TO RIDE
To ride a two wheeler/trusting the Circle/the weight of our bodies/is all we’re allowed/(The balance seals the ride makes us birds,/my head between your hands)/Years before/a mother or father held the seat, steadied it,/and off we’d go,/down the grass slope in gales/After the fall, we knew victory/Now, it is not so sweet: this moment to moment precariousness/(In childhood you learn something once, then grow up)/To love without fear/the wheels taking off so that nothing before/holds anything out/but cellars/To love/without dread/one hand off the handlebars, suddenly/no hands at all/and all of the hills turned to stars

IN THE EIGHTH HOUSE
You grew up more brilliant than the rest,/midst beige stretching the prairie/a sure braid of wheat ‘round the heart,/your heart/a bundle of wild/flowers. Strangers trickled in,/teasing brush in need of streams,/turning to look at tractors/the moment you were spinning/toward the stars./At ten you held stones in your mouth to stop a stutter,/the flap of wild geese from your tongue,/betrayed by the counsel that what is heard is uttered,/and not the silence in-between. Believing in hell, you pretend to feel less,/fearing ghosts would gather you,/catapult you out through shingles and brick/into the broad Nebraska night./And now, years later,/in spite of the roads which have brought you back/to your first born,/in spite of the blood on each door,/alerting death’s angel to pass,/you lean in close, whispering/”I cannot be counted on to keep in touch,”/whispering,/”The prairie is vast and echoless,/extending/for miles.

LOVE POEM
Last night: voluptuous./Did you feel it too?/A black goblet/filled with still, rich port./I had been away, confused./But last night/I came back./I watched you listening to music./The room was semi-dark,/lit by one, red, polished lamp./When you looked up at me,/I recognized myself./What are we to each other?/I think, different facets of the same gem./Turning, turning/in the hand/of God.

FOR THE POEM
This week I stay alive/by reading the last poem I’ve written/over and over again./I take it into evening light/and let my poem sing/against concrete. I walk into the house,/set it down under an ashtray, the thin slip of paper flapping,/resisting a breeze from the window./Then, I wash the dishes from the night before./The doorbell rings./It’s the pharmacy with medicine for my daughter./She doesn’t want the medicine./It spills on the sheets (the sheets I washed an hour before)./Finally, she is sleeping in my bed,/and before I tear up her bed,/I read my poem and think:/”Christ, it’s a beautiful poem!”/Now, I’m in her room,/tripping over dolls, cursing all the dust,/wishing I had a club so I could club them all to death./In the kitchen now, tearing pumpernickel off a loaf,/eating it without any butter, although I love butter, but I’m out of butter,/folding my poem, smoothing down the white square of it,/when suddenly,/the telephone rings./It is Stephen, the man I’m sleeping with and love,/telling me it’s all been a mistake from the beginning./And hanging up the phone, like in a dream, and dreaming still,/I feel the poem in my hand./And I unfold it, slowly,/delighting how the creases flatten out,/how the ink stays dry in spite of itself,/and I read it again, aloud (this time softly),/and I laugh! I laugh!/Grateful, everything’s possible.

THE BIRTHING
Night embeds me with a spear of miracles./Day pulls back to reveal its well./Alone, stars surround me./Alone, two angels hold me head./What is forming has no measure./What is re-membering has no design./What is loving is surrendering./Man, Woman: mine.

LISTEN
everything speaks, listen,/and nothing speaks/my body a wave/inside the rose/the rose for all the world/for we are in this time of blossoming/i want to be able to use myself to touch you/it is not me/it is your body being a bird/sound is coming from me/it’s wordless/it speaks/we must take responsibility for ourselves/as gods

PRAISE
Nights/and the stars rain down,/tiny shafts of mica/in the mine of these hills./Each plane of our skin lit,/and we appear, finally,/what we are./In the wooden kitchen, a ballet of pears./A young woman stirs soup and the steam rises./It is praise enough, the vegetables which have scooted underground,/dark tubers to be pulled./It is praise,/the way we have come together./Days we go out our separate doors,/circling back to the wood./In May it is simple enough to make love to trees/as to ourselves. We imagine ribbons, a pole./The trees too have their circle: their limbs stretch up,/holding streamers./Once our bodies felt strange,/baggage strapped to our bones./Now, they slide like water down our mouths./In the pelt of such lunacy,/believing ourselves gods,/the bear of our nightmare transforms./We are/a family in this world. Underground too long,/we didn’t understand that spring/is a mere matter of beginning./It is simple then,/nothing more,/than the slow moment/from snow to water/from water to wind/to fire/to praise.

IN THIS COUNTRY
In this country, a ring of stars falls broken down the side of a building/Still, the light is beautiful/Still, it can be raised and worn./Inside, a sudden flash of heaven/The Other enters/And what seemed interminable isolation/becomes desire and light and shapes itself into an apple, a rose/a muscular leg dancing toward itself/Your wonder now is a country/White light loosing itself from a black-lit lake/God patiently fills/The great Leonardo said, “He turns not back who is bound to a star”/Now, that you accept there is no end,/what is the boon to offer up? And what the destination?/Only, that you are dead no more/Only, that you live/in this country

THE RETURN
Because you look into their eyes/and see them turn their eyes away,/because they are afraid/to touch you./Because for generation after generation,/you have called each other lover, kin;/yet still this,/and because of this,/you go out,/breathless,/to the hills./You stare at the stars,/ride up to them;/and they take you, O yes, they take you,/hoisting you up by your armpits,/pressing you close to the wild night./A hawk comes, circling an inscription, dedicating himself./He circles slowly, knowing how hard it is for one of your kind/to accept/pure generosity./A deer, her ears alert as any lover’s body, looks straight at you;/and you are startled to see yourself in her gaze./Slowly, a smile, unbidden spreads,/reaching beyond the contours of your face,/weaving into the aroma of trees;/and you murmur: I am loved. And a moment later: I love./And you, who for hours, days, years before were driven down,/scattered like ash by fears of all who curse the dark/and any kind of mystery, who put you out…out!/You speak the ineffable passwords now,/letting yourself in/to the only, real, world./At first you do not want to return to the house,/frozen on the side of the road./But finally you do./For they, they are waiting./And you,/you have something/to say.

ELEGY
Dear James,/Once, you mentioned “The Lie.” And I didn’t understand./You were giving me the key to the treasure, the one who is The Other,/The Opened Flower. These many months,/I have come face to face,/standing inside the mirror looking out,/standing outside the mirror, looking in,/until finally I am just standing./when i thought i had love, i had none/when i thought i had no love, i hade none/when i thought love was only for them/i had no one/now i simply hat it/and it’s no longer mine./We can’t talk to each other the way we used to./What I miss most is your beautiful, impish face./As for words, they mean less and less./Before there was such a lust for explanations, for definitions./What music would we be now?/And you? How is it without your body?/having discarded the ultimate definition./You told me I would have to learn to “receive”./The news of your death was hard, but that too now is mine./Perhaps, I’ll be blessed with a dream./You speaking in my inner ear,/and the words would not be words,/but instead tears, a song, a fragrant laughter,/an inhalation of breath before prayer./As for now, the poem/is the closest thing/to grace I know,/as I cannot hold you anymore,/or let you go.

THE WORDING
In a world of slanted light,/a man standing in the deep woods/on a patch of dried leaves,/becomes a fawn. His body is lithe,/his dark eyes tender./This too is love: a mysterious greening./Why do I keep telling you this over and over?/Because I do not tell it./It is the same round of voices: remind yourself of what you truly know./This wording then is action,/a threading catching slanted lines,/that purposely spell nothing./No other choice now but to see./No other choice then but to speck./No other choice./For death is just another kind of wording/watching/in a series of silent syllables/in another forest/in another clearing.

LONGING
It was all day, I say, the longing was all day/It was all night, yes, all night was the longing/And it swayed in my arms like a fragrant boy/And it cut through my heart like razored steel/And it sang, O, it sang/like a shell undiscovered on a second moon/It was all day, all night/It was all day, all night/It was all/and is/still

THE MARRIAGE
He was sent away to war and returned in war,/blood on this thighs. She rubbed her body down/until the bones shone white./”But this too is you,” he cried./She turned her head away./Every night he found her/staring through the dark, waiting for the deer/to come from the hills. He recoiled/pulled the sheet across his eyes, heard her whisper:/”This too is you”./And the years passed./Each one a threat, banging down the door,/hiding faceless in the shrubs, until/there was nothing to protect,/nowhere to go,/except, through each other/and to themselves./And the dream broke/and spilled across them like moonlight…/The husband turned over remembering what was his,/pulled the woman toward him as the sky flapped from his chest,/letting his woman out. And the woman ended her mourning/as her body’s seas convulsed, thrusting out the man in her,/as she pulled her husband in. And all four embraced,/for what seemed like forever,/not having done so, in O,/too long/a time.

JUST REMEMBER
Just remember:/Nothing’s as bad as the stars are beautiful/As the thick grass greens/As the circle of your arms/Nothing’s lost as the hawk’s open glide/As the sun’s mauve rising/As the word’s last touch/With the lovers gone/And the work come to nothing/And the body getting soft/And the voices getting loud/All this, yes/But still/not as bad/as the aperture is wide/As the water’s surface breaks/And the dolphin rises/free

Poems by Doraine ©1991
Music by James Campeau ©1991