ON A BLOODSTONE VASE
Old China girl,
The darkness blent to rose
Across her face
(And flaws within the stone
Become her face)
She sleeps
Among the gingerflowers
And lines of pale bamboo.
Half-hidden
In the blood of many hues
She mutely sings,
Her foot upon a barrel
Of suckling pigs,
And head upon
A wickered cloud of doves.
Old China girl,
She dreams the land,
(Herself the land's own dream)
A risen, timeless trophy
From the land.
NETHER STOWEY Coleridge’s home, 1797-98 The cottage lies off the Bristol road, An eyesore for National Trust But a good corrective To the gleams of Glastonbury. A woman sans history Takes your sixpence with a frown, As if you’d lost your way On the Cathedral Tour. You walk into his parlor (Actually his kitchen) And wish the barren writing desk Could summon back The man in velvet: His dark-locked, eyeful head By drugs unleashed from guilt And pain, Sealing old friendships And, godstruck, setting out again With Bracy on the road To Tryermaine. The west door opens On a blind village curve. Back then, The door framed Peddlers, children, vagabonds, Soldiers out to pasture, Horses, wagons Coming into Stowey And through the mind Of Dorothy, On to William. . . . . But now, a flash of bright ribbed steel, Blurred faces On a touring bus, Cars passing through To more enriching things, And lorry dust. The window east no longer Frames the lime-tree bower, His prison. There, for the thousandth time, His pious Sarah Poured her scalding milk Upon his wandering foot. Himself confined, His friends then roamed The landscape of his mind. In there, his study (Now the woman’s bedroom) How many, many times the dreamless cock Invaded paradise An crew for the man from Porlock. . . . . The chain of perception is broken. Not one alive who saw or heard him. And we must lift the shroud With letters, notes, and table talk. For wistful stuff, See Silas T. on horseback, Or Samuel’s stormy brow And rolling vowels With "Lady" In the mists of Cumberland. Witness, reader, his angsst in Malta, His soulfest on the Rhine. Yet here, in culture’s wilderness Of Nether Stowey, A Blue Guide’s few lines of finest print, He felf the deeper pulse Far inward, Deathless, Boundless. Here at Nether Stowey He knew the shaping power, His joy. Perhaps the woman’s child Will see his journeying face Behind the frozen knives Along the eves. Surely it is not his fate To roam forever With the faceless crowd In the thickening haze Above the Quantock hills. L'AMOUR PERDU (on finding an old photograph) And now you come to me Along the river, A single frame Out of an April afternoon. We shared the handle Of the heavy basket, And after bread and wine, The clothes of wind, The wheel of stars, We curled, imploded In the fish-eye dawn. And now you come to me This photograph in sepia Of you, The yellow marimiko With the animals and flowers Half sorry for the scars Of summer foghorn murderous nights Beneath our tree By the river. You ask forgiveness For the wounds. I magnify your breasts Head eyes nose mouth That whispered me to walk All hurt drunk mad Into the river. And now you come to me The smell of fire and celluloid And want the stiff frothed frozen river, The roselipped wolves, The bloody sheep, To be April In Arcadia. Max Cordonnier THE GARDEN
Dance forepatterned Before it began. A moment of They And I The same as a moment Of We. Remembrance of Laws Is echoed By working of laws. Slow Tranced gestures In a highwalled garden Impelling the thumb And forefinger Toward fruit. In the chamber Of Then We poise And linger. Made dumb, The swelling of Me, A percept of flaws, Thing, Mask, Mobility. They dance The function of seeds, Leaves wood stone fire The struggle of Us, Sing, Clasp, Engender desire. They kneel To the finehoned sword Across the entrance. Max Cordonnier GREAT GRANDMOTHER In memory of Maggie Cordwain, departed this sphere in childbirth, February 29, 1787, in her forty-third year. She waited for a sign That he allowed her eyes And breasts were more Than motherly. He shuddered to think thighs Defiled the Grand Design And talked her into Dying late with child. They straightened out her legs And crossed her arms. They let the earth And roots Hump forth Her pregnancy. And we wonder how the young Can wax so wild And pluck the Golden Apples Casually. Max Cordonnier
PRAYER OF XENOPHANES' HORSE Pale Horse’s Face, Fixed counterstar of interstellar space! In the memory of my sire (Who never missed a chariot race), Quench this dire equestrian lust Which, like a greedy barnfly, Makes me whinny as she shimmies by. Change her gait to a clumsy hog’s, Beset my hoofs with nipping dogs, Upon her rump place a wooly wort... O, You, who hear our every neigh, In battle, sport, on Emperor’s Day, In Thee, Great Father, I put my trust, O Horse, Colt, and Sacred Snort! Max Cordonnier THE COSMIC GARDENER for Inigo Jones Christ haunts the branches Of my summer oaks, His head and torso Leaning forward, then recedes Into the shadows Washed in green. The crucifix implodes Into the darkest leaves, Will stay until the flame and dust Of Autumn makes it fade, Imperial gold. The Oaks, their serried ranks Permit the wind To barely twitch the weathercock And shake the butane torch Upon the patio. The garden walls are sheathed With lead and brass And crowned with taut barbed wire. Imagine searchlights, sirens, towers, Turrets, and spears of bright Stained glass to catch The sun, If there were a sun. Within, through black iron flowers That guard the window, The hearth’s spent dreams Behind me, now behold The shroud of Jesus Smoulders in the coals. . . . . . I, the gardener, peer outward And cry for ancient Light. Light, the glory, sent him Stumbling toward Damascus, His whip transfigured To a silver cord. Light, when the dart’s tip touched Her flaming heart, russled her skirts Like the wild spring tides. Light, not the modern light, The impasse of the great and small, Light, the vulture of Prometheus. . . . . . I, the gardener, peer outward. The grand mechanick eyes and ears Are fruitless as my own. I see young Tycho voyaging Past Jupiter and Saturn. I hear old Tycho crying In the ruins of Uraniborg. I hear old Ptolemy laughing In the wreck of Alexandria. I am done with journeys. Come now sweet inner Light. Max Cordonnier THE BORDER Three old Chinese women pose for pictures at the border. How their faces crack and grin As one adjusts the curtains of her hat And another lights a pipe for local color. Above, a British border station stands imposing in its duty. Below, along the river, barbed wire neatly runs Across the backs of fields and barns and duck ponds. What remains beyond the Cold War and theatrics: Children laughing hom from school across the line, A distant field, against the mountains yellow-green, Of peasants planting bright new shoots of rice.
OLD MAN OF THE RIVER When she was young And on their quiet knees The cypress prayed upon our rowing Through the oxbows, We swayed to loving laughter ‘Til the stars caught in the trees. Now our ever new experience Of the upper room Lies mudlocked in my mind, And after silent rowing, I’ll drink the rotting porch Until it rocks upon the wind.
STILL LIFE Wet walls inside, Outside burned dry, Stone windowsill Narrow and high. Light stream floods A spray of blood roses, Drenching dark petals Like a flashlight Shining through hands And white fingers, Settles and lingers Between clouds and night. On a table it stands, A spray of blood roses In vase of white bone Like carved honeycomb On a bare earthen table. And there intermesh, Light, blood, bone, and flesh. ORCHARD Stillness on the waters And the crickets of the evening Bear us up ‘Til we sink dead and founder In the days almost forgotten. Yet through the awful tingling mind Wells a force of dim persuasion To its fructifying dome, And we come home: A small child darkly running In a host of apple blossoms. AMERICAN GOTHIC What is his sin, The man nextdoor? From his hollow eyes And trembling mouth A chicken squawk, An asinine roar, And she controls the pitch. It is rumored He had a flashlight In his stomach. She comes out on Mondays In late morning. Sometimes the garish sun Obscures her features. Her big red pinchers Snap the linen In disgust. Their children whine In after anthem hours. The roommates with a license And a ritual Talk and fuss and scream. A bitter "two o’clock in the morning" din. O God restore All band pavilions
In every park. O God bring back the flowers Under porches On our summer nights. NE PLUS ULTRA
Spheres are never seen, Though the solid bright percipi Seem to coax their gay rotundity Upon the brain. A peacock rears his heads Among a host of mirrors But, calm or turning, Nothing sees But myriad angularity. Someone may see our pain. TO BYRON
on joining the fight for Greek independence When to a wrinkled faun Burnt slivers of the sun Died across the night, Did he tally pairs Of snow-blue, brown, or darker eyes? Or did the vacant stare Of one incite A nervous painful smile Upon his cheek, And turning to things Greek, The leaves clutched sapless marble As he joined the rank and file. THE MAGI Dusk ignites the sun. Cacti Spring out Along the moving edge Of light And fade Dark grenadiers In white. Camels scream and rage Across the blank. The sand is glass. Mushroom Rooted in the mirror And on the rim Repass And pass And clank The Magi. Camels float and turn Around The dustbloom. Calyx dry and vacuum. Camels jerk and beat Into the sand, And roar and grind. Down hot wind Bend The Magi. Calyx dry and tomb. Nor yet enough Of yellow stuff Nor windy sough To carry. No fiery hair Or lucent eyes Or wet maimed limbs To bury. No swollen rift Where life can lift A forehead In the dawn. Yet here is born Of empty horn Opaque Apollo. Nor love Nor lust, From doveless dust Upthrust The blank Apollo. Hoof-ground sand. In clouds Of sense Go Magi Bearing instruments. Ex nihilo They shroud, Adorn, Transfigure And transfix Centripetal Apollo. Camels writhe And trust And, from the sage, Perfume. TO CLAUDE MONET in a time of disorder Words, Sounds, Scream and crash. Senseless bats In the cavernous heads Of men. We rue The death of the word, And turn To you. You make In mist And sun The leaves And soft fallen Things Make rainbow rings In the pool. You make The small vibrations Of light, Of sound, Wedded to things That are Themselves (and you, godlike, made these) Minuscule Constellations. Courtesy CAPE ROCK
LAST LYRIC for a woman of courage Not too disstilled For carols of the winter. Not too unlike the barley In the sun. Golden, never, Like the moonfilled river, And too fastrooted For running To the sea. Not too unlike the barley Wishing for the sea. NOCTURNE With a dull stomach pain Last night I arose And expected To see Jesus leaning back Beneath our polelamp, See His head in shadow On a pillow, While the billow Of His robes, their whiteness Filled the room. No, was just the cyclops, And the hardwood shining bare. As I walked into the bathroom, To a whistled hymn’s refrain, The hairrinse hose, A golden eel, Went round and round and round And whirled into the drain.
FANTASIA FOR MELISSA with Balloons When you are lonely, love, Remember that your loneliness May be but empathy with mine. If I have caught some shadow Of your heart, The flight of private words Will be, when we’re apart, Our ghost of bread and wine. i. Nature Look, against the clouds! The redtail we saw sitting On the lowest branch. The redtail turns and turns Above on level wings. Suddenly the sun, the wind, A flash of skyblown feathers, The color of your hair. The hawk’s eye’s on the fieldmouse, Whose eye’s upon the insect and the seed. The naked round of energy Is so decreed. I see its awesome beauty Through your eyes. Yet sometimes when life seems One desperate and futile leap, Like a plane that leaves The bodies strewn across The first small hill, Or looking toward my grave physique, I see an old humped salmon, Lustful in his white ascent, Lie spent, in shallow water— All torn by matters bleak, I come to you. And in our secret hours, By our river, at our table, In our bed, Your soul still sings: There is sweet power At the core of things. First Balloon The long, harsh hiss, The creaking ropes, The struggle to ascend. We’ve barely miss the houses And the deadly branches. I feel your breath Upon my cheek, Your hands. The sea-green canopy aloft, Our basket swaying free, The animals and minucule, The cities made for dolls, The once pround waves But thin white lines Along the shore. The starry kingdom everywhere, The grand menagerie, And we, like Nature’s gods, Are everywhere, Melissa. . . . . ii. Spirit Last night, outside your house, Did you hear the wind chimes Mingling in no wind? Did you hold your blouse Up to your face, Then check the handkerchief I may have touched that day? Were love’s forensics All to no avail, And still you caught My scent within the room? And did you feel the unseen] Paws across your bed? I was the soft cool pads And gentle claws That brushed your cheek. And on your shelf, Within the brittle urchin, Relic of the ancient sea, We were the pale white doves Huddled in its tree. Or did you fly to me? I lack the inborn gift, That second sight, Or it arrives so seldom, As in a dream, my father Led me to a window Of my childhood home, And I saw Grandma All fiery on her bed. Next morning I received The phone call: she was dead. The other night I woke, The shortwave dial aglow, The static drone of propaganda, Of madness, megatons, and might, Of children armed with wooden rifles Scampering over hills to drive, In mock pursuit, The devils to the sea. And the terrorists’ taking credit For murdering a mother And her child at a airport. Then I heard your voice And you whispered of the peace Beyond the worldly plane, If we would only seek. And then I felt your hair Upon my cheek, The ghost of hair. I tasted just a hint Of Liebfraumilch. Second Balloon The air’s so thin up here. No wind, and yet we drift Through galaxies. No sound. Our canopy of fine white silk, Our basket whiter than the froth Upon a milky sea. We do not kiss, but share A ghostly consumation. Do not love, as bodies love, But fuse like magic holographs From the cameras of the gods. Pure energy, we merge And part and merge again. The constellations, once So heightened we could see The jewels in Orion’s belt, The tint of Cassiopea’s hair, The grand forms vanish And we enter into light And light and light and light. And we are What ultimately we are, Melissa.