—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA
FOCUS
I am holding the child
In my arms.
Those fires on the horizon
Will not come this way.
We know who the fire is,
Its name, why it eats this way.
(Excuse me, I think this
Is the only way to get
Where we are supposed to be.)
What do you want from me?
I have all the blessings.
Something broke. What’s left
To be sung by anyone.
You’ll never say that you want
To be anywhere the fuck near me.
Too many years split right through
What I currently call my eyes.
I can’t bring any of this to you.
Don’t look around. Stay focused
On the page, just for a few moments,
So I can feel myself
Ride inside you just
As the dream does when
I put my fingers into your mouth and you
Show me where the entire
Control is supposed to be.
From here it looks like
A forest fire.
ALL THE POEMS
“These are all the ships we have,”
She said. “Do you want to use them?”
I bring mountain range
After mountain range.
Neither of us knows how
To cross them.
Let’s give them to someone
Who needs them.
This is so wrong to stay
Here like this. Listen to
My heart. I want you
So much it is impossible
To say. I’ll go make
Coffee. You sit here and read
This stuff. Maybe it will
Make sense to you.
The Garment (Brock)
COLD
I touch the words you
Have written but it is already
Winter. The paper so cold.
* * *
FOREST
The light seldom comes
This far into this forest.
I read by it now.
* * *
NIGHTINGALE
I can hear water splashing
At the far end of the garden.
There is no moon tonight.
Still, it charms a nightingale.
Over the Garden (Locke)
LOSS
Why did I come here
At this twilight hour?
I knew the steps
Of the wading birds would
Only deepen my sorrow.
I shall never see you again.
* * *
BELL AND SILENCE
The bell and then its silence
Are tonight the very same sound.
* * *
COMING DOWN THE MOUNTAIN
There is no wind now.
Coming down from Mount Fuji
I still think of you.
SALT
You have brought me one hundred rooms.
I will recognize your face,
At least your eyes,
But I will be broken
And beg you to hold me
All night. Can you remember
Any of this?
They are spelling my life out in
Bursts of bullets
Laced with tracer flares.
Can you remember any of this?
Oh fuck it.
The train is pulling in.
Call me in the morning.
Today’s LittleNip(s):
The courage of the poet is to keep ajar the door that leads into madness.
—Christopher Morley
* * *
For what is a poem but a hazardous attempt at self-understanding: it is the deepest part of autobiography.
—Robert Penn Warren
_____________________
—Medusa, with many thanks to D.R. Wagner for today’s fine poetry and pix!
Celebrate poetry today by writing short poems,
if you usually don’t, or long ones, if you usually don’t…
Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.
