Wednesday, April 18, 2007

stuck his neck out
(for joe and charlie)


i love this photo of ed dorn
a ghost before he died
his neck so thin
his tie seemed
just
his neck
continuing
outside his shirt
as if
he were neck
clear to his belly button

what i mean is thousands
should have filled streets
the day of his funeral
if we were truly greeks
real democrats

smashing limousine windows
in his honour, banks in flames
he should have been taken by train
back to idaho
by way of gloucester
and kent state and lawrence
and san francisco
and the skagit valley

ed dorn is the poet chaplin
always hoped to be
the poet john adams cried out for
the poet with the six foot ear

the last time i saw ed
over salmon and corn
in bob and mary's backyard
ed caught me assuming
all the world knew and thought highly of
Charles Olson and William Carlos Williams
"billy," he said,
"who even heard of these people?"

No comments:

cohen

cohen
the sweetest little song

st.ink

st.ink
his heart this big


Hornby Island by Goh Poh Seng (for Billy Little, who shared loved spots and fond friends)

Here on the headland by Downe's Point we case dreams to rise synchronous with eagles and gulls, all make-believe, egocentric, near to fanatical, else aim true to roam deep with Leviathan in the ocean's mind, free from perplexities and profundities such as bind the scheduled self Here is the arbutus grove whose trunks and branches tighten like nerves, twisted witnesses, victims of shapely winds which blow in always unseen, sweet from the south or coming cold from the north, from every direction the prevailing force of nature Wish I could emulate the arbutus slough off my thin skin as easily as these natives trees their bark from abrasion, disdain or design, unveiling the bare beauty of strong, hard wood beneath Over on Fossil Bay the rot of herring roe strewn amongst broken clam shells, dead crabs on dirty grey sand, exposed bedrock, thickened the morning air, but gave no cause for bereavement: these millions of botched birthings! And none also for the Salish, no open lamentation for a race almost obliterated without trace from their native habitat save a few totems, some evidences of middens, a score of petroglyphs of their guardian spirits carved a thousand years ago on smooth flat rock by the shore, of killer whales, Leviathans again, to guide their hunts, the destiny of their tribe. Having retraced them gently with finger tips, they now guide mine.

Halo by Patrick Herron (for Billy Little)

half of love plus half of half is halo and I don't believe in angels, no.