The Beautiful Blue-Green Rock
—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA
“I SIMPLY STATE WHAT WAS
TOLD ME BY THE CHINESE PLATE”
—Eugene Field
The fog has closed the garden.
It used to be just across
The gravel road, bound by
A wooden fence.
Now it is entirely gone.
Even the oranges, bright
As ideas yesterday, have
Disappeared.
Everything has become a ghost.
Nothing has feet. The fence-
Posts float in and out
Of sight, part of a morning vision.
I drink hot Jasmine tea, stay
Behind the window, looking out.
_________________
THE HEART IN SNOW
Finding the footsteps
Of the heart in the snow.
Miles off the road.
Not a light, not a spirit
Going to call me on.
I remember quite well.
I remember quite well.
Looking in the windows ,
We were dancing. I couldn’t
Hear the music but we
Looked happy for a moment.
Tonight the moon through snow.
Wind, not even bothering
To cover its tracks,
So very few anyway,
Follows the heart.
White Quince Blossoms
THE SOLDIERS
And I thought of the flowers
That held the guns
And opened the yellow moon
To conflagration
As they marched
And marched
And marched
Giving the single
Gift of their death
As they were picked
For bouquets. The pretties
Given to the short edges
Of the memory of death.
Spirits all. Clouding
The skies with
Tumbling light
And thunder
And rain.
Day after day of rain,
Fields in flood and mud
All memory now.
And memory itself
Has so little self
Or, from our brief
Waking, none at all.
__________________
SHIPBUILDING
They have opened the deep mines.
Places we can no longer remember.
We call them by the names of time awarded
Them when their dreaming was marked by
Footsteps, ochre and quiet yellows.
We keep them in our rivers, guarded
By drums and clarinets. If we can listen
We can hear their songs filled with lavender.
Here, you are welcome to walk once again.
She spreads her apron and recites some
Songs she remembers from her grandmother’s day.
Perhaps you will recall when I loved you?
You have forgotten my name so many times.
I have been your lover for over two thousand years.
They have built towers to us but you no longer
Recognize them as ourselves. We have given
Them to history, an old woman walking up
Long steps to find her home above the sea.
I am of the mines. I live in your blood.
All these visions are sailboats to notice,
In the evening, from your bedroom window.
I will call to you with the voice of the stars.
You will only notice the waves touching the shore
Under a moon that somehow seems to know you alone.
Don't Recall
OTHERWORLDLY
I say to myself
These are the faces
Of people from dreams.
They are constantly surprised
Like drunks suddenly
Seeing themselves in a mirror.
Not a single event here
Has any kind of order.
The sky is a scrim
Overprinted with unreadable
Characters, important
As lucid dreams and
Worth about as much.
When I lifted the bedcovers
All was embalmed and preserved,
Waiting. I walk up to your
Door. “This is what happens
Tomorrow.” You are reading
This now so as not
To be alarmed when
It dissolves before
You while you are having
A morning coffee.
I soon will be dead
Or, perhaps, it is you who
Will be mistaken for
Someone else and tomorrow
Evening I may still be here,
Telling this same story
As if it were an entirely
New and wondrous thing.
_________________
IMPERATIVE
Of course you are everything.
Otherwise I wouldn’t
Love you, would I?
The ghost of the
Wandering days.
All I have is this
Sweet little dance
To give you.
All has been taken.
Wait. Oh here, I have a rose for you.
You can take it home
With you tonight.
I’m ready now.
I’m ready now.
What’s your plan?
Did you ever have one?
Was I always alone?
You cannot take me home
Tonight. I’m going out to
Walk under the stars.
What is left?
You can feel this.
Onion Coming to Flower
FOR MY FRIEND E.R. BAXTER III
An empty room
But still full of lupine.
I have ceased to notice
The walls disappeared
Long ago. I can see
You walking with Loraine
Around the curve in the path,
Toward the barn. I can still
Hear the lowing of the cattle
In their indoor enclosure.
Loraine is gone now, much,
Much too soon and you sit
Drinking tea and smoking
Cigarettes. It is hard to move
Much or very quickly since
The tractor came over on you
A few years back but it has
Managed to construct a room
Outside the house where I can
Still see you both together,
Young and beautiful, laced
Together by dreams and something
Amazingly as beautiful as your love
For each other every time I saw you.
____________________
A LETTER FROM THE EVENING
The window in the bedroom is only slightly open.
Enough to allow the silence, should evening care
To bring it. Tonight it is carrying rain and perhaps
That is a perfect silence. The cold and damp
All but stopped the roses from opening. The many
Colored brooms blow across the gardens, some get lost
In the bamboo. I think the perfect poem might still
Be in there somewhere. Maybe it was there only
In the morning and for a short part of time.
I’ll sit here looking into the gathering dark, feeling
That tiny breeze through the bedroom window.
I will continue to listen, to look at this letter from the evening
And trust the perfect poem is still there despite all
That is impossible and unpredictable.
Apple Blossoms
Today’s LittleNip:
MISTAKE
That’s not a memory
You’re holding, sweetheart.
It’s a gun.
___________________
—Medusa, with hearty thanks to D.R. Wagner for today’s fine poems and pix!
Prayer Flags on the Garage