Word

—D.R. Wagner

 

THE MEASURED STEP

—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

Tonight everything has been emptied out

Of the night.  It looms close, very close

To our understanding.  We are dreaming

In front of the mirror.  We sleep

Fitfully, challenged by our own breathing

To continue as we must, name the rivers,

Unwrap what we believe to be a mystery.

The package contains a fish.  It is years

Before we realize that the fish was the mystery.

I will speak to you now in an ancient

Language, the territory of which

Has been as an abandoned ship

Drifting far out at sea.  We are exhausted

From the offerings of the night.  Just before

We wake we realize that we are time, nothing other.

________________________

I MUST HAVE BEEN DREAMING

—D.R. Wagner

I must have been sleeping.

The way through the forest was

Wandering and I could not see

The distances before me.

I must have been sleeping.

The palace is of a fine pink stone

And rises with many turrets.

Banners of colored silk flame

From the rooftops and golden

Eagles course above them calling

To one another.

I must have been dreaming.

I had been given one hundred crowns

To find a present for my father,

Who was king of some far away

Country, reigning over many

Wonderful islands.  This was to be

Their story or so I had been told.

I must have been dreaming.

The women wore veils and were comely

With ways that moved one from one’s blood

When they struck their small harps,

Did their pleasant dances in the great hall.

I must have been dreaming.

My bed was rich with coverlets,

Embroidery festooned and as I

Laid my body down, these keen

Women curried favor of me with

Bright singing and the telling of tales.

I must have been dreaming

For I never speak this way

Or feel a longing such as this

For things I have not seen.

Yes, I prick my finger and blood flows.

I must have been sleeping.

And each minute seems an hour

Long and those who sleep cannot

Make songs like this, with

Plays made of glances and of

Gestures only.

I find my boots and pull them on.

I must have been dreaming.

I will write down the song.

_______________________

SWIFT AS THE WIND

                        for Mike Heron

—D.R. Wagner

Inviting the bears in.

Living with wolves.

The light slips in under the door

As if it had serious intentions

To inspire something truly wonderful

When it took the room.

I have no idea where the music

Was coming from.  It hit the back

Of my head.  I will not be ruled

By such music.  There must be

Something more.

The starlings come by the thousands,

Flying their incredible patterns,

Cross-patterns, murmurations

Of ecstasy and confounding all

Understanding into pure magic.

***

Please excuse me. I have just

Been informed that I am the one

Who will carry the weapons.

Do I love you?

Yes, I love you.

All this talking or just words in

The rain?  Oh Christ.  Oh Christ.

I can’t look into your eyes again.

Is this the first time you’ve

Heard about this?

I am a headful of birds

Endless flocks, thinking of you.

Come join us.  Make this come true.

I have been told not to imagine anything else.

“I may take some time on my way.

And I may have to spend some

Time, downstairs."

 —D.R. Wagner

EVENING SEASCAPE

—D.R. Wagner

The light has done all that it can

To the surface of the water

In this cove.  Soon it will abandon

The whole place and but for a flush

Of late gulls and a slow raft of pelicans

There will be no more of this

Until the moon itself rises.

It is here in this last light

That one is still able to see what stories

Might hide there, moving through

The small groves of trees

Closest to the cliff edge,

Tumbling down knife-edged slopes.

From the beachfront houses a few

Lights escape but not enough to open

The place to understanding any of night’s

Dark lore such a place can have.

The slow breathing of the ocean upon

The shore.  The perfect way the breeze

Threads its way down to meet the quiet

Lines upon the sand.

It is here words begin to abandon

Description.  They too are in thrall,

Forget their meanings for long moments,

Argue that this is not so and

Come to create their own understanding

Of what great mystery this place

Might contain.  Then a silence

Once again.  The wavelets

Whispering in the deep cathedral

Such a place has become.

______________________

THE CHINESE TALE

—D.R. Wagner

The stars had that blank look

They get when they want to pretend

That they don’t know a thing about

What the night has planned.

But they know its every move.

The way it talks to the wind and asks

The clouds to scud across the late

Winter wheat which has just turned

A perfect gold and the wind thrills

To hear the shafts of wheat rub

Against one another.  It is a perfect

Sound that means the season, especially

In the night, below the moon

With the stars approving the entire thing.

But tonight the stars wanted more

Of a story.  Something about lovers who

Had become separated and then found

Each other once again on such

A night as this one was going to be.

Now understand that we cannot

Know these things at all, for we

Are merely human beings; understanding

The vicissitudes of truly great

Events, such as the plans the wind

And night might make, we can only

Guess.  We can play the lovers but

May never know that this is such

A special night that even the stars

Have come to watch what might

Happen.  Come outside with me.

We will look at the moon together.

I will tell you an old Chinese tale

About a princess abandoned and

Undone by war and sorrow

But is able to finally come together,

Once again, with her lover.

This story, say the Chinese, was told

By the wheat on a night quite like this one.

_____________________

Today's LittleNip:

THE PERFECT WORD

—D.R. Wagner

The world had already begun before

Anyone noticed that the word was

With God and that, as has been written,

The word was God.  Somehow it had

Remained unspoken until it was too

Late in the day to be found out.

Music was substituted.  I believe it was

The piano where the whole thing

Got served up like a soufflé or a flan

Still glimmering with a slightly brown

Crust and filled with a flavor unobtainable

Anywhere else.

The sound of the sea

Just as the moon rises,

That hiss of water on sand.

At that time an angel, over against me,

Told me that my poem was in the mouths

Of all the angels.  I was dumbfounded.

He quieted me profoundly.  Word.

___________________

Our thanks to D.R. Wagner for all these riches today. And be sure to check Medusa's Facebook page for a new photo album by Taylor Graham: Wildwood Sheepwalks with Dogs, Winter into Spring.

—Medusa

 Class Exercise, 2008

—D.R. Wagner