F O R G E S

May 1, 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

There ought better be a beacon
on a pacific coast cliff could be
where hope’s light works with sea horn
where a night light works without warning
It forces & forges  the blackest  fog & forests
There can be a candle
in a window with enough heat
to fire the hearth
to light one lone solitary stone room
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(from 2010)
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.”Writing is nothing more than a guided dream” -Jorge Luis Borges

 

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Should I get older

I recognize me,  more blind,

Crinking my neck back, there, as

I look up at the cliff terrace

And at a windowed hideaway behind,

It’s not so unapproachably high,

Fixed over our Pacific, finally,

That we thought might couldn’t be.

Hard rain, hell, wept down  a wet

That mixes well w/regret, on my shirt

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One can look past all our four shoulders

From inside the glass wall,

(We sat back in our Adirondacks)

And maybe just make out

What we’re watching and talking about.

A man closely following his own footsteps

The long stretch of the shore,

But looked up at the both of us,

Hand in hand, and how then the heavens poured.

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.                                                           (from 2010)

In Nightstreams;

Characters cast into indecipherable scripts

All are strangers

To stare at, to starve for,

More, to promptly forget.

And Daydreams;

Live characters I’ve cared fiercely for

Live  too far enough I know  away in shadows

To re know/ to re love/ to re have

In this half life

It started with you and I hurrying to catch a just waiting old bus. We’re loaded with bags & bundles. The archaic bus starts to move away then stops for us. We step up, an older unlikely looking driver, a short, shaggy grey haired woman in a smock-like shift is standing, away from the wheel, welcomes us. There’s room for us to sit on opposite sides of somehow open area in the center of this crowded bus. We let down our loads. The woman behind the seat i drape my coat on become obviously relieved when I re-drape it so it doesn’t drape into her space.

The train/bus moves and mainly flushed imagery outside the windows move by and demand my attention away from your smile & nod across the way/ you’re in a place just off the windowed panorama./ Soon I call over, “Look Dear, the city we love”/ & cimematically the chiaroscuro  of the lit skyline curves away.

Our clothes change to the clothes of a past time; cloth heavier, less well-fit, colors wrong./ Our bodies change./To strangers./ But we readily accept this subtle, bizarre shift. Images still slide by outside. After some time they stop. Our kindly driver is walking us up into an old shop of  older clothes. I undress completely to re-change, but the new clothes are newly ill-fitting. It seems that the proprietor of the place that it seems we’ve broken into is coming too quick so we rush to re-dress back into our less awkward costume. As odd, new bodies in old attire, we rush again back to our bus/train.

I’ve got a POV shot  to where you’re outside on a corner, and I’m inside without a word./ You’re queen-waving with a warmly resigned smile and I’m waving all the while./ Movement ramps up immensely./Leaning into windsweep/ Up on the front boat lip/ The oldest woman driver nods and calls over it all, something like (somehow) “Leap forth now!”

I swim in strong strokes. the waves are steady & uniform too.

I’m standing dressed but still looking like some one else,/ looking for someone else/ Others look unfamiliar/ face to face/ Then, someone I know,/ also bearing an older,different appearance/But I recognize her/ She calmly shows a shy smile./ Faces still proceed/ Like looking into a swirling dance room floor at a bustling Gala or ball./ I strain and strain again to re-see her./ But  awoke.

I’ve seeked and seen the one we lost this week.

 

“To see in the day or in the year a symbol

Of the days of man and of his years,

To transmute the outrage of the years

Into a music, a murmur of voices, and a symbol,

To see in death sleep, and in the sunset

A sad gold—such is poetry,

Which is immortal and poor.

Poetry returns like the dawn and the sunset.”

-from “Ars Poetica”, Borges

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.                    FIRST   DRAFT   FRIPPERY

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This man risked squandering his quarters,

Despite the nights rain,

He’d fight to stay the payphone,

Risked squandering  his quarters,

Meant to be spent toward a quart to take the day  to done.

So he’d hang up quick as Go

So she’d ring back

If she was in a curious mood.

It wasn’t too late

(But maybe that’d help)

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He’d be ready,  with his 1st draft.

Damn, ink already ran onto his icy hand,

Trailed off his folded page

Of  falderal,  frippery,  & doggerel.

Worthy words  to win some time.

He’d force his forte’  over the phone

If she called back.

If any  would mercifully allow

A curious mood

A furious  mind

This time

Of night.

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(from very long ago)