cento for april 2021

it’s late, and it’s time

for being threatened with death.

beneath the skin,

i practise all the reminders.

i am looking for fresh words,

small promises.

i’m not convinced

and head to the kitchen.

i say too much, and

it empties us more—

the weakness trying

to explore and mark

our stores

before we forget them.

what is there beyond heat?

birds,

the weight of words;

have we forgotten

you, love, and all the ones you hate?

it was sunny and

i found a secret door

for beauty.

the grass will be green,

even now.

you asked me to dance,

or someone did.

maybe there is still more to say:

old things can be renewed.

i’m not yet dried out.

let’s try this again.

on resilience

these days

one often speaks

of resilience

 

but all this weeping

has dried me out,

made me brittle

 

i no longer have the energy

required for all this—

elasticity is a finite thing

 

we are not without measure

our hands cannot always be extended

across all this distance

 

we move against each other

in so many different ways;

like a river redounding

 

we keep looking for space

some center of stillness—

the borders keep shifting

 

we grow tired of the same arguments;

look for ways to withdraw from the world,

this wild whirling gasp

 

find someone whose hand fits in yours,

or yours in theirs—

dare to speak the words

Standards and Guidelines

They took it apart

slowly, piece by piece.

One piece at a time—

labeling them clearly,

piling them neatly,

placing them gently.

They drew up the plans

and captured each step

of the deconstruction

for the reconstruction.

 

There’s a lot of trust

required of you

for tearing down

anything one loves.

History is a weight

not so easily displaced.

Losing even a small thing

can impact integrity

regardless of foundations.

 

You must make sure

to place each element

where it belongs.

Clear away the dust.

Refresh all the surfaces.

Clean all the edges.

Old things can be renewed.

They need not fall apart.

Failures

Sometimes people are exhausting.

 

Expectation is a trap.

 

That time we stopped talking.

 

I have always walked with a limp.

 

I’ve always been an internal processor.

 

Please see your dentist on the regular.

 

There are some things from which you don’t recover.

 

That night you never came to bed.

 

We spend too much time rehearsing arguments.

 

We have all played the waiting game.

 

I bear the weight of too many transgressions.

 

How many times have you said the wrong name?

 

Maybe there is still more to say.

 

Maybe we should both walk away.

failing

sometimes

you just need

someone

to say it:

you are good.

 

not just good—

really good.

 

i mean really,

really good.

 

so good

it hurts.

 

especially when

you fail, or

feel you’re failing

 

or keep failing, or

flailing

 

in the fields,

filled

 

with promises,

or regrets,

 

or maybe

both

 

and.

Testing

You asked me to dance

and I wanted to dance.

 

You asked me to sing

but I didn’t know the words.

 

You asked me to love you

and I didn’t know how.

 

You spoke of friendship

but we never really spoke.

 

About the heart—

is it desperately wicked?

 

Or merely deceitful?

It is full of grasping.

 

I constantly fool myself.

Hold onto the wrong thing.

 

I have played the fool

too many times to count.

 

I am so full of foolishness—

Incandescent.

 

Bones burning within me

in the depths of silence.

 

Lay me on the anvil.

Fashion me a sword

 

or leave me a ploughshare.

Just break the skin.

My first poem

I don’t remember

when I first fell in love

with poetry.

Every grade had poetry;

every year we wrote

a poem. 

              Or two.

But there was never a moment

when poetry stood up and

announced itself to me.

                                      Or two.

 

I do remember,

however, discovering

e. e. cummings—

for the first time

poetry seemed playful,

or that t(here was a mystery)

to be discovered;

that language was

a puzzle

to be put together

and taken apart

to be put together.

Even now,

he and Donne remain

my favourite sonneteers.

Sonneticists? Sonneticians?

(O! no disrespect

  to Shakespeare

                           intended)

 

Remember:

to fall in love with poetry

requires you to keep reading

poetry, to remember words,

ways to shape them—

to sow poems like seeds,

to perhaps hand them

to a loved one,

or a stranger.

spring

i don’t prefer it

when it is sunny and cold;

it confuses me.

in the morning

there is a dusting of snow

and frost on the windows,

and by noon it is gone.

that’s spring! they say,

but i don’t prefer it.

it’s probably not

climate change

but maybe

i need more data.

there’s always been snow

in April – it’s spring!

what we need is rain;

moisture in any form

is still useful

and necessary.

i need to know

there will be flowers,

the trees will bud,

the grass will green,

ladybugs and bees

will do their work.

it will still be cold

in the morning

and warm by noon.

we will wear our layers

until it is summer again.

maybe we will meet outside

at the picnic tables,

go for walks again,

talk about the weather—

how short summer is;

how long the winter.

endings

i’m forgetting

all the words of

my favourite songs.

i pray in silence

as i walk. i’m not

in any hurry.

there are fewer

conversations

between us now.

sometimes silence

makes it simpler;

though not easier.

everything requires

more effort from me.

i’m prepared to give.

i haven’t read

a good book

in a long time.

lately, there is

only poetry. and

not enough of it.

i want for beauty.

language that lifts

off the page.--

burnt offerings

that fill my belly,

turn me to ashes.

o, that i could

remember each word

that moves me.

but there’s no point.

i’d only remember

the arguments.

so here’s a flower.

i have nothing else left.

let that be the end of it.

perhaps

today i found a secret door

i did not open it

 

some things should remain hidden

but not all things

 

i wanted to whisper all my secrets

Into your ear

 

you kept turning your head

turning my secrets into kisses

 

or perhaps i turned our kisses

into secrets

 

or (perhaps) the door should remain closed

or (perhaps) i still want to open it

 

or (perhaps) i’m tired of secrets

or (perhaps) i’ve grown hard of hearing

 

i keep running into doors

and never through them

 

i have the bruises as witnesses

they speak to me at night

 

until all i can think of is your mouth

the way you say my name

river

that it was sunny

meant only that

it was sunny and

we went for a walk

 

we went walking

along the river

among the trees

in the coolness

 

covered in shade

beside the river

we stood in silence

 

touching hands

standing silent

as the sun sets

 

the river sounds

like rubbing hands

 

trying to warm

waiting is the hardest part

what does it mean to be

doing poets’ work?

and how do you know

when the work is done?

 

are there fan clubs?

will there be letters

with dried flowers,

perfumes, gift cards?

 

assuming only those moved

will put in the effort

to reach out, how safe

are these communications?

 

i want to tell you each poem

is the result of you listening

to the voice beneath the voice

nestling in your ear.

 

go ahead and buy the book.

you can tear out all the poems

you love, and all the one you hate.

fold them up and put them in your pockets.

 

then forget you put them there.

let them surprise you some morning

making new shapes, unbidden,

binding us together with secrets.

 

become so full of words

they spill onto the floor

until you are emptied of words

and able to be still.