Grace is Our Swan

 

Coots

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

THE RETURN



…The way the lights felt on our


Bodies when they came on...


‘Way beyond anything we had


Ever felt before.



I could see the dancers


On your skin.  They had intricate


Moves and handled shadows


Like they were memories or those


Thoughts we have just before


Going to sleep, when we can’t


Tell if anything is real or not.



We were told to come back later


When things weren’t so busy, when


The streets had quieted down,


When we could actually hear what


Was being said clearly.



This would never seem to be


The case.  The populations were


Exploding.  Before we reached the high


Gate there were twice as many people


Clamoring to get inside.  They all said


They had been there before, that they


Lived here, that when the lights


Came on it hushed most of us.


There was something we could know


From this, a deep understanding.



The teachers lined up against the walls


Grabbing at our arms, imploring us


To stay at least until midnight.



We had horses.  


We mounted them


And rode toward the mountains.


Later we would talk about the entire


City as if it were only an entertainment.



From the moraine of the glacier


We could see that the lights were


Still blazing away.  We had our


Own midnight with bread and a glass


Filled with the wine they make


Here.  Then we climbed even higher


So morning would not recognize


Us when it stumbled across


The whole scene in its pre-dawn blear.

THE ARM OF DREAMING



He had found it almost by accident


At the place where the sand began to give 


Way to the jungle, the place where the mangroves


Stopped walking and the nighttime voices were


Those of crabs carefully taking the bodies of lesser


Creatures apart piece by piece and moving them


Claw to claw to sectioned mouth, a soft scratching.



Nothing had touched the arm of dreaming.


It moved freely at its elbow and its fine fingers


Could still trace all roads as they moved between


The houses of the stars and waved to every moon.



He knew he could not keep it for long, but he knew


He could keep it to feel the power in the dreaming.


He could find his lovers anywhere and they would 


Once again be his lovers.  And his children.  They too


He might walk with once again and say their names


As he had when they were small, telling them the stories


Once again of their grandparents and great-grandparents.



He could open their eyes to pets long gone from the earth,


Touching their lips with the fingers of the arm of dreaming


To hear them say the names once again.  His body, filled


With what once had been his life force, spirited through


The arm of dreaming and he touched all of his body


With its moving fingers and ability to allow him to fly,


To bring fire from dark corners and find the words to


Long-forgotten songs once again.



For hours he clung to the arm of dreaming and it stroked


His body as if it were his own arm and flew the labyrinths 


Of what was once time and mirrors but now was his once


Again as he settled into the moon-filled sand and began


The dance.  From high above his body he could look


Down upon the arm of dreaming until he had risen 


So far above the tiny island of sleep, over the vastness


The ocean owned, and touched the hem of the heavens


So gently and firmly it could easily have been his own life.


NOT A PROPHET


I’m not putting this anywhere.

I don’t even know how it got here.


I was walking near dawn, the light


Became fascinating and I bent to look


Deeper into the draw near the edge of camp.


There they were, welling up on a column,


Angels, two or three.  The light was so bright


It was hard to tell.  And the music.  I fell


To my knees.  Wondering if I was praying


Or was merely alarmed.  At any rate, I was


Taken, completely.  I was not anywhere.


I have always lived in fear.  That you would


Not love me, that I would never measure up


That what I believed in was without value


In this world.  I walked tight to the ground,


Not wanting to imagine anything for fear


Of manifesting it to myself or, worse, to the world.


I took this path around the camp to the water


Supply so I would not be seen, and now these


Angels, a shaft of them whirling before me.


Everyone has seen the light leap before me.


There was no longer any hiding.  I shall learn


To speak aloud, to express wonder to all,


To call out the name of the lord to the darkness,


To be lead by this pillar all the days of my life.


I wish to speak to you.  Do not deny me.


I am the one who comes to you totally without agenda.

___________________


THE BLACK WATCH



I felt like I’d been holding my breath


A long time.  Glaciers sigh against


The mountainsides, ease their milky


Tears down the gullies and dark


Canyons to where there is some


Kind of silence, some understanding.



Red ants deliver their promises


To the earth.  They too are radiant


Beings, even as the golden lion is radiant.


The heavens are always near enough


To touch, even below the earth.


Their red songs, the red dirt, their


Own idea of dark not so different


From our own.  Oh but they could


Speak to us in words we understood.



The Angelus rings across the fields.


Let us hurry toward the fence.


We will want to be there as sun


Does its performance of the end of day.


Dreams won’t do you any good here.


Be it done unto me according to thy word.


THE HOURS



Even if it is just the cast of light


Across the blue pencil and the whirrl

The quartz heater makes as the room


Warms, I still feel the edges the words


Make as they move across my mouth



To find themselves safe, once again,


Inside of words that are still able to hold


My heart so gently I can feel the night 


Halting, just outside the walls of this room.



There was an idea there.  There still is an idea


There.  The breath moves it through this one


To hold at least the flame of a wooden match


Against the window as I look past the Winter


Garden, the dense shadows of a waning moon.



I say your name once again and it is many names.


It is the songs waiting inside the instrument waiting


To be played, waiting to be sung once again.



Wait.  Wait.  The sun will be here in a few hours.


Sit near to me and we can talk of how we finally


Came to be in this room together, still knowing


Nothing.  Still listening, still turning the tuning pegs


To get the perfect sound to come though all we touch.



TINY HOUSES



This is all blurred.


It is hard to see the tiny


Houses but you can hear


The love pouring out of them.



I CAN see that light.


I CAN hear that heart singing.


I know these trees.  The stars


Dress them at night and ride


Their dazzling horses down


To astonish us with enchantment.



Oh this is marvelous even


If we can’t see clearly.


The golden mouth of the day


Touches us and strums our nerves.



To live every day like this,


The shapes, the colors, the


Imperishable sadness when


Someone asks you what you want


Out of all this.  No matter.

 Reflection


NOT AFRAID


Not afraid of anything,


Holes in the world, countries


Whose names are unpronounceable,


The scores of insects in the apartment


That flee when the lights come on


Along the edges of the room.



Not afraid of the rain that never stops,


The old man in 304 with his stamp


Collection and the way he talks to


His bottle of wine, sipping, sipping.



That gun that presses so close


Upon the flesh.


A better design will fix that


As we prepare for the dark words,


The claws tightening, the stench


Of whatever that is that is burning


On the street corners.



Oh this is only a bad debt


Opened up like a gutted teddy bear


Or a fish waiting to be dinner.


There are a lot of places we could go 


Where none of this has happened.


The birds say so, the birds and the pale


Faces surprised at a sunflower.



We’re safe as stars here, darling,


Safe as safe, the blue skies, the blue


Water.  Go ahead, fall asleep.


Forgive the tarnish and the cold.



All is forgiven.  The yellow queens


Walk the land handing out Spring,


Watching, guarding, praising,


Coming in like love away from silences.



Nobody will know what has been said,


What the hell, we live here, not


Afraid.  Compassion is our signature.


Grace is our swan and the river,


Enchanted by our wondrous songs.

_________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

NIGHT LETTER



You said this blue sky was imperishable


But now it is gone and there is frost on


The edges of the pond every morning.



All these thoughts I had of you have gone


Away suddenly.  There is nothing left to think.


I can only look out across the valley now.



I’ll sing a little song to myself, one


That you used to enjoy.  It is about


The sound the oars make when they


Scrape the gravel in the shallow water.



Maybe that sound will stop my sighing.

________________________


Our thanks to D.R. Wagner for today’s fine Saturday breakfast! Some of these poems will appear in his new book, Finding Our Lives Full of People, which he will be publishing with Tom Kryss. The first part of the book just came out as a featured section in the new issue of the literary magazine, Abraxas (#49). 

Poets everywhere will be saddened to hear that local poet Francisco X. Alarcón has passed away. For more about Francisco, see www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/francisco-x-alarcon or www.readingrockets.org/books/interviews/alarcon/. You and your poetry will be missed, Francisco.

—Medusa

 Vintage Photo of Niagara Falls During Winter (1903)

(Anonymous)