to linger an extra moment

as if to say

goodbye.

To start anew 

be falling falling 

on a drop 

of rain, and 

like a dream, 

wake before the ground hits.

To live anew, 

be rising rising 

on a plume

of smoke from 

memory bonfires; 

use your own as kindling.

Wake in a bed

that’s new 

Stare at a ceiling

that’s new 

Be next to a woman

that’s new 

And forget, that all of this

is new.

The branches wave goodbye

as you walk down

the road of where you are,

not where you’ve been.

And I’ve never turned

to kiss

the rising wind;

no, I’ve never turned to kiss

the rising wind.

You know the sun has sent

a shade to walk the road 

with you,

but a shadow never talks 

or hums old tunes.

And if I could 

I’d walk 

the road with you;

yeah, if I could I’d walk

the road with you.

Baby, don’t forget that old

image of

us when we stood by 

the lake in June—

not even if the sunset

wipes your vision clean, 

not even if the sunset 

wipes you clean.

‘Cause I’ve never turned

to kiss

the rising wind;

no, I’ve never turned to kiss

the rising wind.

She told the tattoo artist that she wanted a crescent moon on her right shoulder.  He asked if it should be realistic.  On a whim, she said yes.

Her arm hurt, but she liked how the tattoo turned out.  She liked the feeling of being a girl with a tattoo, and looked forward to wearing tank tops so that other people would notice and be impressed by her casual acknowledgement of the ink on her skin.

That night, she woke up to moonlight.  It creeped out from underneath her sheets and gleamed beneath the clear, protective cover on her arm.  Realistic, the tattoo man had said.  She realized now what he meant.  A crescent moon on her shoulder bathed the room in silver.  She rose and went to the window to find the stars without their usual companion.  It seemed that the Moon was now her Moon.

Recently, a man told her that her eyes shone like the Moon, but she left him, so she didn’t have anyone to make that comparison anymore.  That’s why she got the tattoo—to remind herself that even without someone else telling her, she could still be beautiful.  Of course, she didn’t expect to actually become the Moon, but life is funny like that.

She spent hours examining the Moon on her shoulder; her view was better now than with any telescope.  Every crater, every maria grew as familiar as a freckle or scar.  The light from her arm dimmed as the sun rose and she finally fell back asleep.

As the month went on, she realized the Moon still followed its old phases and her arm changed its appearance accordingly.  People didn’t seem to notice this, which made her disappointed.  She still wanted to be asked—still wanted to respond by casually shrugging and saying, “Oh that?  It just happens.”  But no one ever asked.

When the Moon waxed full, she put on a jacket and went out to a bar.  Tonight, she was the Moon.  Tonight, everything artists had ever written about the Moon’s feminine mystique or its status as a goddess of the night flowed through her.  Tonight, when the man who had been allowed to follow her home walked into her bedroom, she glowed like the Moon every painter had ever put on canvas.  She was Luna and she was magnificent, laying naked on top of the sheets waiting for him to be struck speechless by her beauty.

But he didn’t move to take off his shirt nor did he begin to unzip his jeans.  He panicked; removed from the sky, the moonlight surrounding her seemed to him unnatural.  Some kind of internal Geiger counter screamed warning clicks into his ear, as if radiation would leap from her body to his—he didn’t recognize the glow of moonlight.  He left and refused to touch her.

She was outraged.  At first she was angry at the man for refusing her, for she had inspired mankind for millennia, lighting their way through the darkness.  How dare he disgrace her like that!  But then she became angry at the Moon for making her untouchable.  The stars buzzed and swarmed outside her window, trying to reclaim their companion.  She clawed at her shoulder to pluck the Moon out, to give it back, but this was useless.  The blood dripped onto the floor; it would leave a permanent stain, like ink on skin.