Blue

Blue mist, bluer stillness,
rising up
from the hollow

to the ridge where I wait
not wanting to return
to the blue house

on the hillside where
he still sits inside shaking
from the effort of squeezing

my throat until I turned
blue in the face and finally
he let go and I left with

nothing but a pair of blue
jeans, huddled here turning
blue as the night chill

comes on, night coming
to hide the guarded faces
of those who hear and know

and do nothing but sit behind
windows translucent-blue
with age and wear

and hope that someone,
somewhere, sometime
will do more than hope.

(Jazz) Note To Myself

All a musician can do is to get closer
to the sources of nature, and so feel
that he is in communion with the natural laws.
—John Coltrane

I don’t want to be
the typical doleful
poet, perpetual
frown, in-drawn,

soul-withered whether
or not the weather’s
fine, hearing
every song

in a minor key—
so get over yourself,
play the changes,
sing fortississimo,

head bop
to the jazz of life
ringing out
in earth, creek, and sky.

Sand Castles

sand castle

We don’t know what makes a life
         but we try to build one anyway,
like children patting together

         sand castles that the water
will lap away anyhow
         into the obliterating sea, bit

by gritty bit. Reliving
         the old, old story
we raise towers

         whose tops may reach unto heaven
to make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad
         upon the face of the whole earth,

to emphasize our hopes
         of seeing high and deep and wide,
squatting sodden-drawered

         on the sand,
waves drowning out
         our voice.

Crow

fish_crow_glamor_bruce_van_valen

(Image: Bruce Van Valen)

today as others
i rise up again to cry
this one piercing note

 


I had trouble pulling this together, but reading Sylvia’s post this morning inspired me to find the words I was searching for. Thanks, Sylvia! By the way, if anyone wants a real treat, head over to Sylvia’s place at spanishwoods. The photos are wonderful (she often uses her son Wolf’s photos, and they both have an unerring eye for line and color) and the words she adds are always beautiful, intelligent, and very well done.

Denise Levertov: Intimation

Denise Levertov
I am impatient with these branches, this light.
The sky, however blue, intrudes.
Because I’ve begun to see
there is something else I must do,
I can’t quite catch the rhythm
of days I moved well to in other winters.
The steeple tree
was cut down, the one that daybreak
used to guild–that fervor of birds and cherubim
subdued. Drought has dulled
many a green blade.
                  Because
I know a different need has begun
to cast its line out from me into
a place unknown, I reach
for a silence almost present,
elusive among my heartbeats.

______________

My apologies to all those who read the first posting of this–I accidentally left out a line which has since been edited back in. I am usually very careful with others’ poetry, and it was not my intention to disrupt the meaning or flow of this excellent poem.