D.R. Reading in Locke, September, 2016
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA
—Poems by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA
POETRY HIDING WITHIN ILLNESS
I cannot believe the poetry any longer.
This course of words after words having their
Breathy dance has fallen away from me and I
Can no longer find the secret rooms that once
Held me to their stars and kept me dreaming.
They have become deserts and the ruins of cities.
I pass them here in my tiny apartment and no
Longer see them or, if I do hear them, they do not reach
Me though the years. I have forgotten how to read.
Or I have gone blind and find only husks of what
I imagined. They slam against my chest as I try to call
Out. But they do not come close.
I pull myself into bed without drawing the covers
Over my body. The lights are out. I pretend I am alive.
Chair
—Photo by D.R. Wagner
NEAR THE CENTER
I threw my heart ahead
Of me into the night,
Hoping it would light the way.
The light was very narrow.
It is, however, inscrutable.
I wasn’t born to understand
How nothing leaves and how
We are never dismissed.
I have a special verb for you
But you must wear it on your lips.
The closer we come to the center
The more unapproachable the center
Becomes.
A talisman, a father, one
Of your own children might
Provide light. Please hurry before
All that can be explained
Is destroyed.
Feeding the Dragon
—Anonymous Illustration
PART OF THE GUARDIANS' HISTORY
Ramon could speak the language of dragons.
He had learned it many hundreds of years ago.
In the yellow well he had drifted though tunnels
And forests never seen on the face of the earth.
He could speak of the swarming and of the pointed
Tongues and leather wings. He knew their foibles.
Things seldom went well for dragons.
They came off as too fierce
Or the wrong color
Or with alarmingly bad breath.
Most had boring jobs
Protecting treasures hidden by stories
To await the arrival of a hero of some ilk,
Whereupon they were often dispatched
And promptly forgotten.
They could fly. That was always
The best part, and Ramon told
Me of this when I was quite young,
Before I traveled to any of the wells
Of Marlee.
They were, for centuries, the memory
The land kept closest to itself, for the trees
Had stopped speaking long before this so that
They might use the language of the winds.
The dragons could recall the wanderers
Of the lowlands and the high and dark places
That once belonged to kingdoms long without
A name to identify them. They would hold council
And by the fire of their breath talk to those who could
Change the pupils of their eyes from horizontal to vertical
At will. These creatures somehow shared our blood
And it was they who assigned us to the many tasks
We were committed to in protecting the people
Who lived in the lowlands below the cliffs of Marlee.
The colored wells on the cliff tops were a great
System linked by much magic that was never anxious
To help our troop know the full measure of our jobs.
Still, we were expected to learn the ways of the people,
The customs and traditions of the forest, and to come to know
The deepest of secrets held by the early ones. The dragons
Were our guides. It would be many years before I could
Learn a few words of this lore. We would live for many centuries
In exchange for our service and would eventually only be found
In myths and legends. We do not expect you to know us
As anything but lights in the deepest of forests. Hear
The shrieks of the dragons. Watch them as they gather us
Four times a year to teach what must never be forgotten.
Tonight I stand on the clifftops overlooking the ancient cities,
Watching the night fires flicker in the distances and bring us
The tools of dreaming. Tonight I am able to speak to you
For a short time. You will think these stories nothing more
Than fictions birthed in mists and far things. They are not.
These are true things. Come here to find our voices, lest
Everything become a madness barely understood by any.
Hulu Gwa (Gourd)
EL DESEO
In the wet of the lands.
In the bridle of the night.
In the glow of the lamp.
In the sound of the water.
In the light of dreaming.
Breath clouding the glass.
Touch, a weapon of knowing.
Speech, the servant of feeling.
Time, losing its claim on love,
Reduced to rhythm only,
The wish, the desire, el deseo,
In the jungle, hidden from the street.
Handfuls of coals glowing
On the water, in the water,
A deep weather unloading
As a turtle does its eggs
Into the night.
Everywhere, bent to surround
It so it may have this form.
If There Were A Cat...
—Photo by D.R. Wagner
THE ASIDES
She got in her car
And drove all the way to suicide.
It looked like a familiar landscape.
*
Don’t open your mouth.
We are still learning to breathe.
*
I live in an industrial
Fire.
*
Perhaps the cat.
If there were a cat.
*
I was devoted to curiosity.
I saw so much I stopped breathing.
A terrible mistake. I had to go home.
*
Like Lenore, I kept bats and moths
In my hair, more as companions
Than any attempt to do harm.
*
There wasn’t any room for a heart.
She told me this was a prayer
For me because I was able to think
This way.
I wept.
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
GARDEN
—D.R. Wagner
Focus shifts so easily.
This morning
I was looking at an iris, newly opened.
It seemed the most beautiful of things.
Now I look up to see you walking into
The garden.
It seems the most beautiful of things.
__________________
Our thanks to D.R. Wagner for today’s fine poems and pix, all of which appeared in Medusa’s Kitchen in 2016-17. D.R. suspects he may be able to return to the Kitchen next week; hopefully that is so. His photo of the gwa (gourd) is from Locke’s Demonstration Garden; for more about the Garden, see ediblesacramento.com/blog/1522-in-locke-the-past-is-growing/.
—Medusa
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