Poetry

I Hazing, they call it in America, but I already knew it from Armagh, the fledgling hauled to the pump, protesting, by the bigger boys to be baptised with his nickname, Froggy, Screwy, Rubberneck or Dopey, some shameful blemish, his least attractive aspect, hauled out to harry, haunt him through his snail years in St….

I In the “restored medieval house—sensational views” we've rented for March and April, one of the first things I become aware of is a strange crowding jostling my sleep. Thick-walled interiors go weirdly garish, floodlit by a multiplicity of dreams, ungenerous dreams that cluster packed as hanging garments elbowed, shouldered through in a narrow, fetid…

I sit at McDonald's eating my fragment of forest. The snail and slug taste good, the leaves, the hint of termite and bat, the butterfly trans- substantiated by steer karma, and mine. Another pleasure: to breathe distillate of foam scented with coffee and chemical cream. Another virtue: groups of us all trained the same way,…

It takes me a lot longer to write a poem I like, for three reasons: First, although inevitably I will, I can't consciously bear to repeat myself, so when I find myself writing about a subject I've addressed before, I stop in my tracks till I find a new direction to go. This, of course,…

Before there was anything else, solitude filled space in the form of gas—lavender, thin, smelling like mouthwash. When solitude studied itself in school, it turned into a sphere the size of a ball bearing, unbreakable, yet soft as beans soaked to make soup. When it grew old, solitude sprouted leaves like the winter oak's. Dead,…

At Kwik-Fill, I pump ferns and turtles into my tank. They'll ride here in my dark until they burn. Millions of years later, now, our traffic traverses ancient landscapes, zone by zone, desert by forest by marsh by swamp until we sleep. At night, like you, I almost remember riblike sprays of cattails, pterodactyl eyes…

Once she stuffed me with aspic in the days when I felt I should return invitations. After all, she was my teacher. Her tongue lashings burst as waves of hives on my belly. I'd eaten her lethal low-calorie jelly. When did she eat her jelly doughnuts? Not near me. When I spoke out of turn…

Harm soup simmers on each body's woodstove where gelatin soaks from shinbones and combines with effluence from cabbages of loss to build gray froth. Nouns of perpetual accumulation sip woe three times a day from a wooden spoon as machines doze in the separated hayfield. There are no shadows in this blue country. Woe's nutriment…

IV. Finding Her These poems are from the final section of a book called Death Tractates, which is a sequence of poems written after the sudden death of my closest female mentor. This work interrupted the writing of another book. Bright Existence, and now stands by itself. Many of the poems have rather abstract titles….