Poetry

(for Quincy Troupe) Harlem is on parade recalling St. Louis as if like us the whole scene has been transplanted here Sanford White’s window offers remnants of James Van derZee’s world it is filled with urgent gospels infecting us both with memories of our common birthplace I see you take notes always the poet but…

A thousand rocks grow smaller. The tide returns again and again. Eternal truths wash up on the shore hidden amongst the shells and fish bones. No man will ever find them. In small houses, the women wait, tying and untying black shawls around their shoulders black scarves around their heads. Birds do not come here….

For those who are neither hero of myth nor witness to history: remember all life is holy. In the year of the blizzard in the month of February I have traipsed up the middle of Lexington Avenue, a spectacular middle passage in the snow to my own poetry reading: James Wright, Philip Levine, each having…

From his travels, my grandfather used to send postcards. Among the pile of letters, they lay thin as turned leaves, their postage stamps shining with luminous moths and fish. The pictures always showed what he had seen: “This Persian rug was woven by girls your age. It’s the same shape as the floor of their…

You tell me you will be my true false bottom to my suitcase more luggage than anyone can carry. The snow falls easily at first as if it were meant to be as if it had no choice then harder as if it were leaving home. At home we watch the snow through windows of…

There is nothing like distance to create objectivity, and exclusion gives rise to counter values. —Ralph Ellison You greet me as “brother,” evocations of Sterling Brown and Ralph Bunche and Martin Luther King, Jr. who sat in your apartment after the Nobel ceremonial hectoring of Vietnam and world order, the great diameter of poverty. Your…

The women who clean fish are all named Rose or Grace. They wake up close to the water, damp and dreamy beneath white sheets, thinking of white beaches. It is always humid where they work. Under plastic aprons, their breasts foam and bubble. They wear old clothes because the smell will never go. On the…

To be alive to witness the snakes’ return to chase the papists and britons from Faerieland allowing Patrick’s sisters prayers to Druid gods: O pagan green! Mo Chraoibhin Cno! Siobhan, throw your ribbon round the last six. Braid them tightly, let them rest close on the velvet hills: O pagan green! Mo Chraoibhin Cno! And…

for Katherine Who knows why we talk of death this evening, warm beyond the measure of breath; it will be cool tomorrow for in the waters off Long Beach my brother’s ashes still collect the flowers of my mother and father, my sister dropped in the vase of a face they made of old places,…