These are the facts, nothing here but the facts. I was on the road to Damascus via a street in the West Village in New York City, when, in an instant, barometric pressure had dropped 100 MB. Darkness enveloped an eleven-o’clock-morning sun. It may have been a trick of the mind, or some kind of serious panic disorder. Although I could no longer see, I pictured myself a child on a visit to my great grandmother's house in La Salle, Illinois. In my head I felt as though a tornado was approaching...
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LOVE
WISH*
I
see the light coming out from your eyes. What
sacred wonder illuminates your face? Wish
I had the time and nothing else to do, But
while away the hours adoring you.
*A
original love poem which I modelled after a verse by Jalāl ad-Dīn
Muhammad Balkhī, also known as Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī, and
more popularly in the English-speaking world simply as Rumi. He was
a 13th-century Persian poet.
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MOST EXCELLENT OF WOMEN She was a Lady who never choose to quit me. I can not count one bad word, Not so much as a moment of ill humor between us. At the stroke of the hour marking the time Precisely two years after we had been married, She gave me the birth to a son, Whose good name was the same as my own. The baby survived his mother, And he became my sole devotion. I nursed him insistantly, never leaving his side. In the whole-wide-world no ayah could ever be found: No one matched the ministry of me, this boy's father. Praise God, Your Will not ours be done. Within the month of my child's arrival a bad fever killed him.
Mericifull Almighty! Thank you for the joy and the glory of your bounty, For everything You have brought me each day. She was a lady who never choose to quit me. I can not count one bad word, Not so much as a moment of ill humor between us.
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LOVE POETRY, Lost Without You How about some love poetry? Right now I am so desperate for your touch That I can barely speak, let alone write a thing. I could walk out the door into the hallway And scream with such ferocity The neighbors might think I have taken leave of my senses. When I think of food, Nothing compares to how I savor you. When I contemplate delightful vision, You are the only vision in my eyes. I love all music, But no sound is better than your voice. I await every telephone call, And lead you with questions, Just to hear the timbre of your talk, which I adore. Nothing makes me sadder than a bad connection. Oh! Baby! I love your smell. Intoxicated and pathetic, I make the bed, And fluff the pillows, I do so expecting the redolence of you. And when you are gone, Even after a day or two, And your aroma is lost, I am lost, too. At wits end, I circle the bed, And pace the bedroom floor, like some pet Whose master has not returned home. I am frantic without the fresh smell of you.
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A DREAM OF YOU, Desert Vision, Parts 3, 4 & 5 3. I remember Central Avenue, Phoenix, Arizona, Danny’s store packed with Native American silver, All properly displayed: bracelets, necklaces and rings, On racks, in trays, locked within showcases, And on clear glass shelves, velvet pads, and boxed trays, Hosting jewelry of turquoise, coral, and black onyx Along with mother of pearl, abalone, Plus agates mined and cut to display their fire, And Alexander, my son, maybe eight, no more than ten, His years of age at the time, playing behind the counters, Next to the shotguns, diagonally propped, On the floor twelve-gauge shells in open boxes, Ready, should there be an extended engagement. I share with you the times when, flying in From Dallas, the grand noise, engines’ reversal To land at Sky Harbor, the ground crew, How they scrambled, and then, Wheeled up the staircase, The platform for debarkation, and me, I would descend The steps full-tilt straight onto the tarmac, Fahrenheit, ninety-five degrees in early morning, A rental car awaited me, and I was off over to Dog Track, To the swap meet that was unfolding and I sought The cowboy named, Roadrunner, who always had Tons of loot, the goods, every Sunday he brought a haul. Though at his point, it, more dream than reality, I recall the very special meeting, when traders Lined up, raised hands, and one after the other, Volunteered to say that jewelry great here and Declared that whosoever is welcomed into The lounge camper, who greets the Navajo, Both the man and wife and acts with propriety, Slights his eyes and keeps in camera in the holster, And the traders at the meeting continued their delaration Saying that the person who watches the children playing, Their running across the white gravel parking lot, Left and right, up and down, then unto the asphalt sidewalk, Who enjoys those moments When the young ones stop And form a line to refresh themselves from The water-cooled, stainless steel, floor-pedal fountain, (It stood next to the right side of the pari-mutuel windows) Who knows that the bright-sparkling, that eye of the desert, Quenches every human thirst and brings joy to the moment,
Upon that person, who has witnessed design, Who has abstracted anagram from within All the children’s scurry, who traces, Out upon the open parking space, meaning, Who divines new vision, Who is able to see within the minds’ eye, the dance, The dance the holy ones once danced in godly regalia, That person, who hears within the youngsters' feet The drums, the rhythms which ancestors had orchestrated, So to let go, leave this material world, And find entrance to separate reality, The traders at the meeting, in-order, one-by-one, Both arms raised up on high, heads flung back, Palms stretched and fingers spread wide apart, As though they reached and pressed upon the sky, Called upon Great Talking God to sanctify their wish. It was at that moment, the glory of it all, They stopped and asked if one such person was present, There at assembly of Sunday traders at the swap meet The question became would there be any one to step forward, Would anyone acknowledge the gift? And when I answered, yeah They bestowed their most precious title upon me, And between the ghosts and the human beings The word rang and cemented the union, ‘Friend’. 4. Later that Sunday morning, I felt good magic When a child ran up behind me, He quickly, then, touched the back of my hand, and laughing aloud he scurried away. At noon, I met a Mexican friend up on South Mountain. His house was painted a bright, distinctive blue. I bought more jewelry and got into my car, I took the Express Way North, exited at Bell Road, And headed to way out west of the city. At one point, I passed the shopping mall, I thought about Monday’s appointments, How a salesman's lot means he sits, Marks time to wait his turn with buyers. Late that afternoon on the concrete patio, The one surrounding The big swimming pool at the Community Center, I buck-danced to the beat, which played On the rock an’ roll, radio station. Although it was already that Sunday’s dusk, And the day’s high temperature had receded, It still was ninety, over ninety degrees, When I pulled up a lounge chair, sat back And watched Alexander practice dives off the high board. 5. Even then, it was long ago, and in Phoenix, It was you! Darling, I had been waiting for you; The desert air brought me a waking vision, The shimmering, the uplifts, the vertical lines, Up, upward, shafts of heat rising Out across the desert vista, Now I recognize it was a dream of you, And this, my verse was racing, I flashed on a fast and mighty steed; I road atop a beast, it galloped through my mind, Yet I had command -- I managed to pull in the reins, Halted its furious run, tied the horse up to the rail at the tip, I hitched the reins to the post at the tip of my tongue. While I watched the colors of the sunset, as I heard The splash of the practiced head-first dives, I was reciting poetry, not out loud, but to myself, Though I knew not its power, no idea of the prophecy, I knew not the meaning of that woman, Who I glimpsed, Whose image I caught from from the corner of my eye, Who walked out among the columns of earth fever, And stood next to the Saguaros in the twilight, Who appeared in an instant out on the horizon, Seemingly, her feet upon the hard scrub of the desert, Yet before she disappeared, she nodded, It was as if she had sanctioned the voice, The true heart of these lines, The cadences and syntax I repeat from once upon a time And now so long ago, she blessed me And today at the keyboard, she grants me These words, this lyric I use to describe a dream of you. Long before I had ever made your actual acquaintance, A figure in the landscape, I saw you, your form, at a time prior to when you were born. At the airport, upon my once-again departure From the Valley of the Sun to my New-York-City market, Security stopped me, I stood In a booth whose sliding curtains dropped to the floor, The jewelry I carried in my on-board luggage, X ray showed a concentrated jumble of metal, And as I awaited the woos and ahs of personnel, When they inspected my bags before I boarded the aircraft, It was then that I began to wonder, and it remains Fresh today, as clear in my mind as events Which might have happened only yesterday. It was then I began to wonder, when you, When your love might saunter in, and make life complete.
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SHOUT OUT Uneasy, when it came to sex, You made me feel
I was doing you wrong. Your body stiffened, And, I remember, once you said, “Too incredibly intimate!” Later I watched in movies, Men drop to the knees, It seemed nothing special, No more than regular business, Hollywood presents its usual fare. In a recent film with a Bedouin setting, North Africa, camels on route, Over windy hills of sand, oasis to oasis, Hardly a trend setter, The lead takes his captive, Calls her wife number three, and there Within the walls of his village home, He keels. While camera spies, He takes love by mouth. Since I last had knelt before you, Months have passed. I wish I might kneel now, Just as does the sheik in the movie! But you, you are gone. And with you, too, went Health, and work, and sleep, They have fled irrevocably! I wake in the middle of shouts. I picture you and our last night at dinner. I see you there sitting before the table, And in a fleeting glimpse I recall your delight, How you savor and chew upon your meal. I rise up from my bed and step toward my desk. I mean to write, But swoon instead. Down my back and below my collar, My night shirt is wet of perspiration. Were I not lost, driven to distraction, If only once more could I clear the mind And assume a proper bearing, Where did I ever hear that love is a gentle thing? Can’t figure what’s up with me; I feel a faint. My stomach is turning. 'Fetch a chair!' I say aloud, though I am home alone. 'Never mind. I’m fine. I’m okay.' (As if somebody here bothers to listen.) ‘The weather has been unusually hot, ‘Especially these first two weeks of August; ‘Actually the same was true for all of July and June. ‘Yeah, that’s the ticket. ‘It’s just this summer's terrible heat!'
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THANK YOU, BACCHUS Thank you, Bacchus. You let me go, Freed me from your treacherous hold. The enemy's army caught our ranks unaware; Our generals had failed to figure on all-out assault. An awful panic ensued. I had not the time to grab my boots. I ran across the Sinai. I hoped to survive and make it home. Though still early morning, yet the sand was hot. Before too long my feet were sorely burned. Snipers hid among the rocks and hills; They shot and killed us, almost everyone. Thank you Bacchus. You let me go, Freed me from your treacherous hold. I crossed the Nile and my injuries healed, From death in the desert, abandoned and alone, Your grace had saved me. Now I share this marvelous tale; The troops in rout and I had prevailed. *Bacchus is the Roman god of wine; he has a number of darker
associations, one of them is the disorder apparent when an army
suffers a calamitous defeat.
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SWEDISH INTERMENT, Illinois Enchantment, edited version You know it's all a whole lot of hokum, honey, This talk of visionary moment and prophetic feat, No more than ploy, A guise I use to hide the real intent of my too-hot ferver, Oh let’s just say I want to eat alive. Yet loving you no quick turn of verse, I consider it a serious task, and put forth a dedicated effort. At prognostication I am gifted. I have always been able to see around corners. On our first night, the first night we had slept together, You may recall, I told you that I saw our future, I knew what was going to happen. Allow me this declaration. Once you actually experience, Live an event which I prefigure, You recognize about it uncanny familiarity, Déjà vu, you feel the situation, As if it were previously known, Or may have been already played. The notion strikes you That you have been here once before, That current moment eerily reflects prior encounter. Once you sense this power, it causes tremble, And it bestows pleasant excitement; It makes life expectant. With me you will learn to swoon and shudder. You will know warm and be hot all over, Yet others freeze in midwinter. Oh baby I am in love with you. I told you that your grandfather has spoken to me. His voice emerged from a dream, Though the setting was familiar, my own bedroom, The light came from afar, Suffusing the space and me within it, I dwelled in delicious, excellent hues of yellow and blue. He announced, said that I am the man of the house, And he then assured me, (He spoke with unmistakable clarity) That happiness the product of our life together. I have another secret; I want to share it with you. I envision major experience, Not unlike Leda's when she learned; It was a god who had entered her. You should know that from you will issue -- Yes, marvelous to relate! -- Being supreme, a mortal whose Life and renown, belongs to that golden, Regal realm, where Homer rules king. I slip, revealing more than I intend. I knew it. I knew it early on in life, Years before your birth, As I walked the truck farm fields, Along the rows of cabbage and corn, My love for you was growing strong, I had sight then, ears to catch the sounds, And nose to whiff out the dreams, Conferred on me, oracular, from on high. I stepped out from the Hitching Post Diner. I saw you! It was you. On the packed-mud, bridal path, just ahead, By a yard or two, you were down the trail, Your form preceded me, walking apace. This last August, eleventh, Before we had begun to date, Between bed sheets wet from too much sweat, Your heat wakened me. I knew the smell of you! Up from the threads of woven cotton -- They were your odors bursting up my nostrils, While I in my bed that summer's night alone. I had instantly recognized your fragrance, Once I slept with you.
Your presence already there, Beneath my skin years before I had known you. And now, again, the moment commands, It plays out now from the keyboard to the screen. I realize that before I had met you, I recognize that I had heard it, your name! I heard your name, It came to me from earlier time, at a time, prior, Yes, actually previous to your birth! I assure you, although I was not yet an adolescent, As a child, no more than ten or eleven years old, I had witnessed destiny from landscape in Illinois. From the backyard lawn of my childhood home, I looked up into the evening sky and saw The refocusing veils of shimmer of light, the aurora borealis, The phantasmagoric curtains of shifting color, Which all at once so utterly present, then, in a feint, As if by trick of hand, gone, Held me captive; I had fallen to trance, bewitched, And in the midst of this awesome, display, From the far North, your name, I heard it. I heard! I heard your name; it was pronounced, While the green and red flames of light crackled Along the vault of the universe. I possessed it. I learned your name from a storm in the heavens. And that very self-same night, I was no more than ten or eleven years old, Out upon the backyard lawn of my childhood home, With my Face toward the north and up into nighttime colors, I looked, and I now know that, I had glimpse into the future. I had witnessed destiny from landscape in Illinois. I pictured oak trees growing outside an iron fence, And there, above a low earthen mound, a cemetery marker, My name, it was struck upon a gravestone. I knew it. I knew the certainty; The scene, the ground I saw was in Sweden. The green and red flames crackled your name. I learned your name from a storm in the heavens. I was a child, no more than ten or eleven years old, I stood upon the lawn at home, entranced, captive, Gazing up into the aurora borealis, bewitched, I saw a Swedish interment.
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DASH IT! Dash it, Baby! Is this the best we can manage. Don't tell me! Have neither of us the sense, Reason enough to know which way is up, or down? Here's the key, there's my desk, You already have my heart, You can come and go, Whatever pleases you, no problem. Should you find a spare penny, Lying anywhere about the house, Keep it, and whenever you have found the opportunity, Use it, toss it into a fountain and wish us well. Don't be hard on me old girl; I take my hat off to you. We have had a run of bad luck. Let's hope that things are bound to get better. Well, are you happy? I did say? I promised you, did I not, that I would make you queen of my poetry. Truth, haven't I? Who of us is happier? You take pleasure in your business, You have your list of details, All the very many, important things “to do”, And now with your father gone, You have the legal consequence, and its paper work, Plus the obligation of those household matters, All those little things, which once he had used to handle . How you must miss him! I shall change the topic. You seem to love your car and lengthy driving about. I sometimes wonder where you go, Yet I figure you run to your usual haunts: The regular flea market along side the Delaware River, And to those giant strip malls dotting the landscape, The same geographic stretch between Princeton and Trenton, Where once General Washington Had fought and suffered for years, Freeing countryside from foreign domination, those lands Which today are parking lots And lines of concrete block architecture Housing big-box and other discount merchandise. You disappear for days seemingly involved with your labors. Not a word about your travels, not a single line, No Internet connection, you claim. And when I ask about your goings, Why the haste? You answer, "Antique show on Saturday." Of course, I have heard that one before. Then I ask you, where? You say, “Pennsylvania.” The dialogue becomes tedious, Or is it me? Have I grown ridiculous? Yet I remind you, Pennsylvania is a very large state! As I query, I see your thinking plainly roll in your eyes. Weird, right? Can you believe it? Doesn't it look silly? Maybe you practice some form of entitlement. Might you genuinely feel you have no need to elaborate, Or provide information about your whereabouts? Still would you admit that when you read this verse, And hear me repeat your response, After all, what's the big deal to an honest question? Strange, isn't it? You deign a one word answer, “Allentown.” I imagine you understand what I mean, not that it matters. Hello. Is there anybody out there? Remember the colors of our dreams, When the magic of delicious blue and yellow hues Filled our bedroom, and the times that A voice from some other world demanded we harken, And in its ghostly-visage guise Spun out tales of high romance and telling prophecy. Come on now, the stars, the stars were shinning for us. Forgive me, let me return, again, back to this planet. Years ago I learned the reality -- Buying and selling no easy enterprise. I know that you take very special delight in the scouring Rack after rack, then picking through shelves, Rummaging with a practiced eye the goods Set for sale upon the tables. And, to be sure, you have that ability for concentration, And at level required to be successful at your shopping. Seems, too, you have that lucky touch, Procure gold when others see brass, Buy silver at the spot price of base, white metal. Lord knows, you love a good deal. I have never known anyone, who enjoys a low price, A markdown or a discount more than you. Even your dessert, it appears, tastes better When it comes at half-price. Not to mention that you, my dear, have ever-ready A discount coupon at point of sale, Or in your wallet a glossy ticket with its boxed numbers Whose final punch means a reward in kind for your patronage. The lyric overcomes me, little hope of any resolve. Actually whatever the hard inventory I conspire, No matter my tellingly, strict observations and remarks, My heart says how lovely you are. And so it goes, I succumb to the trying to figure. I try to figure the source of it all, Then I lapse from an ordinary confidence and come to believe That I might be ordained and my voice allowed to carry A radical theme first heard in the plain churches, Now five centuries ago, my feelings fall backward to the faith, By God, which held our course predestined in Heaven, How else to describe these events? I had to find you, and those inklings of our Destiny Still remain and animate our hearts. Wasn't it written? Yet here is something that causes me consternation; You appear to truly enjoy my company When you know that I pay for your dinner. Lately, that hour, or two, a quick repast, seems, The only time you have to fit me in your schedule. I realize that you are accustomed to international travel. You stuff your backpack to the point your movement stiffens, Yet heavy baggage means little to you, Except, of course, should the airline catch Your true luggage weight And you must pay up for the extra kilos. Then there is the situation with your mother, (All kinds of complexities there!) A topic I shall have to postpone, A subject to tackle in another poem, or two. And as for me, for me, I sit up half the night writing poetry; You must know I am lonely. I seek company, Your combination of intelligence, beauty and thrift You, the solace I desire. I fill the wee small hours of the morning. Believing that the two pillows I see on the bed Mean that, though now you travel, You soon return to sleep and make a home with me. Dare I say it? Must I resort to cliché. Tears are streaming down my face. Forget about it! I shall survive. No need for undue concern, or worry, I am probably naturally disposed to being The gloomier of us two, Yet I wonder how you push through the day, How you bring a smile to your face, or roam open and free. Dash it, Darling! I am still caught up in the happy bondage; Then, I wonder if either of us will escape it, What I have called this thing of ours, We are tied to it. You know it; People in some future time and place will think of us. “In the wee small hours of the morning,” So the old song goes, While whole, wide-world, deep asleep, I'd be yours, if only you would stay, Be in our bed and home with me. My love, I drew a line for you. I have difficulty believing that you remain remote. Can it be? Who resists the hand of Fate? Have you now and forever gone your separate way, Can it be true? How may I come to accept that You are no longer available to me?
