The Haiti Junta Takes Over
Rivers were here before there were mountains.
The corner of the eye sees constellations
better than looking directly at the stars.
better than looking directly at the stars.
President for life, in death, his remains
scattered in the streets.
scattered in the streets.
Shifting sand slides off rocks like water after the thaw.
The trade winds carry news,
smoke can be seen on the horizon.
There are great issues which have divided us before
and there are issues that will continue to divide us again.
smoke can be seen on the horizon.
There are great issues which have divided us before
and there are issues that will continue to divide us again.
The sky opened up and they were gone in a flash.
They made small talk on the way to the airport.
Suitcases held tribute of their sins.
Like street fighters, mountains with sharp edges
jockey for position in the sky.
Like street fighters, mountains with sharp edges
jockey for position in the sky.
Impossible to deepen that night,
the colors of fish became a song to fisherman,
who leaned from their boats.
Hundreds toasted rum bottles,
spewing liquor on each other's heads in the form of baptism.
the colors of fish became a song to fisherman,
who leaned from their boats.
Hundreds toasted rum bottles,
spewing liquor on each other's heads in the form of baptism.
Rain dampens the burning palace tonight.
In dreams, old friends come to visit.
They took marble chips from the tomb for souvenirs
In dreams, old friends come to visit.
They took marble chips from the tomb for souvenirs
Bantu combinations
Maureen Hurley, Jim Byrd
2/8/86
Maureen Hurley, Jim Byrd
2/8/86
My lines only
The Haiti Junta takes over
Rivers were here before there were mountains.
The corners of the eye see the stars more clearly.
Shifting sands slides off rocks like water after the thaw.
There are great issues which have divided us before,
and they will divide us again.
and they will divide us again.
The sky opens up and they were gone like a flash.
Like street fighters, mountains with sharp edges
jockey for position on the horizon.
Like street fighters, mountains with sharp edges
jockey for position on the horizon.
Impossible to deepen that night,
hundreds toted rum bottles,
spewing each other like baptisms of whales,
they took marble chips from tombsfor souvenirs.
Maureen Hurley
Jim's line only
hundreds toted rum bottles,
spewing each other like baptisms of whales,
they took marble chips from tombsfor souvenirs.
Maureen Hurley
Jim's line only
President for life
his remains scattered on the street
the trade winds carry news.
Smoke can be seen on the horizon.
his remains scattered on the street
the trade winds carry news.
Smoke can be seen on the horizon.
They make small talk on the way to the airport.
Suitcases help tribute to their sins.
The color of fish became a song to fishermen
who leaned from their boats.
who leaned from their boats.
Rain dampens the burning palace
Tonight, in dreams, old friends are revisited.
Jim Byrd
Bantu combinations 2
Bantu combinations 2
Like a tidal interstice, the seasons drift
Another page falls from the calendar
Clouds have no answers
Tree branches leading to meet the ground
Dig deep into the earth
as if your life depended upon it
as if your life depended upon it
Inside the skull of night
I hesitate to disturb the spider's web.
I hesitate to disturb the spider's web.
Inside my blood, inside my blood,
like the Nile, journeys are recalled after dark
like the Nile, journeys are recalled after dark
The plans of thieves are revealed
as a hole slowly falls in on itself
floating face down, the surface of water
can be felt as blue skin.
Maureen Hurley Jim Byrd
2/8/1986
at The Hiding Place
(over huevos rancheros)
as a hole slowly falls in on itself
floating face down, the surface of water
can be felt as blue skin.
Maureen Hurley Jim Byrd
2/8/1986
at The Hiding Place
(over huevos rancheros)
My rewrite
another page falls from the calendar
like title interstices,
like the seasons
tree branches lean to meet
the most painted roof
dig deep into the earth
as if your life depended on it
another page falls from the calendar
like title interstices,
like the seasons
tree branches lean to meet
the most painted roof
dig deep into the earth
as if your life depended on it
After dark, the plans of thieves
are revealed as a hole slowly falls in on itself
are revealed as a hole slowly falls in on itself
Inside my blood, ancient journeys
like the faces of Ophelia
floating face downward
beneath the blue skin of water.
like the faces of Ophelia
floating face downward
beneath the blue skin of water.
Seasons drift in the tidal moods
dig deep into the earth
as if your life depended upon it
Inside my blood, inside my blood
rusted buckets carry pinholes of light
Escaped notes vibrate in the air
like telephone lines in the storm
Bees carry the skull of night into the hive
until the black one comes,
and darkness reveals the plans of thieves
for those who float face down
A cloak of blue skin
seeps beneath her fingernails like ink.
It was a tumultuous week: right after the Challenger disaster, there was a revolution in Haiti, Baby Doc was overthrown, Bobby Kaufman had died. My boundaries between worlds were pretty thin. It was as if I was hearing voices, and hearing the news before it was news. Since my mother really did hear voices, I was not very happy with this outcome. But as it turned out, I WAS getting the news poetically, in strange dream sequences. I madly wrote it all down as it was coming in, and it eventually became MANTLE. You can see some of the many revisions here: First Draft of Bob Kaufman poem, Mantle.
Added 11/16
dig deep into the earth
as if your life depended upon it
Inside my blood, inside my blood
rusted buckets carry pinholes of light
Escaped notes vibrate in the air
like telephone lines in the storm
Bees carry the skull of night into the hive
until the black one comes,
and darkness reveals the plans of thieves
for those who float face down
A cloak of blue skin
seeps beneath her fingernails like ink.
It was a tumultuous week: right after the Challenger disaster, there was a revolution in Haiti, Baby Doc was overthrown, Bobby Kaufman had died. My boundaries between worlds were pretty thin. It was as if I was hearing voices, and hearing the news before it was news. Since my mother really did hear voices, I was not very happy with this outcome. But as it turned out, I WAS getting the news poetically, in strange dream sequences. I madly wrote it all down as it was coming in, and it eventually became MANTLE. You can see some of the many revisions here: First Draft of Bob Kaufman poem, Mantle.
Added 11/16
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