shaped like whales & sharks,dolphins & penguins,pelicans & gulls,we reachthe purple hillsof a green-hearted islandringedwith volcanic rockbathedby cobalt watersreefedby whitest coraltenantedby sea urchins & sponge& visitedby barracuda& tourists.The dictatorof this islandis the sun.The Secret Policeis the sweetfragrance of cane.Frangipani growsin the uplands;the salt flatsreekby the sea.I want to buy it,to hide here,to stay,to teach all…
the bag of down & feathers-all black . . .Somehow he couldn’t get back.It was night,a night of shark-faced jetswinking brighter than blue stars,a night of poisoned citiesmushrooming beneath the eyes of jets,a night of missile silossulking in the desert,a night of babies howling in the alleys,a night of cats.She left a death so hugehis…
& the gift of sleepingthrough my noisy nights of poetry.I have taken other men into my thoughtssince I met you.I have loved parts of them.But only you sleep on through the darknesslike a mountain where my house is planted,like a rock on which my temple stands,like a great dictionary holding every word-even someI have never…
I have lainbetween your breasts,put my earto your sea-shell-whispering navel,& strained the salty marshesof your sexbetween my milk teeth.Then I’ve slept at last,my teeming headagainst your rocking thigh.Gentle angry motherpoetry,where could I turnfrom the terror of the nightbut to your sweet maddeningambivalence?Where could I restbut in your hurricane?who would always take me homebut you,sweeping off…
For all those who screamedin vain to the Great Goddessonly to have their tonguesripped out at the root.For all those who were pricked, racked, broken on the wheelfor the sins of their Inquisitors.For all those whose beautystirred their torturers to fury;& for all those whose ugliness did the same.For all those who were neither ugly…
‘Hold on pen–what if the criticshate me?’& with that questionshe blots out more linesthan any critic could.The critic is only doing his job:keeping the poet lonely.He barkslike a dog at the doorwhen the master comes home.It’s in his doggy nature.If he didn’t know the poetfor the boss,he wouldn’t bark so loud.& the poet?It’s in her…
it hides from the poetlike a playful catwho has rununder the house& lurks among slugs,roots, spiders’ eyes,ledge so long out of the sunthat it is dankwith the breath of the Troll King.Sometimes the poemdarts awaylike a coy loverwho is afraid of being possessed,of feeling too much,of losing his essentialloneliness-which he callsfreedom.Sometimes the poemcan’t requitethe poet’s…
that surge of connectionwhich makes the worldseem sane,that exchange of spiritin the guise of flesh,that morning hallelujah,that hookto eternity. . . .All day I bear youbetween my legs,& in my heart.Powered by your love,there is no hilltoo high to climb,no paragraphI cannot write,no hosannaI cannot howl. . . .Shall we wear it downwith habit?Shall that…
without ever wishing to know you.I suck the alphabet of blood.I chew the iron filings of your words.I kiss your images like moist mouthswhile the black seeds of your syllablesfly, fly, flyinto my lungs.Untranslated, untranslatable,you are rooted inside me-not you-but the youof your poems:the man of his word,the lover who digs into the alien soilof…
His eyes are knives.Who froze the ground to his feet?Who locked his mouth into an horizon?Why does the sun set when we touch?I look for the lines between the silences.He looks only for the silences.Cram this page under his tongue.Open him as if for surgery.Let the red knife love slide in
