Monthly Archives: February 2010
So, I’ve been trying to catch hold of something that’s always moving and always still and always there. But I don’t see it. If I could fall into that void, I might be lost forever. Not without the proper foothold. The hold of what?
Perhaps I’ll make a daily account of what I mean.
Yesterday, while at a Thai restaurant, a waitress must have pressed herself inward, looking at me. “Do you not like your spring rolls?” she asked. It wasn’t that I didn’t like them, but that I was reading Louise Gluck and thinking about creation, about the dark-unearthed feeling before a door opens. Or how the heart opens after the Other has retreated.
She must have pressed herself inward, looking at me.
Then, something told me to hold on to something in that moment. Not that I needed an anchor, but a latch. Or a side-mouth from which to understand why currents work this way.
So, I said, “teacup” in my head. And there, yes, my peppermint tea, steaming.
Something said “look at it.” As though I didn’t see it before, as though, even as I lifted it and held it, it wasn’t there at all. Suddenly, a cup on a table loved.
And, again. The moment sticks to me as if it was a grand gesture. But it was an everyday one. This is what I am learning. An everyday gesture.
I will try to find another tonight.
Exercise in writing a series of sonnets with Rilke’s first line in his Book of Hours:
The hour is striking so close above me—
after a leaving, moments grate
teeth into the side of the Mare, taste
whatever longing was left in her, blue
tangled, light-bursts, maybe. I know
Santiago feels haulted, heavy
up Hermit’s Peak, prayers, bell claps—
like his piebold’s hooves, breaking
the bones he rode, godspeed, toward light—
I know him, in my wondering
whether to eat the eye of the Mare
Eye, eye, eye! God—don’t look back—
Keep love inside you like this, he said
Nothing, guapa, has it’s tongue in you.
I live my life in widening circles,
called from the mountain—
Nothing, guapa, has it’s tongue in you—
Pine fur against back, I’d go there,
a child, closer to Light—
Santiago kept vigils to Mary, chanted
down in manure for his brother, Miguel,
that his bullets didn’t pierce the vortex.
But his heart, guapa! May it be eaten
by cattle in the field, he said. I know
I live my life circling one thing—
Hermit’s Peak, childhood, the Light.
God told me: I am the eye, eye, eye
Of the Mare in the storm, dying.
I have many brothers in the South
Santiago said, peeled root and mushrooms.
Everything gives body to Light!
My Miguel, bullet-eye,
Speak to me in tongue tangled
In the pine, hermano, hermano, O—
Bells, guapa, clap to you.
We took the Mare’s eyes,
Into a mountain-mouth—
Her hooves, broken, bent and I,
I know the worship-taste of Now—
Light-bursts, maybe, circle
Speaks its tongue into me.
We must not portray you in king’s robes,
You, peak-toward-light, mountain-man,
hermit, hermano, O—
Now, though walking streets,
Though far from your singing,
I hear you call in city-bell.
Everything gives its body.
Santiago prayed to Mary
Chants into old rock—
Belly of the Mare, split
For moments like this—
Eye, eat the I — I
feel a tongue tangle in the street—
know Nothing leans, circles me.
I love the dark hours of my being—
Once, I passed St. Patrick’s at Mass
a mirror pressed to my face—
I held his hand. I know. What I wanted
Was this space, damp as a mountain-mouth—
In it, blue echoes, pressed to You, O
Hermano, brother, lover—quiet storm
Out, out, with the I of things. Now—
Nothing circles me. Keep pressed, love,
here—speak the tongue, tangled Santiago,
his fingers clapped. City-bells clap
what was meant for me, God, eye
eye of the Mare, in her circling—
whatever longing there—take.
You, God, who live next door—
Or under brush where the Mare slept,
keep your Light on the mountain,
On Santiago, praying. On Miguel’s
Bullet-eye. On blue-tangled Now—
Keep love inside you like this,
He said, Give your body.
Bone-bursts through pine, I know.
Cattle in the field circled me.
O Mary, he prayed, my brother’s
heart, hermano, dies in the mountain-
mouth, in the eye of God. Guapa—
His tongue in you, a peak-root.