Jade Plant, Bolinas
—Photo by D.R. Wagner
RECALL
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove
Waves crash into the
shore.
We are less than what lies
Below the water as it
hisses
Through the sand.
There is a path to this
place.
It passes between two
hills
Dotted with sea grasses
and populated
By gulls and shore birds.
Light has so many houses
here.
It crawls into the spaces,
Not really wanting to be
seen,
But it is light.
Now waiting for the moon
to rise
I come to feel the place
full
Within myself, my voice
the noisy
Surf. The path between the hills. The
Light clustering to become
the days,
The nights of my being
here.
And now, finally, with the
rising
Of the moon, a figure of a
man
Sitting just above the
seashore
Scribbling as fast as
possible
Into a notebook.
____________________
THE SPECTACLE
—D.R. Wagner
Someone had hauled the
curtain down.
We were unable to tell if
The spectacle was over.
The stage lights were
still aflame.
We had not been sure we
would
Be able to see these
performances at all.
They were thought to have
been derived
From the ancient dances
Done in the time of
Rueluss,
The Magnificent. Very few could
Remember the days when he
Would command the dances,
The songs, the movements
that
Spoke to our history. These were
The stories of all our
people.
The time of the callings
began,
When the different
villages
Would make the sounds of
Their totem animals.
Outside the horses pawed
the
Ground and shuffled across
The corrals nervously.
The calls sounded so real.
Ramon saw lions on the
ridges
Listening.
It was then the great fire
Began. We had been discovered.
We must return to the high
cliffs
As quickly as
possible. The soldiers
Were upon us.
I write from the steepest
part
The trail takes away from
The seaside. I can still see
The fires at the ocean.
The animal sounds fill
The air. I have to believe
We are safe in this night.
There is no place to put
these
Words but in our own
poetry.
Accept this as our voice.
__________________
THE ROOM THAT REMAINED
BUT FOR REMEMBRANCE
—D.R. Wagner
The glass next to the bed
was filled
With stars. I thought it seemed
To be, but it was actually
so.
I do not expect you to
believe me.
Poets often speak like
this and the words
Are considered to be
metaphor,
That events like this
exist to enhance
The poem. This is not true here.
Now listen. The large animals surrounding
Us are indeed lions and
tigers.
They are wild beasts. They can smell
The humans within this
room. You
Will not be able to hide
from them.
Look at your hands. Spread your fingers.
If you look closely enough
there you will
Be able to see thin points
of flame
Extend from them. They may be
Of many colors, much like
the glass
Full of the stars. Their flames
Came from your own body.
Do not be alarmed at their
presence.
We will be here even as
this building
We occupy is gone but for
remembrance.
This may take a long time
or we may
Be done within
minutes. You will know
When it is over. The words will stop.
Now the stars are swirling
in the glass.
They rise out of the glass
and begin to
Spin through the
room. The room
Opens. They spin outward. The
Great animals begin to
spin as well.
They rise up toward the
stars. Winds
Whose names we know come
to sit beside us.
There is only what we
remember
Surrounding us at this
moment.
Let us look up into the
night and
See the stars so far above
us
We cannot believe they are
real.
—D.R. Wagner
THE QUIET OF THE HIVE
—D.R. Wagner
I do not know the names of
many stars.
I see them reflected in
open wells,
Tossed across the surface
of the Great Lakes.
I imagine the hugeness of
their noise
Had they atmosphere and we
the kind
Of ears that fain would
hear these
Flaming doors into
everything from
The images of birds to the
breathing of
The sleep of bees dreaming
in the quiet
Of the hive. So I walk within them
Without ever coming close
to knowing
What it is they are or
their names, perhaps
Pronounceable by
anyone. Are they
The mind of our hopes
sparkling
Everywhere around us or
just a jingling
Of songs stolen from the
night
And made to burn like
this,
So full of imagination and
deception,
A fineness of understanding
thrown
Against the haphazard
business
Of our eyes, moments on
the heart,
Lifting ourselves through
the finest
Colors into a clarity
usually seen
Only in our tears?
_______________________
THE WALL
—D.R. Wagner
When I put my hand flat
against
Death there is no space at
all and
Time has no place there at
all. They can both
Sit forever in the magic,
shaded by trees,
Surrounded by music and
dance us through
What we have decided to
call life without
So much as looking in our
direction.
Even in the darkest of
nights, with winds
Full of souls and waving
limbs of trees
Slashing into us without
ever opening
Our skin, when I touch
that
Seemingly lovely quiet and
expect the introduction
Of a kind of beauty we
think we cannot
Know without this certain
final door. If there is more.
But we are wrong. There is nothing there.
The horror of such a wall
the moment
We place our hands on it,
all else
Ceases. Ashes blown across our feet,
Naked now forever and no
longer able to walk.
______________________
THE THING ITSELF AND
NOTHING MORE
—D.R. Wagner
So I will keep a few
things here
That I avidly collected to
give
The verse that it might
say something after the flesh
Is dust again and
disburses on the
River that always moves
away from
Where this monument to
lost song
Shows its treasures in
golden twilights,
Repeated dreams,
gatherings for the dead.
The moon, of course, the
moon.
How could we forget. Let it be
Above a pool and reflected
there.
As good a place to be when
water
Is a mirror and the sound
of a slow fountain
Helps collect eternity in
a most
Incomparable light.
All of this in a garden,
Blue as an early Spring
sky,
As serene as a shelf of
books.
This is the correct music.
This is both ancient and
of this moment.
This can move in your
mouth
Chained to the words,
maybe
Thought of as sweet fruit
Should you use the place
As it was intended to be
used.
Amazing, this used to be a
city.
_____________________
Today's LittleNip:
It has taken me years of struggle, hard work and research to learn to make one simple gesture, and I know enough about the art of writing to realize that it would take as many years of concentrated effort to write one simple, beautiful sentence.
—Isadora Duncan
_____________________
—Medusa
—Photo by D.R. Wagner