Saturday, May 07, 2016

One Hundred Rooms

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


I am holding the child

In my arms.

Those fires on the horizon

Will not come this way.

We know who the fire is,

Its name, why it eats this way.

(Excuse me, I think this

Is the only way to get

Where we are supposed to be.)

What do you want from me?

I have all the blessings.
Something broke.  What’s left

To be sung by anyone.

You’ll never say that you want

To be anywhere the fuck near me.

Too many years split right through

What I currently call my eyes.

I can’t bring any of this to you.

Don’t look around.  Stay focused

On the page, just for a few moments,

So I can feel myself

Ride inside you just

As the dream does when

I put my fingers into your mouth and you

Show me where the entire

Control is supposed to be.

From here it looks like

A forest fire.


“These are all the ships we have,”

She said.  “Do you want to use them?”

I bring mountain range

After mountain range.

Neither of us knows how

To cross them.

Let’s give them to someone

Who needs them.

This is so wrong to stay

Here like this.  Listen to

My heart.  I want you

So much it is impossible

To say.  I’ll go make

Coffee.  You sit here and read

This stuff.  Maybe it will

Make sense to you.

 The Garment (Brock)


I touch the words you

Have written but it is already

Winter.  The paper so cold.

          * * *


The light seldom comes
This far into this forest.

I read by it now.

          * * * 


I can hear water splashing

At the far end of the garden.

There is no moon tonight.

Still, it charms a nightingale.

 Over the Garden (Locke)


Why did I come here

At this twilight hour?

I knew the steps

Of the wading birds would

Only deepen my sorrow.

I shall never see you again.

          * * *


The bell and then its silence

Are tonight the very same sound.

          * * *


There is no wind now.

Coming down from Mount Fuji

I still think of you.


You have brought me one hundred rooms.

I will recognize your face,

At least your eyes,

But I will be broken

And beg you to hold me

All night.  Can you remember 

Any of this?

They are spelling my life out in

Bursts of bullets

Laced with tracer flares.

Can you remember any of this?

Oh fuck it.

The train is pulling in.

Call me in the morning.

Today’s LittleNip(s):

The courage of the poet is to keep ajar the door that leads into madness.

—Christopher Morley

         * * *

For what is a poem but a hazardous attempt at self-understanding: it is the deepest part of autobiography.

—Robert Penn Warren


—Medusa, with many thanks to D.R. Wagner for today’s fine poetry and pix!

 Celebrate poetry today by writing short poems, 
if you usually don’t, or long ones, if you usually don’t…

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.