Saturday, November 01, 2014

What Will Remain Knowable?

 Theater Light
—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke


Great skulls moving downriver.
Just south of here the river begins
To churn up the water.  One can hear
The Falls in the close distance.
No one can see in this weather.

We could hear people on the shoreline.
They were making a great noise
As if they had just discovered History
To be a real place.  A few of them lit torches
But it was too dark to see what was going on.

We used to have prayers.  People lit candles
Inside of churches and expected something
To happen that would make sense of all this
Suffering and blood.  Even a ghost would do.

The angle of the river becomes steeper.
The air loads itself with the sound of rapid water.
We settle into the thwarts and reach for the oars.
“If we head to the West we should be okay.”
“Which is West?” a voice asks.  It is too dark
To see much of anything.  "Look up toward the moon.”

We begin the hard pull against the flailing water.
The moon seems like a good idea.  Anything
At this moment to keep us away from the brink.

 Bowl of Ears Left Over From Halloween


The lights have all gone out.
I am waiting by the barn.
The darkness pushes things
Farther and farther apart.
I can just feel your fingertips
Touching mine.

A word for nothing wrecks
Against the wall of the barn.
It has more power than anything
I could say.  All I could think of
Was how beautiful the sound was.

What has been broken besides
My ability to speak clearly?
Meaningless clouds crowd the sky.
I thought there would be a bull charging
Toward us, obliterating your touch.

Now, it may not matter what will happen.
My mouth gets crowded with sun
And moon and love but they have
No order.  There is no door.
There is no certainty of anything,
Yet there are more and more things
Pushing against us.  How about happiness?
Where is that?  In this dark it has such
A different taste. 

There is dust on the river.  We have
No idea if we have traveled anywhere
At all or if this is even our universe,
The one we think is familiar.
Remember the pictures of it
In those books?

I begin to think your fingertips might just
Be the surface of another mirror,
That I am feeling a corridor
That will open where there is
A little light, something glowing
From within the barn.

Surely everything endures somewhere.
Because we have forgetting
Is what causes this kind of terror.
The color of lilacs in the blood.
The stubbornness of love
In its endless rooms.
In this darkness, tell me
Which side of the wall
Might we be on?  What
Will remain knowable?



I know you beyond
The past, when life
Was the debris that we became.

I touch your hand.
I could never have imagined
That I would be able to do so.

We race apart from each other.
Sometimes I can only touch your clouds.
Everything you know is here.

 Detail from an Enamel by Fred Dalkey


I am invisible
But I am rain.
The color of rain
Invents the air
And I am trembling
In the language here
In white wings.
In here, a heart
Enormous in its
Own universe of what?

My toys, or, we say,
Tears.  No, tears.
Rain, no, tides.
No, thighs and a wrist.
Creeping, rushing, waiting
For the gate that is a hand.

For sleep.  Let’s have some.
Let’s have our own kingdom.
Look what flutters down
From trees that smile,
Not caring about tomorrow.

We dive, naked with rain.
Touching as much as possible
On the way down.

We are as foolish as yes.
We drip from the eaves,
The edges of the world.



Salt we say as darkness.
I will gesture, embracing
The dawn.  Come, this is huge.
So large we cannot remember.

What is our keen ship
Pulling through?  Explosions
Like these?  Thrilling
That perpetual point
Our bodies hold to love
And spark our hearts?

We are not going to take this
Any further.  A sweet dream
Unsuspected, giving
Everything we know so silently,

One can barely hear it.
Having lips, thighs, hands,
The whole of eyes and lips.

This is living on nothing.
My breath quickens.
My eyelids flutter.
We had better keep moving
This way or we will become
A great wind, inside a too-small



This is a language.
It is not forms dancing.
Someone is speaking to you
From inside your body
Through all this time.
A voice saying,
I love you still.
I am glad that you are here
Seeing these words.
Let them feel your breath
For a moment.
Let them move in the air.
You may hear these sounds
Whenever you like.
They may become your own.
Take them.  Say them to another.
Let them see this brief string
Of sounds held together by the
Small moment of their peculiar
Music.  Here, I will say them with you.


Today's LittleNip:


I don’t know
What’s up with this,
But I found your
Memory wandering around
In my heart
Like it owned the place.


—Medusa, reminding you to set your clocks back an hour tonight at midnight—the only day in your life when time actually runs backward...

 Niagara Poem by D.R. Wagner