Saturday, December 28, 2013

Listen To The Heart

The Wall
—Photo by D.R. Wagner, Locke

—D.R. Wagner

In the broad daylight, the ships are shifted
Port to port and from their masts we see
All of sleep’s delicacy of cities,
Their kirks and their graveyards.

So much seems familiar, and still
We are afraid to waken and find
Only the night touching us, making
Bargains for our dreams.  We can

See who we used to be.  They will
Let us have all of the cities of our past.
They will allow us all the rivers except
Those crossed by the soul only.

And we do not know of what they speak.
The offer us rooms full of the most beautiful
Candlelight and the most perfect of ships
With which to sail... but we may not awaken.

We can intend to find our awakening
But it shall be as a high land, far above
Any sea.  And we may not touch it
Or let it come to be in more than
Dream.  “You shall be happy,”  
They say and “You may roam here
Forever and its day.”

Do not give them what they came for.
You are the Opal they desire.  Do not stay.
You are the sacred one who has
A home and can return to tell
The others.  Theirs is a blackthorn
Plum, the sloe, made into a drink
That coats the throat and makes
A siren-like music as we struggle
To move from these ships of sleep
To a dawn in which we may find speech.


—D.R. Wagner

The moon—it sells its silvered light
To shadows that they may be bright.
It bargains for their mystery and clouds
In which to hide as it pulls the ocean's tides.

We were out upon the strand
To watch the ships up close, first hand
And we saw her toss her light away
Till only half a moon she did display.

Still we will have her back again
Full round about the night
And the shadows will be darker then
And chase her in her flight.

 —Drawing by Tatiana Toronto, Davis

—D.R. Wagner

The long voices of water.
The sky speaks to the mountains.
The mountains mumble back.

When I came into the house
All the floors were covered
With broken and crushed animal
Crackers.  People were lounging in chairs,
On the floor.  Animal
Crackers were everywhere.

I noticed the house has no walls
And adjoined a gas station.
People were looking into the living
Space as they walked by.

I was trying to clean up the mess
When I began to realize that my
Musical instruments were gone.
Some had been stolen.
Some were being stolen.
There were no walls.

A few people were concerned for me,
But most just wanted to grab
Something and split.

I began to panic.
A wave of great loss spread
Over me.  A sadness followed.

I could not shut out the noise
Of the street.  There was nowhere
To hide.  I began to write everything
I could remember about this down.
The words invented their own
Geometries and formed strange algorithms.


—D.R. Wagner

They eat oranges and wait for the sky
To clear, for the black silhouettes of crows
To crowd the early morning over the Dorfstrasse.

They have been coming here since
1634 when that woodcarver returned
To the Ammergau Alps with buboes that hurt,
High fever and muscle aches.  It was too
Late.  There were huge ships in the bloodstream.
They moved out of port.  Twenty-five per cent
Of the population died.  The rats were dancing.

We could see people walking on the paths
Through the forest.  Most of them wore
White and sang songs in an ancient
Tongue.  At night there were candle
Lights and voices of such softness
One would think the clothing of angels
Had been changed into sound.

It rained most of the afternoon yet the light
Was unbearably bright, a mystery indeed.
Christ was scourged and made to carry
A cross through the streets, crowned with thorns,
Finally crucified and died before the wooden
Wagons stopped moving through the streets,
Silent in the morning, full of terms and orders.
Direction was certain but it had no sense.

Today the air is cleaner, so it seems, and thousands
Throng the streets to see the labors of the Christ.
Daily poor Jesus undergoes his terrible swift sword.
For two thousand dollars one can walk over the graves
Where once the stage was built and feel the power
Come down, people carrying the pain over centuries.

They eat oranges and wait for the sky
To clear, for the black silhouettes of crows
The early morning over the Dorfstrasse.

—Photo Enhancement by D.R. Wagner

—D.R. Wagner

Poetry squats in the corner
Waiting for something to do.  It
Expects to see angels nuzzling
Time as if it were a furry
Pet beloved by all.  It waits
For God to smooth its strange
Clothing and talk of how good
And beautiful everything is,
The evening full of that light
God gives it to entertain himself.

Out on the brown rocks and the tan
Rocks the soldiers are looking
For something to kill, for the mistakes
The spirit makes when dogs are
Eating their hearts and their dear
Friends are blown to tiny parts
Across valleys with no names.
The death chop of helicopters
Making their false music to the dust.

Oh it does have something to do.
That it could be a lovely girl
Going to meet her lover, that they
Could caress one another and
Make love in a quiet room with
A fire in the fireplace.  Oh that kindling;
There wasn’t all that bleeding.
The lovely fires.


—D.R. Wagner

The kettle finds the fire.  It always does.
There are thick conversations swirling
Around it.  Steam is breath, the evening
Is cool, cool as the edges of dreams are
Cool, twisting as they do through our veins.

We have nothing to confirm the way
The day changed since the dark that
Ate into the earth at three hours after
Noon, moved its nails and spear points
To the top of the hill.  Just a clamoring
That rises and falls and sometimes seems
Close to weeping, sometimes close to singing.

We realize that we are supposed
To know how all of this happened.
We make our way down the center aisle,
Procession around to the back, through green
Wooden doors to a dark room nearly devoid
Of furniture and more so of speech.

Here we begin to wait in silence.  The candle flame
Plays along the walls in an ancient fashion.
We are well equipped for all of this.
We choose places to sit on the floor,
Listen to someone tell tales well into the dark night.

—Photo by D.R. Wagner

—D.R. Wagner

This room of bright morning,
Full of the drift come down from
The ways we have learned to speak with one
And another.  Oh yes, there were times
When one could stand upon the ramparts,
Whistling the rain down the windows, not
Caring what might be blown in to our
Sad feet.  Now, it seems, things are different.

The cat crosses the alley.  It has no mind
For the dealings of man.  It has
Seen the light of oceans of fish.  They pour
Past its nose and fill the doorways of the piers
With a kind of knowledge you and I can only
Dream of, a wishing for the smells of our ancestors.

Oh sweet burden of standing this way
Before the morning.  Full of each other, the way
We want to be.  I look out past the rain and its pools,
Past the drift of song caught in the puddles.  I am
Here with you once again.  We seem to understand
The language all this world noise makes.
It has a clarity known only to those who have
Loved a long time.  I do not recall any time ever
Being like this one.  Perhaps I am mistaken.
Perhaps this music is only the sound of being
Ignorantly profound.  Listen to the heart.


Today's LittleNip:

—D.R. Wagner

Tte traveling t.
Tht traveling t.
The traveling t.
The ttaveling t.
The trtveling t.
The trateling t.
The travtling t.
The traveting t.
The traveltng t.
The travelitg t.
The travelint t.
The traveling t.



Opuntia Cactus
—Photo by D.R. Wagner