'O Taste and See': Toward the End: Easter Octave: Anticipating Day E...

'O Taste and See': Toward the End: Easter Octave: Anticipating Day E...: Sons Toward the End: Easter Octave: Anticipating Day Eight I have a life that did not become, that turned aside and stoppe...

Toward the End: Easter Octave: Anticipating Day Eight

Sons

Toward the End: Easter Octave:

Anticipating Day Eight

I have a life that did not become,

that turned aside and stopped

astonished:

I hold it in me like a pregnancy . . .

A.      R. Ammons

I suppose what I have trouble with

is that the whole thing quite excludes

Mary, that she carried

through to the end like he did,

she cleaned and disciplined (wasn’t she

the first? to him?) and in the end

the equation isn’t neat enough

until she’s taken

neatly away and made into

something else entirely, a saint

to women who’s sons    and yes

                daughters

have been slain, taken up by ropes

and stones and dope and nobody

grows out of it, they only hone

their grieving and what better place

than a gibbet than the rock

strewn barren land, where once

an eclipse at noon, a forgiveness,

a sprinkle of blood on dice?  The loss,

for her, was more than life.  See it?

Why can’t you see it?

On Reading Leibovitz in Virginia's Rivers

sunset

On Reading Leibovitz In Virginia’s Rivers

empty, empty, empty; silent

silent, silent.  The room was a shell, singing

of what was before time was; a vase

stood in the heart of the house,

alabaster, smooth, cold, holding

the still, distilled essence of emptiness,

silence.

                                Virginia Woolf

                                Between the Acts

now I know what paperweights are for: holding

flat the page opposite of Annie

Leibovitz’s picture of leaves beneath

and beyond a certain precious

leaded window, and then

description of Monks House, Virginia

Woolf’s last residence—her only place

to recluse – recuse? herself during the Blitz,

where she, finally finished in 1941

February, closed

the pages on Between the Acts

and walked out a month later

into the river

Ouse – and here, the paperweight (I’m forever

after picking up stones too, but only

the worn out ones, those who’ve made it

through, you know the hues) because she

chose each stone carefully I’d imagine –

and even if she didn’t, even if she picked each

at random – I’d make it

that way in my head – favoring

shapes and weight both, building a cairn

in her coat pocket and walking it

like a dog into the water, waiting while the stray

coat ends floated some then soaked and wouldn’t

and no longer able could, with their little resistance,

the lode-

stone they’d become knocking on one another

in the dark, pulled to the only companion

they could:

weight – weight – weight – each heavy

breast or ever else pocket demanding now (after that

practice run) the bottom she couldn’t

struggle up from any longer.

Picturing Wind

Picturing the Wind

I pass her sister pillar, punk

tagged by some bird

or bug girl bold on an old

woods road beak freak

you can’t even see until

the snow’s so thick you

crawl on past into the pitch

of the curve and so today we

went by on foot

this time, not a drive,

and hoofed it in

past the angler tugging his

thin microfilament in the rising

Easter river waters, too

colorful to be a poacher

and he picked the water

with the bottom of his hip-

rubber boots like a black-

belt sweeping into a kata:

sweep and hold and block

all along tugging on the beginning

of spring, like she wore

a too short dress for the
weather and he needed

to get her attention, yes

past him and then past an old

stone pump house, flooded

but still intact, call it new

facia and rafters, mossy but

solid, and different graffiti than
a bird’s woody woodpecker

head without his popular somewhat
pompadour comb and into, into
alongside the rail ties bastardized to soak up

the wettest, river seepage spots

of this river road, past the curled

and curve of shy ferns, retrousse

leaves on the grips of ladles,

or like the necks of geese

I’ve been missing at the pond

a mile away, past the run-

off from the factory and the black

oak leaves, leaves that

aren’t supposed to be

black and shit the smell the raw aw-

ful smell and then the soft

too soft to get close to the river

or I’ll slip in and that sister

trestle, or what was left

boasting years ago to be

the tallest in the region even

and before trees grew

back a single-engine plane

flew beneath her, her rails, and was

cheered for the clearance

and if I followed long enough

I’d be at their feet, the once cheering

ones, they’ll be praised

briefly and the gate

that opens to them at dawn

would shake if the wind picked

up on this hill and I’d smell

woodsmoke still, and the fisher-

man’s Swisher Sweets,

and Easter Sunday ham.

The rail lines are silent,

and creosote-soaked ties

are garden retaining walls now,

and an odd bird sometimes

comes up, but never this side

of the bridge, shy in the wind,

shy outside the radius

of the river, the trestle,

what’s left, and the wind

picking up, yes, cheeky

as she is, (but it's Easter

and she's discrete)
picking up her soaked
skirt, her petticoat of winter

leaves. 

Easter Sunday, On Again, Off Again Rain: Picturing Wind with a Hasselblad

Easter Sunday,
On Again, Off Again Rain, April
21st
Picturing Wind
with a Hasselblad

Pump House, Greenville, New Hampshire

Pressed

Old Teeth

Trestle Pillar, Greenville, New Hampshire

into the pumphouse

scat

scat

porthole 

owl

rode hard and put up wet

wintering

peeking green

dam flow

three drops

lead green mill no 4 door

lead green mill no 4 door

lead green mill no 4 door

lead green mill no 4 door

lead green mill no 4 door

lead green mill no 4 door

lead green mill no 4 door

closed

mill no. 4

up from mill no. 4

mill no. 4

lamp

mother and child

You’ll Notice

Odd Fellows Hall
Nashua, New Hampshire

You’ll Notice

Blue was your kindly spirit—not a ghoul

But electrified, a guardian, thoughtful.

…

You hid from the bone-clinic whiteness.

But the jewel you lost was blue.

                                                                Ted Hughes

                                                                Red

I know the snow on the lip of the brick

on each I.O.O.F seven stories up

is clung to in every crack, is stacked

and will melt back to water

when the warm rain’s finally come.  How

tropical almost, 48+

degrees in the middle of January,

and one continuous persistent breeze

being fingered below by the leafless

street trees.  (in another poem i want to
say how street trees are different
from park trees and park trees are

different from yard trees and yard
trees are different from woods...)
Don’t you want to be above 

ground and beneath such rain,

head bare, chin up

to it all, open your mouth, the offering

so small but soft as that
almost spring

rain?  You're waiting for it,
I can tell.  I’m sending you out.  Go

coatless.  Last week’s blizzard,

(actually, it was only four days ago)

is almost melted off.  I can tell that
too, although it’s still dark.  The rain sounds

edgy, like last year’s

weasel teeth, struck to on all the attic wires,

squeezing and grating against everything
that's insulated above my head: soon the copper’s

in the raw, soon the hiss might not be

rain but the ecstatic beginnings

of a flame, a small glossa crawling out

on the beam where the house

is giving its ribs to be roof and hood
beneath the nearly new shingles.  Flick

a switch, if you're keen on seeing
magic that's vermin leaving nothing
but scat.  But ignore it.  Ignore the
funk.  Ignore the dust you'll cough

out of your lungs.  Stand still. Unless it’s slick,
which this brilliant wind and warm
make claims for, stand still.   

Just days ago it was nearly 15 below

zero.  Take it.  Take it I tell you, under
the sod, or onto the water still
reluctant to give in to February.  Soon ice will be
pushed up the bank and break open

the way skin does when it's too tight
and dry, too tired even to cry...but leaving
that hood, that lip of itself open
for a weasel, for an eagle, for a small

beak of a young goose to reach
into and pull a tuft of something,
who knows what all, into its mouth
hold it while it goes warm, hold it

like alphabets in brick holding snow,
holding their own Odd, century-old own.

Broke Open

Shooting to Kill

rail/porthole
sparkplug
lubec channel

Shooting to Kill

So to Speak:

Walker Evans

(found poem)

I do regard photography

as an extremely difficult act

I believe the achievement of a work

that is is evocative and mysterious

and at the same time

realistic is a great one and rare one

and perhaps sometimes

almost an accident.

It’s akin to hunting,

photography is, in the same way

you’re using a machine

you’re actually shooting something

and you’re shooting to kill

you get the picture you want

that’s a kill

that’s a bullseye