poems can't persuade someone to love you
or disavow the fear of loving you
poems can't calm the rages you indulge
or erase the bruises you regret
poems will not dry your eyes
won't even dry your laundry
they are poor friends
who need you more than you need them
but still
when you take them out to coffee
you will pay their way
and when you speak about them to your friends
be kind.
* revised: simpler
08 December 2010
01 December 2010
only if you must
I said I'd never practice art.
Art hurts more than love,
and Rilke's sympathetic curse
came bundled with a bypass clause
past pain and joy and
trials of the self,
to work and fuck and say your prayers
above two dinners after lunch,
if your eyes are big enough.
But love hurts and to fail in love
hurts most
because failure is, of course, an art.
25 November 2010
the question of what's left
"But in writing the story of his death Raymond Carver also wrote the story of his love. There is a poem about getting married, Tess [Gallagher] and Ray's Reno wedding, a wedding in that town of divorcees and gamblers,
as if we'd found an answer to
that question of what's left
when there's no more hope
"There is a poem which sets love explicitly against death:
Saying it then, against
what comes: wife, while I can, while my breath, each hurried petal
as if we'd found an answer to
that question of what's left
when there's no more hope
"There is a poem which sets love explicitly against death:
Saying it then, against
what comes: wife, while I can, while my breath, each hurried petal
can still find her
"And there are poems of farewell, of which at least one, 'No Need', is a great poem, of a perfection that makes me unwilling to quote. Read it. Read everything Raymond Carver wrote. His death is hard to accept, but at least he lived."
--Salman Rushdie, 1989
(mi) mi fa mi re do (v) la sol sol
(i) can't write no songs about cocaine
all i can think of is heartbreak
i'd get you back but it's too late
you found a guy who likes Tom Waits
(i'm) i'm getting scared but it's my pain
best i can I don't call your name
you won't know when i've gone away
you won't know i've hopped the freight train
cotton is nice when it don't rain, yeah (mi)
cotton is nice when it don't rain
wash it on hot and it won't stain, yeah
wash it on hot and it won't stain
(cuz) cotton is nice when it don't rain
holds up alright under such strain
don't be upset if the red fades
(cuz) cotton is nice when it don't rain
all i can think of is heartbreak
i'd get you back but it's too late
you found a guy who likes Tom Waits
(i'm) i'm getting scared but it's my pain
best i can I don't call your name
you won't know when i've gone away
you won't know i've hopped the freight train
cotton is nice when it don't rain, yeah (mi)
cotton is nice when it don't rain
wash it on hot and it won't stain, yeah
wash it on hot and it won't stain
(cuz) cotton is nice when it don't rain
holds up alright under such strain
don't be upset if the red fades
(cuz) cotton is nice when it don't rain
24 November 2010
till at last you know
the truth shall set
your bones to mend,
a wake-up call at 8;
the kettle on the boil,
examples for the boys.
your bones to mend,
a wake-up call at 8;
the kettle on the boil,
examples for the boys.
22 November 2010
Substitution
My likeness called across
the room, but you I didn't know.
In place of mine was someone's
mouth slow dancing you around.
I dreamed a tempest and
I woke and ran upon the sea, and
when the waves had fell away
remembered Nathalie.
I visited the birthplace of our love
but restless in the night I came
to where we almost died:
He found himself another man,
so eager to be true, he said
the things I liked to hear
but never spoke of you.
When it got cold, he bundled up
and waited by the door. He brags
about me to his friends as if
I were her whore.
the room, but you I didn't know.
In place of mine was someone's
mouth slow dancing you around.
I dreamed a tempest and
I woke and ran upon the sea, and
when the waves had fell away
remembered Nathalie.
I visited the birthplace of our love
but restless in the night I came
to where we almost died:
He found himself another man,
so eager to be true, he said
the things I liked to hear
but never spoke of you.
When it got cold, he bundled up
and waited by the door. He brags
about me to his friends as if
I were her whore.
20 November 2010
Partners
Max and Hiram, autumn
blooming flowers, not
lovers, but
yes, lovers. They played
draughts and bass guitars
and catch me if you can
with all the nurses half
their age, but
some three quarters.
blooming flowers, not
lovers, but
yes, lovers. They played
draughts and bass guitars
and catch me if you can
with all the nurses half
their age, but
some three quarters.
Shifting tongue
with no car of my own,
I rammed into her twisted front end
the moment of symbolic force,
to sort out which of us was
‘blind’: ire squealed in her patois,
provincial or parochial
—island talk—who cares which?
‘I’ve got two children in the car!’
as if a full house trumps a pair,
as if one’s honor is one’s haste,
as if the young must learn
to bark out insults in the streets.
Shifting into second tongue,
I met her halting screech,
the tired squeals of this absurd,
wee land,
where neighbors blow their horns
for different flags
and get to choose which signs to
disobey.
in my kitchen, I traced our paths again,
running over that woman
and her smug, myopic waste,
but now I wouldn’t swerve
from ‘I want to speak in my own voice.
I want to speak in my own voice.’
looking at you, I want to throw up
one finger
instead of two.
I rammed into her twisted front end
the moment of symbolic force,
to sort out which of us was
‘blind’: ire squealed in her patois,
provincial or parochial
—island talk—who cares which?
‘I’ve got two children in the car!’
as if a full house trumps a pair,
as if one’s honor is one’s haste,
as if the young must learn
to bark out insults in the streets.
Shifting into second tongue,
I met her halting screech,
the tired squeals of this absurd,
wee land,
where neighbors blow their horns
for different flags
and get to choose which signs to
disobey.
in my kitchen, I traced our paths again,
running over that woman
and her smug, myopic waste,
but now I wouldn’t swerve
from ‘I want to speak in my own voice.
I want to speak in my own voice.’
looking at you, I want to throw up
one finger
instead of two.
the bard of Unit G
on the other side the bard will grow a beard,
get fat and read the Frankfurt School.
he’ll pass out cold at nights,
and pass the weeks in waking dreams
that he might rescue those on Unit G:
tapping time,
pulling faces cross the mirror,
making life a dirty joke.
They cannot foot it out
because there are no other jobs,
no other ways to make a father proud.
get fat and read the Frankfurt School.
he’ll pass out cold at nights,
and pass the weeks in waking dreams
that he might rescue those on Unit G:
tapping time,
pulling faces cross the mirror,
making life a dirty joke.
They cannot foot it out
because there are no other jobs,
no other ways to make a father proud.
What poems can do
poems can't persuade someone to love you
or disavow them from the fear of loving you
poems can't calm the rages you indulge
or erase the guilt of those you still regret
poems will not dry your eyes
won't even dry your laundry
they are poor friends
who need you more than you need them,
but still
when you take them out to coffee,
you'll pay their way
and when you speak about them to your friends,
be kind.
or disavow them from the fear of loving you
poems can't calm the rages you indulge
or erase the guilt of those you still regret
poems will not dry your eyes
won't even dry your laundry
they are poor friends
who need you more than you need them,
but still
when you take them out to coffee,
you'll pay their way
and when you speak about them to your friends,
be kind.
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