Baryshnikov

I saw him dance Swan Lake.
He was utterly thrilling
because he was humble.

Standing with heels together,
as if waiting for Icarus to move out of the way.

It was not enough for him to fly through air–
air was a poor canvas for what he did.

He took your heart in his hands and said, look what God wants from us–
he wants joy. He wants us to feel his joy.

If I were to write a home repair manual for poetry,
I would put those words into Baryshnikov’s mouth
and ask you to believe that you stand in his incomparable satin shoes.

The Pleiades Below

A human heart pumps enough blood
over the course of a lifetime to fill a super tanker.

Say this heaving ship full of blood
hits a shoal and spills its precious cargo into the sea.

All the proud, anxious, willful hours
infused in an entire liquid lifetime
mix with the dreams of sea urchins
and manta rays become blinded by love incarnadine.

Above the waves a lighthouse casts it’s watery beam
on a little white clapboard Catholic church near the bay.

A priest bends over with an aching back to tie his shoes,
wondering–out of nowhere– if God gave sea creatures
a mining claim on the un-lived fossil bed lives of his believers.

A Note to My Children About Money

Scratch, jack, bones,
skins, buckage, bank.

The nicknames change over time.

Did you know your distant ancestors worked no more
than four hours a day to earn their living?

They did not have a twenty four hour fire hose
of distractions, though.
Living was distraction enough.

If you find yourself addicted to electronic distractions
in the interstitial time between work and sleep, try saving a third of your income.
Your income is the congealed energy you traded your time for.
This practice will help wake you up.

And don’t forget to write.

Parable on Couch Street

A homeless person
sitting on the sidewalk.

Spare change?

Another homeless person walking by
gives the first one a quarter,
then turns to me–

Spare change?

An Ahab in Blood

“Captain Ahab stood upon his quarter-deck. There seemed no sign of common bodily illness about him, nor of the recovery from any. He looked like a man cut away from the stake, when the fire has over-runningly wasted all the limbs without consuming them…you saw a slender rod-like mark, lividly whitish, like a lightening strike in a tree.”  — Moby Dick

No thing in the flesh
burns more searingly
than this hatred.

It is a hotter fire,
a pain more cutting,
a sorrow more eviscerating–
this diamond pure
rancor and loathing.

And yet –and yet–
it can bring a Fletcher Christian
and his crew out of the maw
o Pitcairn island.

It seems nothing good
in this world
comes without alloy.

The Seance

Once there was a seance that left everyone with a shimmering feeling of being inside on a snowy day.

Even the TV sat up and took notice, stopping its own snowing.

One can be in two places at the same time if you don’t mind being both substance and shadow.

Now the winter won’t let go.
The birds still call each other by their winter names.

They resemble maracas that can’t stop clacking when they are left on the table. Music swallowed by frozen water.

It is still beautiful to see a newborn in the womb, feet askew on the glass skin.

An aquarium fish looks out at you
and asks if we are related.

Relative by Partaw Naderi, translated by Sarah McGuire

I know the language of the mirror –

its perplexities and mine
spring from one race

our roots can be traced
to the ancient tribe of truth

Kabul
February, 1994

(with thank to the Poetry Translation Centre)

Original poem written in non-roman script

The Divine Willy on Opportunity

“There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood leads on… we must take the current where it serves or lose our venture.”

—Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

Everglade Days

The mangrove holds the ocean back,
but takes the sea into its nostrils.

Roots reflected in the water,
a spiny möbius
sipping the tea colored sea.

The night sky bends down under my kayak,
a man in a mosquito tent buffaloes all night next to me.

The prince of storms
is tuning up to the south

like a chorus in Aida
or Sikorsky helicopters shuffling cards.

Tomorrow my pea pod vessel
must bear the weight of my fears.

Planxty Pete Seegar

If there is a world a hundred years from now, it will be in part because of banjo.

–Pete Seeger, 1919-2014

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Fear No Poetry

Don’t be afraid of how I sound, the ancient chants are here inside the poems.

–Yeats on reading his poems aloud

A Catskill Eagle in the Soul

There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces.

–Herman Melville, Moby Dick

A Writer’s Job

“Each word has an interior life. Your job is to caretake the interior life of words and language through your selection and arrangement of them in stories.”

–a Japanese storyteller

We Are Free People

“We are free people and free people feel no fear.”

–a member of the punk band Pussy Riot detained in Sochi today for criticizing Putin

Today’s Poem by Pushkin, Translated by Nabokov

A lone sower of liberty, I came out too early, before the morning star.

[…]

My time, my labors, my best thoughts were merely lost.

Keep to your pastures, peaceful nations, what is the gift of liberty to sheep. To be slaughtered or shorn, that is what they are for, their inheritance throughout the ages is a yoke with bells and a goad.

-Aleksandr Pushkin

 

Planxty Edward Snowden

Hand assembling a stadium-sized puzzle
of interlocking data boulders:
these malware bot modules
go over there in the zettabyte
server farm racks.

Looking up from the pens
beneath the Coliseum,
lions and cheetahs
with sharpened fangs
and jeweled collars
lick us affectionately.

Look, a new David,
has thrown open
the outer gates!
Caesar’s grin freezes.

Today’s Guest Poet — Dan Brook

Dan Brook sent over this gentle poem– his fine tribute to labor and liberation. I am happy to publish it on the Little Planet Daily.

Yours in art and labor,

–Burl

Kibbutz Sa’ar

hot, remote
yet welcoming
a shared bubble
proud of itself
deservedly so
working in the mornings
out in the fields
or washing dishes,
doing laundry,
in the factory
resting in the afternoons
after lunch together
reading books
taking naps
writing poems
reveling in the evenings
playing games
playing music
dancing around
we shared everything
with communal kindness
one day
only one day
I worked with the chickens
stealing their eggs
(I’m sorry)
that day
I became vegetarian
I preferred
the oregano fields
I can still smell
the loveliness
of collective labor
and cooperative living
of alternative space
and utopian visions
within the confines
of this little commune
I sensed my freedom
I tasted our liberation

Planxty Wallace Stevens

Dense, viscous,
thicker than reason
(or “libry paste”
as my father used to say.)

Try to dive in
and he’s elusive
going all mystic disputation
in the tumult of integrations on you

until the insurance executive
who won a Pulitzer for poetry
decides to leave you an alleyway
to duck into.

Winding through
his staccato streets
narrowed by lime shuttered houses,

past his glass aswarm with things
backlit just enough
to glimpse his
green fan printed with red willow,

leading to the poolroom
where he sits playing cards
waiting for you to show up
and take him precisely at his word.

After the Motorcycle Accident

back aches
in a torn blue line
of furnaces

Today’s Apocopated Rhyme Poem

The Lone Pilgrim
(adapted from a traditional shapenote hymn)

I came to the place
Where they laid the lone pilgrim
In the shade by a tree on the hill

When in a low voice
I heard something murmur
How sweetly life passed in a blur

It was a great pride
And a passion consuming
Compelled me far from my home

On Jerusalem’s road
I did meet the contagion
And so I fell from life’s stage

Go and tell my companions
In sorrow most grievous
Be grateful, do not to weep for me

The same hand that lead me
Through seas wild and foaming
Has kindly assisted me home