Poem in a Mode that isn't Mine

to you, Rimbaud

My horse tripped over the semiquavers!   The notes splatter up to the green sky of my soul: the eighth sky!

Apollo was a doctor and me I’m a pianist of the heart, if not in fact.   It would be necessary, with the flats and all the bars, to unload the scribbled steamers,  to collect the tiny battle flags to compose some canticles.

The minuscule, it’s huge!   Whoever conceived Napoleon as an insect between two branches of a tree, who painted him a nose too large in watercolor,   who rendered his court with shades too tender,   wasn’t he greater than Napoleon himself,    o Ataman Prajapati!

The minuscule, it’s the note!

Man bears upon himself photographs of his ancestors like Napoleon bore God, o Spinoza!  Me, my ancestors, these are the notes of harps.  God had conceived St. Helena and the sea between two branches of a tree.   My black horse has a good eye, though albino, but he tripped on the harp notes.

                                                                           Max Jacob

                                                                          Gabbert/Rooney...trans.

..

a tune from long ago

I heard a bird at break of day 
   Sing from the autumn trees 
A song so mystical and calm, 
   So full of certainties, 
No man, I think, could listen long 
   Except upon his knees. 
Yet this was but a simple bird, 
   Alone, among dead trees. 


                    William Alexander Percy







...

the bitterroot

The sun rises and calls our people to the land
The babies clutched, children taken in hand.
Blanketed, shivering bodies in the spring air
Quickly we assemble for the journey
Voices speak quietly; our people are ready.

Rows of deep blue mountains fading into the sky
Keeping watch over us; sentries from high.
We walk past the spring where the water runs deep
Life blood of our people, quietly blessed
We trek along its path, continuing our quest.

A prairie breeze rushes past, pulling at our clothes,
It whispers in ears and tells of the woes
Of a woman who cried for her starving people
A bird was sent that spoke of bitter tears
Drops that fed a plant, feeding our people for years.

The biting wind was cold and our feet pushed faster
It moans and speaks for every ancestor
The land that we walk upon is our heritage
This earth isn’t ours, just a caretaker
Of this blessed land, the people of our Creator

Our feet stumble over the dry soil and rocks
Tracing trails our tribe still hunts and walks
Searching  for wild game and berries for the table
Teaching our young of flowers and fauna
Now focused on the ground, seeking the red diva.

The searchers part, fingers pull on the dewy brush
Pushing away grass, hurrying to rush
And find the small plant, the guardian of our land
The tubular sprout that hides in dry soil
From all hands that seek, regardless of the toil.

Both young and old are searching for the small, slight sprout
Ancient rocks are pulled, then heard is a shout.
A young voice cries, “I found it!”  Excited and proud.
Young and old group to see the succulent
Eyeing the pink buds and the roots of the green plant.

Small fingers pass the sprout to a Salish elder
The plant is taken and then held tender
Withered fingers lift it, thanking our Creator
For once again we harvest in tribute
The symbol of our ancestors,  the Bitterroot.

                                                Diane Caudle

...

transcendental intuitions

                             ELSEWHERE

The delectable names of harsh places:
Cilicia Aspera, Estremadura.
In that smooth wave of cello-sound, Mojave,
We hear no ill of brittle parch and glare.

So late October's pasture-fringe.
With aster-blur and ferns of toasted gold.
Invites to barrens where the crop to come
Is stone prized upward by the deepening freeze.

Speechless and cold the stars arise
On the small garden where we have dominion.
Yet in three tongues we speak of Taurus' name
And of Aldebaran and the Hyades,

Recalling what at best we know.
That there is beauty bleak and far from ours.
Great reaches where the Lord's delighting mind.
Though not inhuman, ponders other things.

                                       Richard Wilbur

.....