Shearing Through the Night

D. R. and Daughters (Altered Photo)

—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA
 

WE HAVE NO INFORMATION



We were unable to revive him.


No one is supposed to be that color


Except perhaps a lobster, blue, yellow,


White, orange and black in the same body.



His skin looked like ancient Roman glass.


There was an oily sheen that reflected


Light like motor oil mixed with water.



His mouth was broken.  We supposed


He had said something that did not fit in it.


It looks like he was starting to smile


But everything collapsed before it got there.



His car was still shaking.  It kept it up


For about three hours but here was no wind.


And it wasn’t running.  It did not make any noise.



You are not supposed to know any of this.


There was no identification on his body.


By the time the police got there, all that was left


Was the car.



If anyone asks you about this, act like you


Don’t know anything and claim that


You were just reading a poem.  Everyone


Will believe you and leave you alone. 

 Russell's Truck

THE BLANK ROOM



Stairs that go nowhere


No matter how long you climb them.



Against the back wall, can after


Can of lightning, mostly dented.


The labels read, Flower Girl Lightning.


Alive, yet not Alive.



Years ago they had kept harvested


Ice in this room.  Most of the Summer 


It was cool and damp, with little light.


The cutting tools remained in stacks 


Along the walls, gray and dark,


Piles of sharp teeth pointing in 


All directions.



We had made a promise to be here.


It was a way to collect memories 


That could be had in few other ways.

“You should try it,” they had said.


“Nobody has died yet.”  But that


Was a lie.  There were galvanized


Pails full of keys near the door.



In the compound yard, in what 


Used to be corrals, great piles


Of boots and shoes reached higher


Than a two-story building.  There


Were hundreds of them.  Gray and silent


Children roamed over them, collecting


Laces, plying them into great ropes


Used to bind the abandoned 


Ocean liners to the rotting docks.



“Can you believe people still manage 


To live here?”  Ramon asked politely.


“No,” I answered.  “Why do they do so?”


“There is no place else anywhere 


Even remotely like this place.”

THE FOG AT NIAGARA FALLS



So thick it spilled over


The gorge lip, filling


The streets with a dense white


Wall, stealing every sound


The night chanced to create.



A blank stillness


Devouring streets, buildings,

Houses, light itself.


There was nothing else


In the world, only fog.



Baxter and I stepped outside


His home just to see,


Just to hear this kind of voice.



Then we walked in opposite


Directions for a short time,


Turned and ran toward each other,


Arms outstretched, flying past


Each other like thick phantoms


Visible only for an instant.



We did this two or three times.


Each time a surprise,


An event, as we passed


Each other in this peculiar dark.



For years we carved this event


Separately.  Still it remained


The same in both our recollections.


Such is fog.



It holds moments


As singular things,


A permeable loud


Resting upon the ground


For a time gathering


Events and lives to itself.



Dispersing again without a trace.


Except these notes remembering.


Except the friendship recalled,


Our lives somehow linked


Because of it, arms outstretched,


Shearing through the night.



THE HOME OF THE VAMPIRE
                

                with a line by Melissa Studdard


Of course it was a great pile,


Battlements and turrets and half-


Turrets.  Collapsed staircases.


Hundreds of rooms, most of them quite small.


One could spread one’s arms and touch the nether


Walls.  Small windows allowed quicksilver light


Into the rooms.  All color faded.  “Have you 


Learned anything by being here?  A prayer perhaps?”



I saw a small lawn with rows of cages, each


With a cloud of a different color within. 


“I keep these for the various seasons,”


The vampire had said in the same tone


With which he had explained the moats


Filled with stars in nets heaped far below


The water.  “These are from the temples,”


He had said, laughing softly to himself.



Occasionally he would explain


That he needed to touch me.


But I would hand him a rock


And he would be placated for awhile.


Turning it over and over in his hands,


Studying its shape as he held it 


At arms’ length.



“You have a most interesting spine,”


He announced to me as we climbed 


Toward the halls where he kept the whirlwinds.


“Yes,” I said, “it allows me to fly or sail if I must.”


He fumbled with his keys, trying


To find those that fit the dry, yet festered


Wood he used to build the doors to those rooms.


“It took me years to find the correct wood to keep 


These things here.  They love black leaves,


You know,” he added, as he slid the bones


Of the bolts aside and we watched them 


Flash in great rooms lit by constant lightning


Flashes. 



“Will you always live here?” I asked.


“I come here to pray and to recall the taste


Of lips.  I have no time to think or eat properly


Or to rest.  I keep beehives around the castle.


The sound soothes me, as do the rooms 


With the great waterfalls.  Come, I will show


You these rooms.  Have you a taste for blood?”

 Gardens Before the Rain, Locke
 
 

A SMALL SEASON IT WAS



I saw her in the field


And then, a park,


And then, beside the sea.


Fresh as fire, rising like the waves,


All lodgings for the heart.



And I, unable to explain,


Undone before the dawn,


Raised the moment with


A silence, broke it with a song.



She wore the story cloak.


She cut the houses of the wind.


She bent the willow to the ground.


She leapt upon the clouds.



She was not here to soothe


Or to smooth the garments of the sun.


The day explained itself to her


Before the morning had begun.



I drew her to my core


But never touched her more.


I was in love’s own thrall.


All of heaven was a floor.



The path along to the cliff edge.


What do you believe sir?


What is the coat you wore?



See over on the mountain,


The night and the morning


Are walking hand in hand.



When the day was made,


Huddled up in haze,


The weather slept within


Each one us, such a small


Season it was.

SHE WILL BE RIGHT HERE, SOMEONE SAID



I understand that I am trespassing


Where your heart takes transit to comfort


Yourself during the last parts of the day.



I only did it because I must.  I have no moment 


Where I can walk through the house drawing the curtains


Against the coming of the night and shaking the fires


Gently to pull a little more light from them for a few hours.



I too miss the embrace that the wind can give the changing
               light.


I too must know the softness some words can have, filtered


Through a walk along the sloughs beside the darking oaks.


I hear the creak of the masts in the bending of their great
              trunks.



But mostly, I came here to walk with you, knowing that your
              words


Have been here and that the hosts of lovers who moved through


These exact words found solace here for a quick moment,


The smell of your skin, the touch of the leaves like your lover.

________________

Thank you, D.R. Wagner, for today’s fine poems and pix, and we’re sending you our high hopes that your health issues are resolving. D.R. and other Lockians are looking forward to today’s posthumous book release at the Moon Café Gallery in Locke, 2pm, featuring Patricia Hickerson’s new book,  Outcry, from R.L Crow Publications, edited by Cynthia Linville.

In the “nobody ever tells me anything” department, I’ve been advertising the Billy Collins/Aimee Mann Calperformance this Sunday at UCB; turns out they’ll also be presenting their music, poetry and a conversation about the creative process at UC Davis on Monday at 8pm at the Mondavi Center. See www.mondaviarts.org/event/2015-16/aimee-mann-billy-collins?event_id=1631&season=2015

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:



FANDANGO


—D.R. Wagner           

             for Steven Smith



I was in this wading room


Setting the changes


Except the wading was


More like waiting


Just a few small waves


Carrying messages


From friends


Maybe written 


In color so we could


Read through the bottle


About how we got here.

—Medusa
 

—Anonymous Photo

April is National Poetry Month!

Celebrate today by heading off to Locke for
Pat Hickerson's book release, or to Placerville for

Poetic License read-around, 2pm, Placerville Sr. Center,

937 Spring St. (suggested topic: "corner"). 

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.