Wine-Dark Sea

The green and ragged Turkish coast, stretching
And unfolding, it passes by.
Legs dangling off the bowsprit,
I watch intermittently the sea, the shore.

The sun is falling behind an islet,
But the air remains close all about me—
Touching face, hair—neither warm nor cool.
The wind pulls it along

Past me, over all the ship, past passenger and crew,
And captain in his khakis and navy polo shirt,
His brown face wrinkled in a permanent smile.
The sail remains lashed, the motor carries

The ship. The deep keel cuts through the waves.
If wish were reality, the sail would soar
Up the mast, ascending to heaven
Like the dome of the Haghia Sofia.

Nestled in the bowsprit, legs dangling down
Hovering over the surface of the waters,
Chin resting on hands folded on thin metal
Railing, I sit. The spray washes my bare feet.

First Thing in the Morning

I don’t think I can go on reading,
I’ll need more coffee to help me through.
There is no line that’s worth repeating.

There’s no butter on this toast I’m eating;
It sticks to the roof of my mouth like glue.
I don’t think I can go on reading.

The thoughts inside my head aren’t breeding.
That’s a disgusting thought—ew—
There is no line that’s worth repeating.

Perhaps it’s true and inspiration’s fleeting,
Perhaps my brain has caught the flu.
I don’t think I can go on reading

This abysmal attempt at poetry, exceeding
My own expectations of failure, too.
There is no line that’s worth repeating.

I will not continue pleading—
I’d sooner impale this poem on a pool cue.
I don’t think I can go on reading;
There is no line that’s worth repeating.

Theophany

He shone, like a star—here in my eyes
And light years away.

Light travels the fastest of all
Traveling things—traveling
With a Nikon camera around its neck.

In some places stars come out at night.
They shine.
People travel to see them.

The light pours through me, like water from a font,
And seeps through every pore of my skin,
I am pressed like grapes through cheesecloth. I seep into it.
I pour through the other side
Onto a bare, blank surface.
I have become, not wine, but sand.
I scatter.

A cloud covered him and the dazzling whiteness of his robe.

The cloud conceals, but not to conquer.
It obscures but for a time.

Time is folding in on itself.
I have not moved.
You have not moved.
The laundry is folded and put away.

It’s been eight minutes.
The light from the sun has reached you by now.
It is winter and
You would welcome the warmth of a supernova.

Clouds conceal but not to conquer.
They obscure but for a time.

Out of the cloud: the voice speaks.
Out of the fire: the voice speaks.
Out of the light: the voice speaks
And the dove descends.

Untitled

Remember, remember...

the fifth of November, of Gunpowder, Treason, and Plot! I know of no reason why Gunpowder

Treason should ever be forgot! (A photograph from Guy Fawkes' Day)

Two Bronte Poems

Gothic

The moon is full and hung low in the sky.
Clouds drift, obscuring indifferently;
The tramp halts his moonlit march to observe
The scene from underneath the rotting tree—
A chestnut lately severed twain by some
Infernal mischief, perhaps a lightning
God who looked jealous on a happy scene.
The sky lightens by unnatural means
Orange heat and haze o’rpowers the tramp’s rest-place.
He gives a low chuckle and continues
On, not giving another backward glance
To the furious burning battlements.


Writing a Bronte Novel

Slowly I watch the fire burn low;
I light a candle to work by.
It’s very cold.

Tuesdays I go by bicycle
To the village five miles away.
Cycling, I plan—

My heroine, destitute, must
Make her way in a desp’rate world
She clings to hope,

Teaching fat boys who will not learn,
Wondering what is behind the
Door—it mutters.

Cycling back to the cottage—bread,
Cheese and milk intact—I see
The end end’s well.

Sin doesn't leave the way it's supposed to,

with great chunks rooted ruthlessly.

Sin shrinks and shrinks

and stares into you with unshrinking eyes.

All sin, entire sin, even when

scratched and peeling

it wears and rubs

in the intolerable acid of virtue.

Virtue doesn't make us any cleaner.