Atomic Ghost

Atomic Ghost: Poets Respond to the Nuclear Age

John Bradley (Editor)

John Bradley

"The sun was slow in arriving that morning though it was no longer dark, was light enough, and having been born with good eyes, we..." (more)

Editorial Reviews

From Library Journal

August 6, 1945: a day when the world was changed. Thirteen thousand people were killed instantly in Hiroshima, and 90 percent of their city was obliterated. Three days later death again rained down, this time at Nagasaki, with radiation poisoning and slow deaths following. The ghosts of these two Japanese cities move like shadows over Americans, who fear for the safety of their children and the survival of the planet. They are also fearful and angry about official lies about the impact of nuclear testing on health and the environment. The poems in this collection speak honestly and elegantly on these points and more, exposing the nuclear fear that has spread into the core of our being. This is poetry as witness, from the conception of nuclear power to its testing ("talking of the danger/as if it were not ourselves/as if we were testing anything else," writes Adrienne Rich) to its inevitable, unbelievable conclusion. In these poems of witness, protest, prayer, and, perhaps, redemption, we hear compelling voices of the human spirit. Important for poetry collections.

Louis McKee, Painted Bride Arts Ctr., Philadelphia

Copyright 1995 Reed Business Information, Inc.

Review

Over 100 poets participate in a strong collection of reflections on the nuclear age, providing personal views of atomic politics and human costs. From Adrienne Rich to William Dickey plus a host of lesser-known but equally-talented poets, Atomic Ghost is rich in imagery and assertiveness. -- Midwest Book Review

CONTENTS   


(—now at Google Books with hot links. Click on the word "Contents" and a list with links will pop up. I've posted a few links here as well. For ages, it was almost impossible to find this book. The reason why I posted the list and reviews here was because it had almost disappeared from sight. Great to see its contents available on the internet as it's an important anthology—one I'm proud to be in. Thank you John Bradley for your vision. MH)

The Testimony Of J. Robert Oppenheimer by Florence Anthony

Bringing Zeus To His Knees by Antler [pseud.]

Atomic Ghost by John Balaban

They're Family Men by Ellen Bass

Wine From Bordeaux by Sujata Bhatt

Deeper Than A Dream by Peter Blue Cloud

Sailors Shielding Their Eyes During Atomic Bomb Test, Bikini by John Bradley

Preparing The Nets At New Stuyahok by John Brandi

Wahsah Zeh (war Dance) - As Long As The Grass by Joseph Bruchac

Why I'm In Favor Of A Nuclear Freeze by Christopher Buckley

Eight-legged Colt, Chernobyl by Jerah Chadwick

Prayer For A Future Beyond Ideology And War by Kelly Cherry

Hiroshima Day At The Riviera Coffeeshop by Andrea Collins

To An Unborn Child by Allan Cooper

Bomb by Gregory Corso

Armageddon by William Dickey

Secret Symbols by Hilda Doolittle

Ground Zero by Sharon Lura Edens Doubiago

Why I Think About Hiroshima And Nagasaki by Edward A. Dougherty

The Cocked Finger by Stephen P. Dunn

The Way Light Bends by William Daniel Ehrhart

Another Kimono by Nancy Eimers

The Planet Krypton by Lynn Emanuel

The Fish Dream by John Engels

Mushroom Clouds by John Robert Engman

The Garden Shukkei-en by Carolyn Forche

Radiation by Margaret Ferguson Gibson

Plutonian Ode by Allen Ginsberg

These Are The Word Wounds by Daniela Gioseffi

Harry S Truman Library, Independence, Missouri by Diane Glancy

Shadow by Patricia Goedicke

A Dream Of The Closeness Of Venus by James Roscoe, Jr. Grabill

The Lightning by James Roscoe, Jr. Grabill

What The End Is For (grand Forks, North Dakota) by Jorie Graham

The Half-life Of Sorrow by Roger Greenwald

The Atom Bum by William Henry, Jr. Greenway

Prayer For Continuation by Susan Griffin

Origami by Jay Griswold

The Bath: August 6, 1945 by Kimiko Hahn

Dream Of The Hair-burning Smell by Jana Harris

N by William Heyen

The Message by Jeffrey Hillard

A Prayer For Men And Women by Linda Hogan

Psalm by Peter Huchel

Late Spring In The Nuclear Age by Andrew Hudgins

Country Of Origin by Maureen Hurley

Simultaneously by David Ignatow

Green Light by Rolf Jacobsen

High Altitude Photo Of Hiroshima (circa 1944) by Kent Johnson

Trilobytes by Kent Johnson

Directions For Carrying Explosive Nuclear Wastes Through ... by June Jordan

Questions by Marc Kaminsky

After The Neutron by Terence Keenan

Waiting For The Invasion by Barbara Kingsolver

The Fundamental Project Of Technology by Galway Kinnell

How To Survive Nuclear War by Maxine W. Kumin

When We Say 'hiroshima' by Kurihara Sadako

A Liturgy For Trinity by Barbara La Morticella

The Garden by Dorianne Laux

Gathered At The River by Denise Levertov

The Horse by Philip Levine

Nevada Red Blues by Adrian C. Louis

The Crab-apple Crisis by George Macbeth

In The Shadow Of The Poisoned Wind by Jack Marshall

Terminal Colloquy by Charles Martin

War Resisters' Song by Thomas Mcgrath

Opening Day by David Mckain

Utilities Advertisement In The Wake Of Three Mile Island by Gary Metras

Sputyen Duyvil by Honor Moore

Uranium by Robert Morgan

The Hibakusha's Letter by David Mura

Tulum Saw The Coming by Alan Napier

The Radio Talk This Morning by Lorine Niedecker

Shoulders by Naomi Shihab Nye

When by Sharon Olds

In This Third Year Of Reagan, My 27th Year by Peter Oresick

An Army Of Lovers by Alicia Suskin Ostriker

Oppenheimer by Antonia Quintana Pigno

For Harry S Truman In Hell by David Ray

Rose Bay Willow Herb by Judy Ray

For Ethel Rosenberg by Adrienne Cecile Rich

Trying To Talk With A Man by Adrienne Cecile Rich

Black Beauty, A Praise by David William Romtvedt

Eating Dinner At My Sister's by David William Romtvedt

Creation by Benjamin Alire Saenz

Memorandum by Nanao Sakaki

Chernobyl by Mary Jo Salter

Welcome To Hiroshima by Mary Jo Salter

Nuclear Winter by Nicholas Samaras

A Vigil At A Missile Silo by Mark Sanders

Tale Before The End Of The World by Maurya Simon

Strategic Air Command by Gary Snyder

Vapor Trails by Gary Snyder

Sunday Afternoon At Fulham Palace by Elizabeth Spires

At The Bomb Testing Site by William Edgar Stafford

When The Vacation Is Over For Good by Mark Strand

Shadow by Stephanie Strickland

Return To Hiroshima by Lucien Stryk

Silence At The End Of The World by Amber Coverdale Sumrall

Destruction by Takahashi Shinkichi

Explosion by Takahashi Shinkichi

Land Of Little Sticks, 1945 by James Tate

At The Makeshift Aid Station by Toge Sankichi

August 6, 1950 by Toge Sankichi

The Shadow by Toge Sankichi

Hurricane Season by Edwina Trentham

Of Simple Intent by Pamela Marie Uschuk

Early Morning Test Light Over Nevada, 1955 by Robert Vasquez

The Hell Mural: Panel 1 by Ronald W. Wallace

Advice To A Prophet by Richard Wilbur

Strategies For Survival (for The Post-nuclear Children) by Beryle Williams

Tar by Charles Kenneth Williams

High Noon At Los Alamos by Eleanor Wilner

May 28, 1945 by S. L. Wisenberg

The Lamb Of Peace, The Ram Of War by William Witherup

Mervyn Clyde Witherup (b. July 14, 1910 - D. May 12, 1988) by William Witherup

On The Eve Of Our Mutually Assured Destruction by Carolyn D. Wright

Because Of Duties, Zimmer Had Forgotten The Forest by Paul Zimmer

But Bird by Paul Zimmer

-- Table of Poems from Poem Finder®

A review in The Journal of Environmental Education

Another review: University of Oklahoma.

What's interesting it to see where it was reviewed: the Los Alamos Study Group, United States Air Force Academy in Colorado,

Listed under Los Alamos Study Group Since 1989, the Los Alamos Study Group community—our staff and board, volunteers, interns, and supporters—has consistently provided leadership on nuclear disarmament and related issues in New Mexico. Not infrequently, we also have provided leadership nationally as well. Our work includes research and scholarship (central to all we do), education of decisionmakers, providing an information clearinghouse for journalists, organizing, litigating, and advertising. We place particular emphasis on the education and training of young activists and scholars.
Our careful, reasoned approach has gained us many friends, and built bridges even with people in the nuclear labs and plants. Since September 11, 2001, our work has increasingly placed nuclear weapons in the context of aggression abroad and the militarization of our society at home.

The Study Group is based in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Our board of directors includes both New Mexico and national members, and the work of our staff is supplemented by the contributions of interns and volunteers. We are supported largely by individual donations. We welcome your questions, participation, and support.

War, Literature & the Arts: an Interntational Journal—from the United States Air Force Academy in Colorado Turning Away From the Blast: Formsof Nuclear Protest Poetry

There's a fleeting reference in Literature of Nuclear Nevada | ONE; and in 2001, someone from Knox College, GA, did a performance piece based on lined from the anthology.

It too is listed under Miami Universities Libraries, but not linked to House on Via Gombito; at the Chicago Public Library, and the National Library of Australia.

It's also available at Cornell. What this suggests to me is that it's on class reading lists. I founded it listed in a history bibliography at Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, on a UCLA syllabus for Winter, 2013, and elsewhere.

More on John Bradley

Gundlach-Bundchu reading

A good turnout: 35+ people showed up for the Gundlach-Bundchu Dead Poets reading in the vineyard by the caves. I read William Carlos Williams The Red Wheelbarrow to appreciative chickens roosting on haybales. 

People commented that my reading of the dead poets was very dramatic. I made an impact, or they liked the way I read. A wonderful reader they said. Lila of Readers Books said I performed so well they were going to put me on the main stage tomorrow with Bill Moyers to help raise money for California Poets in the Schools. 

I'm a little miffed, don't they know that I'm the Area Coordinator for CPITS? I feel a bit betrayed by my CPITS protege, Arthur Dawson who should've made sure I was included in the festivities. So much for altruism and reciprocation. I feel like a ghostly apparition.

Apparently my fundraising strategy was so good on Wednesday night that I raised over $50 in nickels and dimes. They said I was such a good emcee, they would love to use me tomorrow, but they'd already asked someone else. Clearly, I have made an impact, too late. 

Thanks a lot, Arthur, for supporting me. Hopefully the networking will pay off next year. They asked me to come early to the reading to help set up. This is good because I keep getting a negative vibe form Luis Kong. He's keeping his distance as if his trouble with CPITS was my fault.

Arthur Dawson, his wife, Jill, and I went to Murphy's Pub for a pint. A surprise to see Don Coffin there playing Irish music. We sang along, and drank and ate ourselves silly. 

I was busy talking to Jill, when Don yelled out Maureen! I thought he was yelling at me for talking during his set. Turns out he wanted me to play the bodhran, only I don't know how to play it, only the spoons.

7/28/1995 

Gundlach-Bundchu Vineyards & Murphy's Pub

Sonoma

ETUDE: DEAD POETS READING

At Gundlach-Bundchu Vineyards

lost etudes resurrected at sunset 

mid-summer over 100 years later 

the viola sings a cello song. 

The pines at the edge of the vineyards
stand at rapt attention. 

The chickens tail up. We eat grapes, 

drink Pinot Noir, admire the bouquet,

the darkness of pine needles
enters into the equation. 

The combs of chickens against oat hay
blood of poppies. The Valley of the Moon
undulate below us. Vineyards in full leaf,
like wild frozen dancers
caught in the gyrations of music.

Pinecones punctuate the grass.
The last blossom of sunlight on her face
as she plays the final note.

We are always students
learning the path of the notes.
In the distance, deep growl
at Sears Point Raceway,
is like a beast in the belly.
We read Neruda, Vallejo, and Tu Fu
at the Dead Poets Society reading.
The fog rolls in, we, in summer dresses
shiver, as Arthur reads an Eskimo poem
about words and magic when the animals
and people were one thing.
Undulating vineyards like frozen waves
as if the ocean forgot to move along,
and was caught poised, midflight
from the farthest Pacific shore.
A horse whinnies, house lights
wink like misplaced stars.
Windows and the suicide of light.
Death again rides the parameters of the field,
the aerial ballet of the bat
We read poems until the light is done,
then we say them from memory,
then, when that fails, we sing them,
as if the very words of the dead
could bring back the sun.
We become silhouettes
The ridges, like the arms of a dream
gather up the songs, a bouquet of words
and we come undone
in the Valley of the Moon,

7/28/1995
Gundlach-Bundchu Vineyards
Sonoma

AT THE SUNSHINE CAFÉ

At the Sunshine Café 

I remember an image 

standing by my old VW 

with Yvonne telling me a story

about how her father felt about love 

and the way that Athena 

sprung full-blown from her father's mind.

I don't know the meta-language

behind what she said, was it in code?

But we swiftly tumbled into the physics 

of teaching children poetry.
I remember the way winter light 

soothed the edges of the hills.

7/26/1995

rev. slightly 17 Nov 2015

Sonoma Valley Poetry Festival, Sunnyside cafe, July -Aug

SOUL INHERITANCE

I threw out my dead mother's 

false teeth today, 

and I realized for the first time  

that I'll never be who I was 

before my parents died 

as if it were something 

I could ever get back to. 

Imagine death saying that. 

I'll get back to you. 

Say it three times.

Say it until it coats the tongue 

with consonants that will bleed 

into the printer while you sleep. 

I dreamt my father brought me stories. 

These words, my soul inheritance, 

my progeny.

13 July 1995

rev. slightly 17 Nov 2015

FIGHT FOR IT

Three indignant sparrows

sing so hard that the bush quakes.

Vultures spend a glad afternoon 

amid new mown fields and hay bales.

Those feathers caught up too soon 

don't bode well for flight, 

and grief is a found object.
My grandmother said, 

a bird flying into your house 

means a death in the family. 

Michael Hannon writes: 

happiness won't come easily. 

You have to fight for it 

every step of the way. 

I am a seasoned fighter.

But the lesson of impermanence 

is merely impermanence.

Every atom weeping into a folded wing 

and 100,000 corpses dance on a pin.

The poet's job is to bring the news 

of the unspeakable into the world.

13 July 1995

rev. slightly 17 Nov 2015

California Poets in the Schools student reading with Maureen Hurley, Barnes & Noble,

2 POEMS from 4Cs workshop, SSU

I am the last unicorn 

asleep in the dream of tomorrow

I would like to be the last star 

on your apron string.

My cold heart in your hands

soft as the baby sleeping, 

bones color of the sky 

with thoughts of the moon 

halfway home 

from the fantasy of the sky.

Four C's workshop 

Sonoma State University

4/28/1995

I am the stillness of deer 

under midnight meadows 

where the moon comes to think.

The grass to me the direction of the wind. 

The trees taught me the speech of grass.

From the stars I learned to memorize 

the constellations 

carried on the backs of children, 

for the sky is my home.

Four C's workshop 

Sonoma State University

4/28/1995

INSIDE MY DREAMS

Inside my dreams,
flowers bloom
in the light of the sun
like a bird flying down
to the dreams of dragons.
Inside my dreams is a field
of rainbow horses
making the spring rush.


April 25, 1995
Higham Family School

A RIFF from "The Man Who Tasted Shapes"

A RIFF on "The Man Who Tasted Shapes"

(a book about synesthesia by neurologist Richard Cytowic)


The blind man who perceives scarlet as the sound of the trumpet hears music when the sun warms his eyelids.

Newton, searched in vain for an algorithm to equate the vibrational frequency of sound with corresponding wavelengths of light. The search for universal correspondences among the senses.

A relativistic universe. Colored hearing, the idea of a correspondence between light and sound. The Theosophy of flight.

All shadows contain complementary colors of object casting shadows, think of Henche's color notes.

Alchemical zeal, transformation between I and cortex on the cellular level. A corollary.

Color consistency is an illusion. Light at sunrise is blue, at sunset it's red. What is the color of daylight from sunrise to sunset?

Decomposing light. Vision is contained a very narrow band of the electromagnetic spectrum. Color, occupies an even narrower band of light.

polyopia: multiple ghost images, after the image has left the field of vision. What's not there.

palinopsia: afterimage, like seeing the sun, after the sun has set, a persistent kaliedoscope of memory. What's not there.

The act of seeing/tasting/hearing with one's own eyes is therefore an entirely subjective perception.

The idea as light, a word's taste and weight on the tongue, in the ear, in the mind's eye, is both abstract and malleable. Noetic and ineffable.

Agnosia: the not knowing. The inability to recognize things. What's really there. but not acknowledged by the brain.

Then there's the duality of the physics of light, which is simultaneously a wave and a particle. 

If you separate logic and emotion, you understand neither. It's a duality concept. 

I'm of two minds, one is wise beyond knowledge. The other is knowledge, but unwise when it comes to matters of the heart. The blackbird singing.

Conceptual systems. Metaphor based upon physics. What is real?

Try to write an objective definition of love, ontological metaphors rearrange memory, switch metaphors in midstream. Words cannot change reality. 

The physical foundations of a metaphor. The dichotomy of contradictory metaphor is up in the air. The conflict built within Plato: we are all prisoners of our feelings.

Hold fast to the sacred cord of reason, lest we be lost. Make that sacred chord. The schism between reason and emotion, you ask. Aristotle stated emotions carry their own form of logic, and that synesthesia is a subtractive experience. But it's really an additive experience. You get multiple input.

The logic of emotion is beyond our control. Valence, salience. What is most important? The sum total or what is most prominent? Collective or ego? Jamais vu, or déjà vu? What is not seen, or what is familiar? Choose.

Qualia: sub-seption, internal and subjective below our awareness, call it subconscious knowledge. What is simultaneously known and not known.

The transition between one state and another, from maximum to minimum, is the dimensionalist existence of a Cartesian point. Cogito ergo sum.

Then the idea that Plato's dichotomy between reason and emotion reenacted. 

Just don't approach the koan with intellect. One hand clapping, if a tree falls in the forest....

April 19 or 20, 1995

slightly rev. 16 Nov, 2015

But, though this piece is slightly revised for clarity's sake, such as it is, some of this prose piece, as did much of my writing during 1995, found its way into my long prose poem Building an Arc in the Dark of the Year (I posted it as a Jan., 1995 entry, but I was still working on it in April, and beyond). I was fixated on physics and synaesthesia. And the vagaries of the mind, love, the human heart. The poem grew to 36 entries. And then some. I couldn't stop writing about it.

POEM IN TWO VOICES: IMAGO

IMAGO

Declaration: poem in two voices

I believe in the image 

of the wind when the moon 

opens to the vast ink of the sky.

I am the voices of the wind
circumscribing the trees.
I am the mind of false shadows.

Once I believed in the ceremonies 

around the trees at dusk.

I am the watch devouring time
on the mantelpiece of desire.

I wanted to trace the shadows 

of the moon when it sang of death 

in the trees at dawn.

Were you the howling night
wolfing down the last crumbs
of the moon, leaving me here? 

I believe in the random order 

of constellations 

calling our destinies forth. 

What small mice sleep 

in my fingertips?

Once I was the voice of the night
calling you to sleep in my arms,
calling it love, but the fields
swallowed your name.

Alexander Valley School 

March 31, 1995

EKPHRASTIC POEMS 3 poems from Magritte

—From The False Mirror:

Not to be Reproduced, 1928, 

by René Magritte 

I remember the way the eyes of the sky 

stared at me as if I was always in trouble, 

staring at the back of my own head

as if in a two-way mirror going nowhere,  

always watching myself departing 

like a train without tracks.

I come from a world of windows 

opening endlessly onto each other, 

like a Chinese puzzle.
My mind was shaving its chin 

in a cold water walk up flat,

and doves flew from my eyes.

March 30, 1995 

Higham Family School, Santa Rosa

RIFFS FORM SEVERAL MAGRITTE PAINTINTGS

My eyes became the silhouette of clouds. 

I have my reasons for wanting to chase 

the origin of light from my dreams. 

How infinite is the sound of clocks 

reverberating in empty rooms.

Once I dreamed the buildings of the city 

became huge mantle clocks,

and the mountain grew new peaks 

in the form of nesting eagles.

As if the reckless sleeper had lost its night horse. 

Where does it start? The life of a dream, 

the end in the source. Dusk and day light. 

Silence reigns with the perfection of an empire, 

its face forever to the sun.

March 30, 1995 

Higham Family School, Santa Rosa

How many windows in your name?
Within me, apples tumble from green rooms,

roses wrestle with the unspoken thoughts.

The doings of bird and sky.
I have made my rocky bed 

amid the stones of the past.
This world of bone and skull 

and the perfection of green rain 

penetrating the endless night.
The train finds its way home alone 

even though the birds sleep. 

If the worn-out words find us mouthless,

will they become the thoughts of birds 

opening towards the unknown father?

March 30, 1995 

Higham Family School, Santa Rosa

slightly revised 11/16/2015

THINGS TO DO WHILE DRIVING TO WORK, LATE

Things to do while driving to work, late.
Leave for work five minutes late

because you just couldn't quite get it together

and you dithered your morning ablutions.
Try to balance 2 cups of tea in one hand 

while downshifting around curves 

more dangerous than Marilyn Monroe's.

Pretend to obey the speed limit 

but as soon as the coast is clear, 

figure out if your toes really will reach 

all the way down to the engine block.

Take a quick peek in your rearview mirror, 

there are still sleep wrinkles on your cheeks.

Notice how you forgot to put on makeup 

and this time you really do need it.
Stare at the crows feet developing under your eyes 

and wonder if a whole flock of birds

descended during the night, looking for corn.

Talk about a murder of crows. 

It looks like they murdered more than sleep.
And they mistook your eyes for chocolate chips. 

Put on makeup while driving like a demon from hell 

and hope that you don't wind up there yourself

for driving while putting on makeup. 

The eyeliner's the hardest maneuver of all.

Try to rearrange the floor of your truck, 

put the audio tapes in alphabetical order, 

and sing along to Leonard Cohen's gravelly voice, 

daydreaming about your neighbors cat.
Notice that you have cat hair all over you,

and you're already five minutes behind.

You move the late clock up by three whole minutes 

gaining time by speeding down narrow backroads,

shaving inside & outside curves with reckless abandon.

But then, an unscheduled tractor robbed you blind,

it took back all the time you gained. And then some. 

You floored it on a straight stretch of road,

overtaking him as if he were standing still.

Then you slid into the parking lot, spraying gravel, 

breathless, you made a run for it.

But the door' was locked, no one there to let you in. 

The school, empty. Then you came to find out, 

it's Saturday. The empty lot should've given it away.

Go home. Go back to bed. Don't tell a soul.

March 25, 1995

rev. slightly 16/11/2015

FORGIVE ME

Forgive me,

the mythical animal inside

is wanting out. 

And over my door 

the coinage of words 

struggling to attain flight
My talisman is the absence of light.
I return again and again 

to the last place on earth 

where the violins 

are masked with questions.
I return again and again 

to that place of fields, secret hills,

as if the rest of my life was spent 

among bird song.
I dream of eagles slipping off 

the shoulders of quarters, 

slipping off their species, 

taking no quarter. 

When he came knocking at my door, 

lit was like sleek fish seeking entry 

to the moist center of the storm. 

I wished for a smattering of stars 

across the bed sheets at night

his touch guiding my heart. 

March 23, 1995

4 BLUES RIFFS

Have I been sentenced

to death by the blues?

Is this Vienna? 

I cannot find the end of the rope. 

The dead chill of fingers. 

Alone we come into the world. 

My room is filled with the past. 

The past is a graveyard. 

Thoughts are the burden of my existence.
The end of the room,

the beginning of the world.
The end of darkness 

is the beginning of life.
My heart, asleep in the fibers of music. 

A world movement, 

a concerto, oblivion changed.  

Nothing persists like the secrets of stones 

singing their way towards the ocean
The stranger has his suitcase, 

vinegar has its sting, 

the twilight has its iguana 

hunting down the night.

March 23, 1995

I am crawling on all fours 

inexorably toward old age 

Who left pomegranate seeds on the shelf?
Escaped rainbows dance in the cage of my room 

Crystal prisms spinning like a comment
My heart is still asleep in the wind.

The sun will dry the rain's tears.

March 23, 1995


I am seeking the pathway to the stars
The dark hearts of stone 

sing of other dreams where 

the velvet tongue of grass 

under the stars of summer
whispers other secrets to the wind.

The rose forgets how to sleep.
Thirst finds us wanting for words. 

Beneath the soil they are singing;

seeking another way out.
The subterranean fires 

stir the embers of the heart. 

The rain repeats itself endlessly. 

The death of birds is equal 

to the death of shadows.

What's the use of knowing 

the answer when there are
no questions?

March 23, 1995

For I sit crosslegged for hours on end 

reading the scribbled words of children, 

seeking small flames to nurture, 

afraid that in my own life that I risk
becoming what I hated in others. 

March 23, 1995

2 MOTHER DEATH POEMS

On the other side of the poem I wrote:

Was it easy to die? The birds know.

Seeking the double life 

I practice letting go.
Can the dead communicate with the living?
I remember saying to my aunt, 

She is already dead inside. 

The long vowels slide off the tongue.
A voice stitched inside the throat of memory
The mother – daughter distance, 

The past is always a graveyard, 

thoughts, the burden of existence.

Stones sing their way toward the ocean.
Nothing persists like silence, 

the end of the room,

the beginning of the world. 

28 March 1995

It's the 6 month anniversary 

of my mother's death. 

She is still with me.

Death brushes my shoulders. 

My truck spins out of control, 

slick roads, & the gnawing hunger 

of precipitous cliffs.

But she is driving me.

So for now, we are safe.

28 March 1995

rev. slightly 16/11/2015

LUNCH WITH EINSTEIN

LUNCH WITH EINSTEIN

My poem isn’t a story about my life,

it’s petty silent dictator

making its own reality sandwich

in the middle of the night

holding sliced words hostage

at the edge of a razor blade.

Ergot on rye. Hold the mayo.

Until you, dear reader,

dog it down to the bone.

My poem isn’t the edge of night

seeking daybreak in another solar system.

It’s asleep at the wheel, or corrupting time,

teaching it to bend, taking no prisoners

until it becomes an acrobat

leaving the world tied in knots

for an eternity to come.

My poem isn’t the cool depths of the sea,

it’s the raging heart of the volcano

shedding scalding tears into the ocean

to whip up some primordial soup.

It’s out to lunch with Einstein,

noshing infinite storylines,

breathless and late for work

breaking the speed of light,

without a licence

because there’s no tomorrow

holding it in check.

3/8/95



first draft
PETTY DICTATOR

My poem isn't my life, 

it's small dictator 

making its own reality sandwich 

in the middle of the night.

holding sliced words hostage on rye,

until you, dear reader, 

devour it down to the bone.

My poem isn't the edge of the night 

seeking the beginning of day 

in another solar system, 

it's the speed of light corrupting time itself, 

telling it to bend the past 

until it becomes an acrobat 

in the shape of a human pretzel

and the world's tied up in knots

or an eternity to come.

My poem isn't that cool depths of the sea, 

it's the roaring heart of a volcano 

pouring scalding tears into the sea 

to create the primordial dance of life.

It's recess, it's out to lunch, 

it's always breathless and late for work, 

wanting to spend the day nibbling on storylines 

as if there were no tomorrow. 

March 8, 1995

ODE TO MY TRUCK (2 versions)

ODE TO MY TRUCK

For you take me everywhere
your flanks shot through with blue
your red wheels burning
down the freeways and onramps
of my mind
For you’ve tried to attain flight
when the cops weren’t looking
For you crawled with the patience of snails
divining rush hour traffic
like Moses parting the red sea
For you’ve stopped true as an arrow
piercing the heart of the matter
when I wasn’t paying attention.

1995

(I took a few words from 2nd draft (above), but I think I like the original journal entry better.)

For you take me everywhere,
your flanks shot through with blue,
your red wheels burning
down the freeways
and on-ramps of my mind.
For you've tried to retain flight
when the cops weren't looking.
For you've crawled with the patience
of snails during rush hour traffic.
like Moses parting the red sea.
For you've stopped true
as an arrow piercing the heart
when I wasn't paying attention,
saving me from uncertain death.
Your abrupt song of tires
calligraphing the streets.

Once you became a bird
when the black ice deceived you,
tricked you into the false security
of quick stops, and firmament.
Once I betrayed you
letting someone else slip
between the wheel and pedal,
his foot, not sensitive to your needs,
and like a bird, you made a valiant attempt
to fly off the cliff but the fence was too thick,
the bank to steep, the reflexes too slow,
and that day we were wounded you,
who snorted steam and blue smoke
into the void, and learned to let go.

3/8/1995
 added 10/15

PETTY DICTATOR (see Einstein poem)

My poem isn't my life,

it's small dictator

making its own reality sandwich 

in the middle of the night.

holding sliced words hostage on rye,

until you, dear reader, 

devour it down to the bone.

My poem isn't the edge of the night 

seeking the beginning of day 

in another solar system, 

it's the speed of light corrupting time itself, 

telling it to bend the past 

until it becomes an acrobat 

in the shape of a human pretzel

and the world's tied up in knots

or an eternity to come.

My poem isn't that cool depths of the sea, 

it's the roaring heart of a volcano 

pouring scalding tears into the sea 

to create the primordial dance of life.
It's recess, it's out to lunch, 

it's always breathless and late for work, 

wanting to spend the day nibbling on storylines 

as if there were no tomorrow. 

March 8, 1995



this poem was recycled into

LUNCH WITH EINSTEIN

Call of the Muse, RRWG at the Johnny Otis Club

I DIDN'T KNOW I LOVED—after Hikmet

I didn’t know I loved the way
his eyes repeated the color
of weathered stone

or how, unlike stone, they ripen
into dark clouds when he smiles.

Or the way his son’s eyes
are the clear promise of summer skies.

Stolen kisses at 4 am, I sleep alone;
she comes, spreading her body.

Sometimes I see how the division begins
in the darkness

when we pull our hearts in,
afraid of the eventual loss that inevitably comes.

Sometimes I too think the heart
is something to protect—

like death, it cannot be saved for later.

I’m stuck, this rock,
this tree becomes the center.

His voice like smooth stone against my thoughts.

The boy and I go walking on the headlands
trying to find the summit.

I envy the way water knows its predestined course,

for the heart is always hovering like a hawk,

the hunter’s eye seeking small clues in the grass.

On this side of the San Andreas Fault,
the sea breathes us in.

Seeking completion,
he is afraid of arbitrary divisions.

The trouble with unrequited lust
this full valentine moon,

is that I’m liable to develop
carpal tunnel syndrome in both wrists.

Say “master painter” five times real fast. . .

When I howl at the moon, t
hey gather downwind. But he is afraid.

Polly, pretty Polly. . . 
The volunteer sent to serve ice cream

for the class party—Polly’s father—
wore a heart sticker on his sleeve,

redigging his daughter’s grave
with each scoop.

With careful steps anyone can find
the center of the heart

Like waves crashing against the rocks
disturbed swallows rise

like dark clouds before the storm

making me believe the heart
is always hard to approach.

Where do we go from here?
What of Polly’s father?

The chambers of the heart
grow infinitely larger to accomodate love.

inside the heart of the rose
is a secret chamber

where the silent worm waits

for darkness to creep out of the sky

because there are no other parallels

for death; it feeds upon the pollen

that falls into the center of life.

Beyond the edges of the petals

a whole green universe
is waiting for the sun to rise

above it, to take it towards completion.

The voices of birds move away
from the thoughts of roses.

How am I supposed to act now?
He has to come of his own volition.

The cat curls in my arms, chews his fleas.
The child and I hold onto each other.

We paste glowing constellations on the ceiling.
I cannot divide this love.

At least he knows the rooms of his own heart.

Returning home from the mountains
I bring snow for the child,

afraid of the father’s eyes, how like glaciers.

I can’t stop the mind from anticipating.

Confused by the non-eye in poetry,
I was a bird caught in a church bell

he’s the tongue on the harmonica
between my legs.

I can’t tell if we’re moving away,
or closer to each other.

Who is stalking the dreams
I wish I had as a child.

Perhaps we are sideways rain;
a squall of momentary jealousy,

a patch of weather on a glassy sea.
Someone served us delusion.

He named it island. Called it lonely.
Said, What if it doesn’t work out?

What if it does, and 7 years later
I’m on the road playing music? Then what?

They talk about moving.
What about Maureen? the son asks.

If you take out the “I”,
delusion is a seven-letter word.

Prime numbers aside,
it took God 7 days. Aye. Aiii. I. . . sing

Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose. . .

After I fell, I couldn’t breathe.
The longest word in English is a lung disease.

He comes to massage me,
leaves me fingering the crack in his bed.

Crawls in with his son.
I dreamed he sawed the legs off his son’s bed

until there was no place left for them to rest.

2/15 - 20/95  

From several in class writing assignments, and prose journal entries. I do not know which I prefer, in hindsight,
4 untitled VALENTINE POEMS
INSIDE THE HEART OF THE ROSE

INSIDE THE HEART OF THE ROSE (see Hikmet poem)

Inside the heart of the rose

is a secret chamber
Where is the where the silent worm waits 

for darkness to creep out of the sky
Because there are no other parallels 

for death, it feeds upon the pollen 

that falls into the center of life. 

Beyond the edges of the petals

a whole green universe is waiting 

for the sun to rise above it, 

to take it toward completion.

The voices of birds move away 

from the thoughts of roses.

Higham Family School

16 February 1995


I recycled this in a longer poem
I DIDN'T KNOW I LOVED—after Hikmet

4 untitled VALENTINE POEMS (see Hikmet poem)

I'm stuck, this rock, this tree
His voice like smooth stone
The way water follows

its predestined course
We go walking on the headlands
trying to find the summit 

for the heart is always 

hovering like a hawk

Hunter's eye seek small clues 

in the grass.

15 February 1995

I didn't know I loved the way 

his eyes repeated the color 

of weathered stone.
Or how, unlike stone, they soften 

into the clouds when he smiles.

Or the way his son's eyes
are summer skies.
Sometimes I see
how the division begins 

in darkness when we 

pull our hearts in from old pastures.
I'm afraid of the eventual loss 

that always comes. 

Sometimes I think too, 

that my heart is something 

I can protect, but like with death, 

it cannot be saved.

February 15, 1995

The trouble with unrequited lust 

under a full Valentine's Day moon 

is that one is liable to develop 

carpal tunnels syndrome in both wrists.

February 15, 1995


With careful steps anyone can find 

the center of the heart.
Waves keep crashing against the rocks;

disturbed swallows rise like dark clouds 

before the storm, making me believe 

the heart is always hard to approach.

February 15, 1995




I recycled all of these in a longer poem
I DIDN'T KNOW I LOVED—after Hikmet

LIGHTHOUSE

In the crystal cave
I wanted to crush the baleen

of the moon's heart.
The survival of golden mapping codes 

unleashes the body diagram
in the lighthouse of your imagination. 

February 1995

RRWG reading Maureen Hurley, Terry Ehret, Arthur Dawson, Johnny Otis Club

Building an Arc in the Dark of the Year

(I was obsessed with the overlap of science and poetry, so these fragments represent at least a half a year’s writing, if not the entire year…At first it was an ark, a winter of massive floods of epic proportions, then it became an arc.)

—for Max "Sonny" Lowe

The story of rain begins and ends in the oceans. The river, called St. Ignacio, Slavianka, el Río Russo, the Russian River—leaps its banks, pays us a neighborly visit. Divulges its real name to the sea. Encircling each tree, the rising river claims small, vertical kingdoms. Mountains caught in the act of becoming islands & isthmuses again. Ancient shores & riverbeds unveiled. Centuries of mud erode in the afternoon, fossils come to light. We’re marooned. Again. After a decade, or two—depending upon who’s keeping score—the great California drought officially ends. The cats bitterly complain about the weather. My neighbor notes it’s been 40 days since we’ve seen the sun. On the eve of the Epiphany we measure rain falling in biblical proportions by the foot, & threaten to build an arc for when our cabins fail us.

When I found Paleolithic fossils of raindrops frozen in stone, I envied the age of redwoods on the 100-year flood plane recording weather in annular increments—decades but a moment in time. The warrior rain on the roof drums up a tattoo of words to engulf the muse. My poor drowned heart.