Tag Archives: Attraction

ODE TO NERUDA

ODE TO NERUDA

You have gifted the world with your being
and your words the fruits of your being

You have seen the mother and the lover
in the sea tides rocking rhyme

In the flowers of her hair
in your politics of care

You remind us of the role of all poets
to open and meet the world naked

To perceive the world naked
to receive the world naked

To sing the world naked
naked as your hand

SMALL TOWN – GRADE SEVEN

SMALL TOWN – GRADE SEVEN

In a town of six or seven hundred
you get a cross section of the country

One classmate’s father’s suicide with shotgun
splattered walls

One boy my age, drowned
in an upturned truck in a muddy ditch

One with leukemia, white as the snow

One redhead, Leslie French, as beautiful and
mysterious as the language

One blonde, Shirley Long, to long for

She’s only interested in grade 9 boys

One bruised heart

Not yet hard enough to be broken

DARK EYED LADY

DARK EYED LADY

An instant connection
with richness and light
that’s deeper than centuries
and warmer than life

Though if death’s darkness
is as welcoming as this
no wonder people hurry
to sink into that bliss

An though I’m pretty sure
I’m not ready to be dead
I’d like to sit by those waters
and rest my weary head

And drop pebbles of my poetry
just to watch the ripples spread

SHEEP IN THE NIGHT

SHEEP IN NIGHT

It was in the old Taos Hotel in New Mexico. I had just spent
the night there on my way back from the Light Institute in
Santa Fe, and picked up a book in their little reading room.
It contained this wonderful description.

A poet is something strange and apart, a favourite of the gods, who have bestowed on him an extreme sensitiveness and sensibility,
like open doors and windows, to subtle and delicate impressions that but bruise themselves against other men’s walls; these he captures ad coaxes to sing to him, and intoxicated by the beauty of their melodies builds for them a golden cage and feeds them on honey from the sweetest flowers in his garden: till they in their happiness become so musical, fancying themselves in heaven , that Jove conveys immortality on them, and swinging in their golden cages they sing sweetly forever, lifting up the harts of men in every clime and generation.

As I read in the lobby a lady sat down opposite me in a comfortable old sofa, about four feet away across a gently rugged coffee table.

I had heard the desk clerk greet her as she entered and ask her how the writing was going. We smiled at each other as she sat down. There was a warmth and a recognition in the smile and a knowing that we would each have liked to say something, but we didn’t.

I really would have liked to share the paragraph with her,
but I didn’t.

Later I passed her and a companion having lunch and we again shared the , “Hi, old friend I’ve know forever,” smiles, but didn’t speak

A couple of hours later I was sprinting across the street on the way back to the hotel when a car stopped to let me cross in front of it. It was her again. This time we both laughed and smiled and went our separate ways.

Maybe we were laughing at fate and it’s three good tries, and
our ability to ignore them all, or the lack of courage that had
allowed us to pass – like two sheeps in the night