Whatever’s here is just here.

Burial Rites
by Philip Levine

Everyone comes back here to die
as I will soon. The place feels right
since it’s half dead to begin with.
Even on a rare morning of rain,
like this morning, with the low sky
hoarding its riches except for
a few mock tears, the hard ground
accepts nothing. Six years ago
I buried my mother’s ashes
beside a young lilac that’s now
taller than I, and stuck the stub
of a rosebush into her dirt,
where like everything else not
human it thrives. The small blossoms
never unfurl; whatever they know
they keep to themselves until
a morning rain or a night wind
pares the petals down to nothing.
Even the neighbor cat who shits
daily on the paths and then hides
deep in the jungle of the weeds
refuses to purr. Whatever’s here
is just here, and nowhere else,
so it’s right to end up beside
the woman who bore me, to shovel
into the dirt whatever’s left
and leave only a name for some-
one who wants it. Think of it,
my name, no longer a portion
of me, no longer inflated
or bruised, no longer stewing
in a rich compost of memory
or the simpler one of bone shards,
dirt, kitty litter, wood ashes,
the roots of the eucalyptus
I planted in ’73,
a tiny me taking nothing,
giving nothing, and free at last.

that dirt we call earth

Grabbed this off of larabee's and liza site. Starts outs so simply, grows quietly luminous by the end.

The Simple Truth (by Philip Levine)

I bought a dollar and a half's worth of small red potatoes,
took them home, boiled them in their jackets
and ate them for dinner with a little butter and salt.
Then I walked through the dried fields
on the edge of town. In middle June the light
hung on in the dark furrows at my feet,
and in the mountain oaks overhead the birds
were gathering for the night, the jays and mockers
squawking back and forth, the finches still darting
into the dusty light. The woman who sold me
the potatoes was from Poland; she was someone
out of my childhood in a pink spangled sweater and sunglasses
praising the perfection of all her fruits and vegetables
at the road-side stand and urging me to taste
even the pale, raw sweet corn trucked all the way,
she swore, from New Jersey. "Eat, eat" she said,
"Even if you don't I'll say you did."
Some things
you know all your life. They are so simple and true
they must be said without elegance, meter and rhyme,
they must be laid on the table beside the salt shaker,
the glass of water, the absence of light gathering
in the shadows of picture frames, they must be
naked and alone, they must stand for themselves.
My friend Henri and I arrived at this together in 1965
before I went away, before he began to kill himself,
and the two of us to betray our love. Can you taste
what I'm saying? It is onions or potatoes, a pinch
of simple salt, the wealth of melting butter, it is obvious,
it stays in the back of your throat like a truth
you never uttered because the time was always wrong,
it stays there for the rest of your life, unspoken,
made of that dirt we call earth, the metal we call salt,
in a form we have no words for, and you live on it.

The World As It Is

Artsparker has a gift for connections: verbal, visual, artistic, personal. She pointed me toward a startlingly lovely poem at the Larabee and Liza site a couple days back to read Carolyn Miller's poem, copied below. There are "no ladders, no descending angels" in my worldview, so it had some resonance with me, in particular the comfort found in sideways Orion, trembling Venus, firefly Jupiter. Or, to use John Prine's more plain language, "to believe in this living is just a hard way to go."

The World as It is

No ladders, no descending angels, no voice
out of the whirlwind, no rending
of the veil, or chariot in the sky—only
water rising and falling in breathing springs
and seeping up through limestone, aquifers filling
and flowing over, russet stands of prairie grass
and dark pupils of black-eyed Susans. Only
the fixed and wandering stars: Orion rising sideways,
Jupiter traversing the southwest like a great firefly,
Venus trembling and faceted in the west—and the moon,
appearing suddenly over your shoulder, brimming
and ovoid, ripe with light, lifting slowly, deliberately,
wobbling slightly, while far below, the faithful sea
rises up and follows.

-Carolyn Miller

Thank you Susan. Thank you Laura. Thank you Carolyn.

Tree of Hands

No idea where this poem came from, or what it means. It popped into my head nearly fully formed. But thanks, Mona, for the win and lose poetry theme for the week.

my daughter lost a jagged tooth
last night
and instead of under the pillow
it went into the garden
planted as a seed.
it grew into a tree of hands
by morning
fingers grasping at our clothes
as we brushed past
nails bitten and ragged
pearls of blood
beading at the tips.

Twofer

I've been absent from Mona's most excellent poetry Fridays for a spell, so here's one that combines two recent words: "library" and "hear."



3 a.m. drunk
stumbling home from the midtown Blarney Stone
tiptoeing past the stone lions
guarding the 42nd street library
I heard one of them whisper -hey you, kid-
-yeah- I answered and he growled
-you overromanticize this drinking you know
all that hemmingway and kerouac
all that faulkner and joyce
you oughtta get yourself some religion
a litle flannery
a little melville
hawthorne, emerson, mccarthy
those guys'd do you some good-
he stopped talking, threw me a marbled stare
challenging me
-they were just drunk on religion- I slurred
and the lion stared me down one last time before purring
-everyboby's drunk on something-
he tossed his mane victoriously
before retreating back to stony silence
and I tottered to the subway
pinballing down the long dark stairs
to fall onto a bench
await the lumbering Brooklyn bound G train
and begin the long ride home

She Dives

I wrote this poem in my head yesterday while watching my daughter jump off the diving board for the first time.

I realize in retrospect it is actually a poem about going back to school.

---

My daughter at the edge of the diving board
points not straight ahead, nor toward the closest wall
but directly at me, like an arrow, a pointed finger
my position clearly marked in her mind: you are here.

She dives.

Her world is consumed by the jump, the splash,
her swim to the wall to begin it all again.
I am pinned to the freefall itself
caught in the eternal split second
when she is airborne, fully beyond my grasp.

Purgatory

Mona, of the Barbaric Yawp, tells us yet again that the word of the week is Deja vu.


this all seems so familiar, she thinks to herself
looking across the expanse of just mopped hardwood floor
the curtain wrestling lazily with the breeze
the cat flicking her tail in and out of a shaft of sun
the note placed neatly on the kitchen table

she actually speaks it aloud: so familiar, she says
before kicking the chair out from under her feet
the startled cat bolts from the room
the note glides gently to the spotless floor
the curtain dances on, oblivious

Dry as a Bone

Mona, channeling Irrelephant, summons the poetic troops with the Friday word of the week: rain.



my dad and I are drinking beer
watching the storm clouds tumbling like clowns
over the sangre de cristos

between us and the mountain peaks
shimmers a thin blue quilt of rain
falling halfway down the sky and disappearing
in wisps as fragile as ghosts
above the bone white valley floor

it's called virga, he tells me
when the rain does that
evaporating on the way down
it never reaches the field

I say, too hot for rain these days
dry as dust, he agrees

the last few swallows of beer are warm
the glass already dry to the touch
the hot wind blows in our faces
the distant thunder rolls

Silly Dance

Because Mona asked.



And a poem:

Don't glance
askance
as we dance
and prance
with ants
in our fancy
pants!

I didn't say it was a good poem.

Negative

The fevered fist of Friday poetry sez "negative," and we obey.


the doctor is talking
his words like rain on a tin roof
a comforting meaningless patter
the spot on the x ray
a hazy bright cloud in a threatening sky

this negative is a reversal of life, of course
for dark clouds loom in her blue summer skies
and she sighs upward in her hospital bed
leans toward the door aperch her elbows
and ponders what to tell her family

Falling Away

The tight fist of Friday poetry informs us our word is "away."

he would prefer
to let the small day fall away
squander it on notions and frittering doodles
but the world has other plans
soccer games and casseroles
liquor stores and code

the days fall away all too readily
years fall away lives fall away
he knows this
knows the autumn wind whistling through the garden leaves
the stark trees seen through the limbs of the moon

the world knows this too
smiling like a patronizing parent
whisking him out of the door
and into the shining day

there are things to attend to

Lik-M-Aid

The Priestess of Poetry tells us today's word is "lick."


A hot sugar sun hangs burning
in a beetle red Lik-M-Aid sky
and you feel the rush
in your tongue and your skin and your brain
and the sober besuited adults who make the stuff
give you a little sugar stick to dip and lick
so your fingers don't get sticky and stained
but they don't understand
that sticky and stained is the best part
so you gobble the sugar stick down
and promptly forget about it
as you pour the powder in a pile
and stick your fingers in
and pull em out and lick em
and stick em in and pull em out
and lick em again
til your fingers and lips and tongue
are red and wet and sticky
and you look like a wide-mouthed clown
like a brain-hungry zombie
like a badly lipsticked society maiden
and you don't care
cuz your brain is buzzing
and your blood is bubbling
and all you want is moremoreMORE
as you dip and lick your way
to the fizzy center
of that hot white sugar sun

Midway

A belated Valentine poem, for the lil Hucky. Again, to the Benevolent Overlord of Poetry Friday, we say thank you. We're not worthy!

Today's word is "time."

In the span of seconds
it took to kiss you
that first time
I heard the murmur and rustle
of our pasts, queuing up patiently
for our tilt-a-whirl future
our hopes lifted improbably aloft
like spinning plates balanced
on finger thin poles

birthday

Mona, the benevolent Overlord of poetry Friday, tells us the word of the day is "birthday." Make it so.

three guttering candles tilt drunkenly on the uncut cake
torn wrapping paper swirls like autumn leaves
balloons float as ghosts

the birthday girl runs in circles
around the toy-strewn room
laughing wildly
her crying little sister the center of her orbit

mom's orbit is straying these days
from its well established paths
as she retreats to the bathroom
and locks the door
for the rest of the afternoon

No (pause).

"No" is the Friday word of the day, thanks to Mona. And to Maggie, who pointed me toward last week's word. Some of this is straight reportage, from conversations overheard on the baby monitor.

Are you sleepin?
No.
(pause)
What’re you thinkin?
About Other Mommy.
What about Other Mommy?
Where she is.
Where?
In the Other House. She lives there.
Can we go there?
Yes.
Will you take me there?
No.
Why?
We live here now.
(pause)
Can we go there tomorrow?
Yes.
Where Other Mommy is?
Yes.
(pause)
Where is Other Mommy?
Across the ocean. She lives there.
Where the war is?
Yes.
Can you see her?
No.
Is she in a hole?
No.
Can we go there?
Yes.
Will you take me there?
No.
Why?
We live here now.
(pause)
Will you take me tomorrow?
Yes.
When?
Tomorrow.
To Other Mommy?
Yes.
(pause)
Where is Other Mommy?
In a hole.
She’s in a hole?
Yes. She lives there.
She lives in the hole?
Yes.
Can she talk to us?
Yes.
What will she tell us?
It’s time to go to sleep.
(pause)
Okay.
(pause)
Are you sleepin?
No.
(pause)
Is that other man with Mommy?
No. He’s gone.
Is he in the hole?
Yes.
In the Other House?
Yes.
In a hole in the Other House?
Yes.
With Other Mommy?
Yes.
Can he talk to us?
Yes.
What will he tell us?
It’s time to go to sleep.
(pause)
Okay.
(pause)
Are you sleepin?
No.
(pause)
Is it time to go to sleep?
Yes.
I’m going to sleep now.
(pause)
Okay?
(pause)
Are you sleepin?
No.

Drink

It's poetry Friday, sez Maggie, over at Mind Moss. Sounds like fun. Today's word is juice.

It’s cold out
I awake tired and cranky
Impatient for coffee
I watch her rip into the new day
As if into a summer orange
Juice glistening on her fingers
Running in bright rivulets down her cheeks