wishing you the best possible christmas...

poem about reading a poem

i’m trying to understand

what you do with language,

why you make those turns -

how you move from this poetic

shifting gears, this hard

speech & how the voice changes.

it is a mystery. this is a mystery.

the way the phrase echoes

as if i’ve heard it before -

somewhen else, maybe

even beyond words & imbedded

in the body, a way of knowing,

the word bearing weight;

the glory of language & how

it shapes the world,

the way it shapes

my memory of the experience:

the reasons i thought that

i could even begin to understand

what lies beneath my reason,

the ebb & flow of speech –

promises, perhaps, possibilities & pauses

- holding it all in the palm of my mind,

grasping at each measured image

to connect each to a moment

we can share so we can discover

where the world divides,

where light divides from dark,

night from day, light

shining on or from the words

& yes, they are promises

but hold them lightly

don’t hold them too tightly

for they are too easily strangled.

piercing

talk turned to piercings

over the lunch hour we shared 
surface comparisons

ears, tongue, nose

i spoke of the modern primitives

the desire to adorn -

to be altered, or altar -

what kinds of objects can be placed under the skin

or through it, how 
the body fights, encases, pushes

how I had toyed with the idea of a prince albert piercing -

i did not tell them why.

i told them of my friend

- let’s call her "T" -

who took turns piercing her nipples

letting one heal before piercing the other

for the rush, she said

i did not speak of st.teresa

how her ecstasy was double-edged

how sometimes pleasure and pain

are entwined, how 
passion is enfleshed

and spirited, how 
i too imagine myself

satisfied with nothing 
less than god.

we did not speak of how 
our hearts are too often pierced

by the words we say and don’t say

the longing to hear your voice

we did not speak of the fragility of skin

how much it is like paper,

how much gets written on it,

what stories we then tell

we did not speak of the human heart, our need

our fear

just stop

stop looking for Jesus

in all my poems.

i mean - i’m sure he’s in there

somewhere

sometimes

haunting the words

(he likes to do that)

whispering in the ear,

confusing the issues –

but I suspect

he’s more likely sitting beside you

while you’re reading,

astounded

you keep finding him –

like Waldo –

in every scene.

this need to see him

in every line

is a perverse hide and seek –

where you hide

(and miss)

what the poem is hiding.

you resist the poem –

its ability to surprise you.

you nail it to the page,

flay the words,

filling the empty spaces

with some imagined revelation;

this text, and that text,

and the next word.

let him announce himself;

let him give up the Ghost.

i have no idea what he’s trying to say –

i can’t hear him over your affirmations,

choking on the words

you force into his mouth.

instead,

try entering

the poem’s space

and wait.

look for yourself there,

if you must.

maybe Jesus will meet you;

maybe not.

safety (psalm four)

will you hear me when i call

you, my righteousness, my

hope. this voice must find

a home, a curling place, your ear.

turn your face to me now.

may it be a kind face.

let it be an open window.

every day you trade your glory

for shame. every day you choose

a lie, you lay waste

to the song

you hide.

still, i will sing.

and you will hear.

i may become angry.

i will not point the finger.

Slowly i will lay down

next to you. i will be still.

in the morning

you will find my song

nestled in the hollow

of your neck.

shyly, i offer you this gift.

let me take the doubt

about your neck; let me

be good to you.

let me feel the heat

of your attention,

let joy sound its note

full of good things –

let us become drunk

as we lay down

in peace, and sleep.

let me be safe.