girl in bright
yellow rain boots
pilots her scooter
over cracked uneven
concrete, with all
the guileless skill
and grace of swallows
chasing twilight over
waves of wind-tossed grass
the variegated fashions
of this striding
peacock crowd
are nothing set against
a farmer’s field, riotous
with dandelions,
chicory, and the
buzzing symphony
of bees
– T.H.
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In between the shadow and
the light, be we ever so
humble, revelation wakens as
drunken laughter between kinsmen,
or an enemy well met
on crumbling walls, a
balm to cover the endless night;
Not long ago, we
sat by the Ganges and talked
as lovers do, between
the billowing sheets, the
tablecloths hung out to dry, rooms
long empty, filling up until
our hearts were overflowing with the
half-remembered songs of moss
green tufted soft beneath your head; had
we but walked a few more steps, reached
out to stir the water with our
skin-starved fingertips, our lips
dry river beds soon flooded, and
all the clouds in riot; yet covered
we our staid and sainted eyes, cast up
to the heavens our apologies, and all our
secrets kept, save one: our own true names.
– T.H. (& Emily, with a nod to TSE)
Read the full poem by Emily Dickinson here (“I died for Beauty — but was scarce”)
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Going deep retro today, following a nifty form called the “Golden Shovel” after the poem by Terrance Hayes. Have to say these were a heck of a lot of fun to write; like getting to have tea with your ideal poetry jam band.
Only in defiance of dismay, does Hope
prevail; only in stubborn rebellion is
our dry torch kindled, the
perilous folly of subversion: this thing
they call passion, but a bird with
borrowed, ill-fit feathers
demurely folded up, until that
day when the inevitable perches
hawk-like far above, to fall in
deadly perfect silence, the
talons taking purchase on the soul,
tearing all to pieces; and
still we shiver as the siren sings,
stop up our ears with the
memory of a different tune,
pray for a dawn without
consequence or regret, the
fiction of a promise without words;
Yet prick us, and
see our loved ones bleed, and never
was there rage so fierce, all stops
cast off, as all bolts fly at
Agincourt, so shall we conquer all.
– T.H. (& Emily, with a bow to William S.)
Read the full poem by Emily Dickinson here (“Hope is the thing with feathers”).
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the branches
have caught the clouds
translucent silver floss
against the night-dark sky
Mars rising above
the nearly-full moon
and yet
there is none
of the sweet contentment
that the day’s events foretold
only a deep and desperate ache
propelling the body
from over-hot sheets
into the haunting hours
that breach the living gap
between midnight and dawn
this is what they mean
by running to stand still
no matter how fervently
the dragonfly heart denies it,
the inescapable fact remains:
you can’t catch Byzantium
with empty nets
– T.H.
(up at 4am, again)
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If by loving, you mean
conspicuous consumption
of one another’s souls,
devouring each hour
yet hoarding minutes
like secret treasure,
deluding ourselves
that we can keep time
tucked away, safe
in the faulty vaults
of memory – and yet
nowhere is entropy
more apparent, more
glaringly obvious
than in that
which we think
we remember.
– T.H.
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Improvised flower vases
and wrapping paper trees
roots like mountains
seen from the eyes
of circling eagles
at once emerging
and settling, growth
and decay, no more
contrary than rose
petals and thorns,
a discordant symmetry:
the cosmic wail
of distorted electric guitar
spelling out the names
of stars and forgotten
background radiation,
pain that verges on ecstasy,
a ringing of celestial strings
struck with the well-worn pick
of disillusioned immortals;
How a stranger’s
intangible yearning
can translate through
the ephemeral code
of electronic pulses
and magnetic fields,
a fixed point enacted
in the so-called past
becomes immediate
present, time and space
erased in an instant
transformed into a perfect
moment of rebirth,
a dagger in the mind
piercing to the core;
it leaves no trace
of bloody injury, only
a shedding of unnecessary skin,
a lowering of barriers
to permit this temporary
osmosis of the spirit.
– T.H.
(listening to White Hills while walking through a spring-soaked afternoon past low-rent apartment buildings)
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Bent black lines
this thing they call
wrought iron, but isn’t
across the street,
spray-painted styrofoam
in juxtaposition with
salt-worn brick
shares the same
concrete footing;
There is no permanent
reminder here,
of all the feet
that passed this way,
carrying lives & longings,
fancies, follies, quests
both grand and grim;
only a gradual beating down,
a wearing through, slow
weathering dissolution
of structure & stability,
a perpetual settling
of strata and form.
Those who come after
will have no way of knowing,
only the most frail
of half-educated guesses;
the only certainty being
that once, in this place,
intent and purpose took hold;
What speed, what sense,
what path it took
once treading heels
left concrete for the wilder
ways now ages overgrown
lies only in the dreams
of madmen, poets, and
would-be comedians, the
imaginary domains
of thespians and cult leaders,
philosophers, god-kings,
and small children building
brave new worlds
out of sidewalk chalk and sand.
– T.H.
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Poem by John Keats, reading by Benedict Cumberbatch.
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Got a bit behind thanks to a few days of being under the weather; aiming to get caught up this weekend. In the meantime, here’s a timeless classic by the inimitable Maya Angelou:
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Noble silhouette
against the pale blue sky
under the serene white crescent
of the four o’clock moon
(meanwhile, across town)
A freedom of starlings
congregates below
the green peeling windows
while reflections of flight
in warped bulging glass
give weight to the theory
of glass as a liquid
– T.H.
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