LAYER OF MARINE HAZE
Layer of marine haze tinged with rust
the ozone layer growing,
closing in biological rhythms
dedication to death
the healing power of green
and the magenta fire
The man in the garden with the guitar
surveys his handiwork strums a few chords
to make the sun rise
and Euridice looking back over her shoulder
where darkness sat waiting to find
the center of her eye to dazzle her
with paradox
How much of this world
we savor without knowing it
The word beauty had little meaning
for me as a child
In the firepit, rounded cobbles
what quarry gave them birth
the comforting chirruping of robins
scratching for a meal in the chaparral
The dead arrive on my doorstep
a present from the cat
now in cybernetic sleep in my freezer
so I can paint it later
It's time to draw robins again
Four vultures circled
three from the east and one from the south
they converged over my altar of stones
I left them corn and bread
juice and sage smoke
instructions from the north
I am a mover of small rocks
from Monte Alban in Oaxaxa
I bring a small pottery sherd
to place into the niche of rock on Mt St Helena
named after a Russian princess
We invent ritual
I take back five rocks and the huge crystal
I find becomes my talisman
At my childhood rock
the megalith in the hill on Christmas
a ritual to my grandmother who first brought me here
and the sorrow hanging over me in waves
caught between laughter and rock
I leave volcanic red rocks from the princess
and take quartz from my natal grounds
On the ridge facing the ocean I build
my third cairn with rocks from the princess
and from home
I've made a triangle of stone cairns
a web to keep me safe
At the rock &a bluejay mimicking a hawk was my gift
that same bluejay stealing my poems
four vultures wheeling, circling as their want
shiny black feathers in the deep forest and blueschist
I understand something more about the geology
a have become an obsessive conniseur of rocks
igneous, franciscan, metamorphic
that' s rule no. 7 but I've forgotten all the rules
and the american flag over the bunkers
keeps whipping out prayers to the wind
what does it pray for invasion at this old army fort?
The sea answers, she is our mother
these shells, these rocks are our gifts
and we will clean oil from the dead wings of birds
if necessary because we were born into this
the passage of a fellow soul is marked
in the muted silver of my bracelets
dentalium and jaspar
the churning breathing sea
I've begin to tell of things I never knew I had inside
the whispering of women all those sea sounds
surcease of wave crunch of rock
rolling of tires on pavement
coyote bush in bloom
time out people laughing
Just keep going one says and I do
the whisper of the sea, the flag
we are learning new languages to keep us on our shores
and I am a camera facing the iris of my thoughts
the diaphragm open and close open and close
like the contracting and expanding universe
I capture frozen snippets of emotion
after two days of testemony for the sea I still cry
the elequence of necessity crystalizes all thoughts
into the single vortex of the sea
churning and churning
rising like a cover over sleeping bodies
and I dreamed I was in the city house again
the twin beds of my grandparents
hiding their forms under blankets as if dead, in sleep
The man who rises from the bed is
not my grandfather
he looks smooth with the ladies
he tells me not to disturb my grandmother
she needs to sleep and I comply
But who is this man?
Is he my father
whom I have not seen in 15 years?
I dream of guns in the jungle
and of falling over backwards of sickness
and of rolliing on the grass with the dogs
all this on the day Robert Duncan
died and I think of the meadow
that green meadow.
2/5/88
see
so heavily revised that it's another poem
|
I am a mover of small rocks.
From Monte Alban I bring small pottery sherds
to Mount St Helena. I leave volcanic rocks
for my dead grandmother and take quartz crystals
On the ridge facing the ocean
I've made a triangle of stone cairns.
Four vultures wheeling, circling as their want—
shiny black feathers in the deep forest
converging over my altar of stones—
I left them corn and bread,
The elequence of necessity crystalizes all thought
into the single vortex of the sea
churning and rising like a cover
The sea answers, she is our mother.
These shells, these rocks are our gifts.
The passage of a soul is marked
in the muted silver of bracelets,
In the firepit, rounded cobbles—
What quarry gave them birth?
I've begun to speak of things
We are learning new languages to keep us on shore
and I am a camera facing the iris of my eye—
the diaphragm, open and close, open and close
like the contracting and expanding universe.
I dream of machine guns in the jungle
and of falling over backwards.
and of rolling with desire on the grass with wolves—
After all, we are pack animals.
On the day Robert Duncan died
I dreamed of the green meadows I am called to
