POEM: "The Phrases"

The Phrases

The honest sentiment, the Romantic
if you must, that you looked hard for
& music was the club you joined
pure sound you chased all your life
Miles said Don’t waste any phrases
hear it fast and listen to the streets
but you don’t want perfected sound
you want key changes and discord
to jar the elbow, to shake the brain
strange phrases meant just for you
how could she say Don’t waste my time
when she really meant Give me your best
but given the stakes, how could
she even know what she said?
(you said it was very likely too late
ordinary happiness was not an option)
around you the invisible senses swarm
occasionally one is a fly on your skin
you revisit all the times you wasted
the lights change color. You cross.

© 2010 Rob Schackne

A Martha Serpas Poem

 I'll Try To Tell You What I Know

Sometimes it's so hot the thistle bends
to the morning dew and the limbs of trees
seem so weighted they won't hold up moss
anymore. The women sit and swell
with the backwash of old family pain
and won't leave the house to walk across
the neighbor's yard. One man takes up a shotgun
over the shit hosed from a pen of dogs.
One boy takes a fist of rings and slams the face
of a kid throwing shells at his car.
That shiny car is all the love his father
has to give. And his mother cooks
the best shrimp étouffée and every day
smokes three packs down to their mustard-colored ends.

One night the finest woman I ever
knew pulled a cocktail waitress by the hair
out of the backseat of her husband's new
Eldorado Cadillac and knocked her
down between the cars at the Queen Bee Lounge.
She drove the man slumped and snoring with his hand
in his pants home and not a word was said.
I'll try to tell you what I know
about people who love each other
and the fear of losing that cuts a path
as wide as a tropical storm through the marsh
and gets closer each year
to falling at the foot of your door.


(2002)

POEM: "Readings"

Readings

                   for Patterson Schackne

Funny it suggests
Milarepa to you
or redemption
or salvation
or any sense at all

A fractured karma
is our lot. Even Dante
knew he needed help

in the dark woods

under darker trees

In How to Build a Fire
we take a bit from here
take a bit from there

& we keep hoping

something catches

I see Charles Manson

is denied parole again

as we wonder

just what he was
scratching at his hearing

A Buddhist monk

pours the gasoline

& mortal thoughts

plight the world

you know how it goes.

© 2012 Rob Schackne

An Ira Sadoff Poem

 Self-Portrait

I sniff after the sparrow and the spaniel, flitting around,
barking, digging up the dirt: how could I not be
at one with them? But I'm a spendthrift too, rummaging about

old sport coats, selecting a style, a clash of styles—
in a private moment trying to decide who I am today by trying on
something discarded, something nobody treasured—

I think I want everyone and everything to be loved so much
I get dour, chastising, dark, and sometimes hate
so much I can't go for a stroll without recycling the moment

they dropped acid on my palm, the thousand ways I could ease
their demise—dipping them into a river of invective
that seems futile and enticing—whether it’s the Secretary of State

or a species of white shirts and thin black ties who exude smugness,
who quote from the bible as if it were the Bible. It's like having an affair—
they all end badly, don't they?—thereby the passion flies out of me

like an open window in February: take the heat, world,
disperse it before I undress another thought.


(2012)

An H.D. Poem

 Sea Rose


Rose, harsh rose,
marred and with stint of petals,
meagre flower, thin,
sparse of leaf,

more precious
than a wet rose
single on a stem—
you are caught in the drift.

Stunted, with small leaf,
you are flung on the sand,
you are lifted
in the crisp sand
that drives in the wind.

Can the spice-rose
drip such acrid fragrance
hardened in a leaf?


(1916)

A Robert Peake Poem

Road Sign on Interstate 5
                           San Diego, California



They are holding hands, or rather, their silhouettes
are joined at the arms like a chain link fence.

Their bodies lean forward, italicized.
They are running: the man is pulling the woman,

the woman is pulling what must be her child,
and the child is lifted, by the speed, off her feet.

It is the same type of sign that might contain
the antlered shape of a generic black buck,

or tell drivers that the road could be slippery when wet.
It is a warning sign, it says: watch out for this.

Every time I pass, I scan both sides of the freeway,
expecting to see a family of three, gathering

up loose belongings, timing the cars, preparing
to run across eight lanes of high-speed traffic.

I have never seen them, this desperate family.
I only know their shadows, how they tilt toward

the bright yellow space in front of them, scrambling
to reach the outlined edge of the thin metal sign.

I have never wanted anything this much, for myself,
let alone to pull those closest to me into flight.

There is so much I could say about growing up
on the border of Mexico. It is not the corrugated

fence, or even the river of sewage, that defines
the scar that joins one world to the next,

but a one-hundred-foot width of sun-soft asphalt,
streaming with commuter traffic, day and night.

The man is pulling the woman, the woman is pulling
her airborne child, whose pigtails flail back.

On the other side is the ocean, salt marsh and a beach
that stretches north, into the source of the wind.

They are holding hands, and smelling the salt in the air.
At night, their pupils contract as the headlights expand.

What begins like a distant starlight grows to a spotlight,
a floodlight, a wash of whiteness, and engines made of wind.

Then reddened, like coals, like dying suns, the lights
recede, a river of cherry redness, a syrup of taillights.

The man is pulling the woman is pulling the child,
who rises as though winged in a blaze of light.


(2008)

A Paisley Rekdal Poem

 Intimacy


How horrible it is, how horrible
that Cronenberg film where Goldblum's trapped

with a fly inside his Material
Transformer: bits of the man emerging

gooey, many-eyed; bits of the fly
worrying that his agent's screwed him–

I almost flinch to see the body later
that's left its fly in the corner, I mean

the fly that's left its body, recalling too
that medieval nightmare, Resurrection,

in which each soul must scurry
to rejoin the plush interiors of its flesh,

pushing through, marrying indiscriminately
because Heaven won't take what's only half:

one soul blurring forever
into another body.

If we can't know the boundaries between ourselves
in life, what will they be in death,

corrupted steadily by maggot,
rain or superstition, by affection

that depends on memory to survive?
People should keep their hands to themselves

for the remainder of the flight: who needs
some stranger's waistline, joint

problems or insecurities? Darling,
what I love in you I pray will always stay

the hell away from me.


(2012)

POEM: "Umbrella"

Umbrella

Leave it lying on the street

One other thing gone like love

The thing had just unwound
Like a principle or an orange peel

Honesty says please just leave it

Of course more storms will come

The view from each of your days

Is caught up in a silky spider sky

Then umbrage and rain arrive

Unnoticed and try to kill you.

© 2012 Rob Schackne

A Traci Brimhall Poem

 Our Bodies Break Light

We crawl through the tall grass and idle light,
our chests against the earth so we can hear the river
underground. Our backs carry rotting wood and books
that hold no stories of damnation or miracles.
One day as we listen for water, we find a beekeeper—
one eye pearled by a cataract, the other cut out by his own hand
so he might know both types of blindness. When we stand
in front of him, he says we are prisms breaking light into color—
our right shoulders red, our left hips a wavering indigo.
His apiaries are empty except for dead queens, and he sits
on his quiet boxes humming as he licks honey from the bodies
of drones. He tells me he smelled my southern skin for miles,
says the graveyard is full of dead prophets. To you, he presents
his arms, tattooed with songs slave catchers whistle
as they unleash the dogs. He lets you see the burns on his chest
from the time he set fire to boats and pushed them out to sea.
You ask why no one believes in madness anymore,
and he tells you stars need a darkness to see themselves by.
When you ask about resurrection, he says, How can you doubt?
and shows you a deer licking salt from a lynched man's palm.

(2012)

A Dana Gioia Poem

 Prophesy


Sometimes a child will stare out of a window
for a moment or an hour—deciphering
the future from a dusky summer sky.

Does he imagine that some wisp of cloud
reveals the signature of things to come?
Or that the world’s a book we learn to translate?

And sometimes a girl stands naked by a mirror
imagining beauty in a stranger's eyes
finding a place where fear leads to desire.

For what is prophecy but the first inkling
of what we ourselves must call into being?
The call need not be large. No voice in thunder.

It's not so much what's spoken as what's heard—
and recognized, of course. The gift is listening
and hearing what is only meant for you.

Life has its mysteries, annunciations,
and some must wear a crown of thorns. I found
my Via Dolorosa in your love.

And sometimes we proceed by prophecy,
or not at all—even if only to know
what destiny requires us to renounce.

O Lord of indirection and ellipses,
ignore our prayers. Deliver us from distraction.
Slow our heartbeat to a cricket's call.

In the green torpor of the afternoon,
bless us with ennui and quietude.
And grant us only what we fear, so that

Underneath the murmur of the wasp
we hear the dry grass bending in the wind
and the spider's silken whisper from its web.


(2012)

POEM: "The Third Murderer"

The Third Murderer


Enter the third murderer
seedy smelly and fidgets
not aghast at what he’s done
flowers still hold their colours
trees move darkly in the wind
the waves coil like demons
yet birds are wheeling like
serpents when they surrender
occasionally insist on one last
kind of horror, I don’t know
he doesn’t feel it like you do
pain decided by the bucket
drought season he falls asleep
you don’t tell me about the wet.


© 2012 Rob Schackne

A Heather McHugh Poem

 

Glass House


Everything obeyed our laws and
we just went on self-improving
till a window gave us pause and
there the outside world was, moving.

Five apartment blocks swept by,
the trees and ironwork and headstones
of the next town's cemetery.
Auto lots. Golf courses. Rest homes.
Blue-green fields and perishable vistas
wars had unscored in red
were sweeping past,
with cloudscapes, just

as if the living room were dead.
Which way to look? Nonnegative?
Nonplussed? (Unkilled? Unkissed?)
Look out, you said; the sight's on us:

If we don't move, we can't be missed.


(2012)

POEM: "Chest Fever"

Chest Fever


And so now you say that the chest fever
Isn't going to last. I wonder if you're right
All brave shepherds are gone to sleep
The flocks timorously asking the question
When does our heart return, how long will it be.
But no, you've got to plan the get-away
Removed from extension and anxiety
A form of relief when you're last in line.
A single life is sad, she said, legs over mine.
Everybody's chest fever waiting just the same
For that perfect moment, for the perfected
Which in our depth we know never comes.
Chest fever, day that rejects us, chest fever
A line on an X-ray, we leave our glasses behind.


© 2012 Rob Schackne

A D.A. Powell Poem

 Useless Landscape


A lone cloudburst hijacked the Doppler radar screen, a bandit
hung from the gallows, in rehearsal for the broke-necked man,
damn him, tucked under millet in the potter's plot. Welcome
to disaster's alkaline kiss, its little clearing edged with twigs,
and posted against trespass. Though finite, its fence is endless.

Lugs of prune plums already half-dehydrated. Lugged toward
shelf life and sorry reconstitution in somebody's eggshell kitchen.
If you hear the crop-dust engine whining overhead, mind
the orange windsock's direction, lest you huff its vapor trail.
Scurry if you prefer between the lime-sulphured rows, and cull
from the clods and sticks, the harvest shaker's settling.

The impertinent squalls of one squeezebox vies against another
in ambling pick-ups. The rattle of dice and spoons. The one café
allows a patron to pour from his own bottle. Special: tripe today.
Goat's head soup. Tortoise-shaped egg bread, sugared pink.
The darkness doesn't descend, and then it descends so quickly
it seems to seize you in burly arms. I've been waiting all night
to have this dance. Stay, it says. Haven't touched your drink.


(2012)

POEM: "Nica & Monk"

Nica & Monk

Enormous house, servants for everything

curtains drawn to protect the paintings

a Rothschild, she toils at needlework

denied what you’d really call a schooling

gets married, has children, waits a moment

flees to New York, she’s falling for jazz

and Thelonius Monk (who’s got problems)

Nica is very rich (that you can’t deny)

she’s drawn to what money can’t give

smokey music in the basement clubs

bass notes and the thunder of Charlie Parker

and that hesitant, hopeless hopeful piano

‘round midnight when the crowd thins

when connoisseurs of the soul sit still

and a dirty draw of perfect sound

permits the long drawn out breath of bliss

Nica, Nica, Nica, Pannonica, a butterfly

like Cho-Cho-San, casting off her own angel

the next subject of the foreign winds of love

a rich white lady faces prison for a black man

please say this again and again and again

try to imagine this power any way you can

at Monk’s funeral she sits next to his wife

and all who come pay homage to them both.

© 2012 Rob Schackne

A John Koethe Poem

  The Perfect Life

I have a perfect life. It isn’t much,
But it's enough for me. It keeps me alive
And happy in a vague way: no disappointments
On the near horizon, no pangs of doubt;
Looking forward in anticipation, looking back
In satisfaction at the conclusion of each day.
I heed the promptings of my inner voice,
And what I hear is comforting, full of reassurance
For my own powers and innate superiority—the fake
Security of someone in the grip of a delusion,
In denial, climbing ever taller towers
Like a tiny tyrant looking on his little kingdom
With a secret smile, while all the while

Time lies in wait. And what feels ample now
Turns colorless and cold, and what seems beautiful
And strong becomes an object of indifference
Reaching out to no one, as later middle age
Turns old, and the strength is gone.
Right now the moments yield to me sweet
Feelings of contentment, but the human
Dies, and what I take for granted bears a name
To be forgotten soon, as the things I know
Turn into unfamiliar faces
In a strange room, leaving merely
A blank space, like a hole left in the wake
Of a perfect life, which closes over.


(2005)

POEM: "Found On The Old Gray Lady"

Found On The Old Gray Lady

Well-hydrated romance

defined by a legacy

he couldn’t outrun

trailing her heart

pushpin by pushpin

in patterns of coincidence

slice of life in a cave

When dog disappears

the humans seem lost

chimps eat, scratch, groom

hopscotching from one

block of ice to the next

a sketch artist animates

a fraternity of bumblers.

© 2012 Rob Schackne

A Jane Springer Poem

  Pretty Polly


Who made the banjo sad & wrong?
Who made the luckless girl & hell bound boy?
Who made the ballad? The one, I mean,
where lovers gallop down mountain brush as though in love—
where hooves break ground to blood earth scent.
Who gave the boy swift words to woo the girl from home,
& the girl too pretty to leave alone? He locks one arm
beneath her breasts as they ride on—maybe her apron comes
undone & falls to a ditch of black-eyed susans. Maybe
she dreams the clouds are so much flour spilt on heaven's table.

I've run the dark county of the heart this music comes from—but
I don't know where to hammer-on or to drop a thumb to the
haunted string that sets the story straight: All night Willie's dug
on Polly's grave with a silver spade & every creek they cross
makes one last splash. Though flocks of swallows loom—the one
hung in cedar now will score the girl's last thrill. Tell
me, why do I love this sawmill-tuned melancholy song
& thud of knuckles darkening the banjo face?
Tell me how to erase the ancient, violent beauty
in the devil of not loving what we love.


(2012)

An Adam Clay Poem

  Scientific Method


Twenty-three percent when placed under
intense pressure did in fact kick
the door in. Soldiers creep on the other side
of the turn. Every little thing
is destined for ease. Music, be still.
Keep the mannequin secrets
to yourself. Remember a ladder
can take you both up and down.
The weather grows less stable
than us. This line here is where
the season starts. Spring seems
fluorescently golden. Too much
milk in the fridge. When left alone
long enough, the prisoners
began to interrogate themselves.


(2012)

An Henri Cole Poem

 Gravity and Center

I’m sorry I cannot say I love you when you say
you love me. The words, like moist fingers,
appear before me full of promise but then run away
to a narrow black room that is always dark,
where they are silent, elegant, like antique gold,
devouring the thing I feel. I want the force
of attraction to crush the force of repulsion
and my inner and outer worlds to pierce
one another, like a horse whipped by a man.
I don’t want words to sever me from reality.
I don’t want to need them. I want nothing
to reveal feeling but feeling—as in freedom,
or the knowledge of peace in a realm beyond,
or the sound of water poured into a bowl.

(2007)

POEM: "Per Una Selva Oscura"

Per Una Selva Oscura


                            Ma tu perché ritorni a tanta noia?
                            perché non sali il dilettoso monte                           
                            ch'è principio e cagion di tutta gioia?
                                          

My friend had written a poem about
An unkind remark she once heard
And a deep wound took hold of
My compassionate old friend again
Nel mezzo del cammin to the laundry
(I'm a dozen countries away now
& so many years have passed us.)

Trying to make sense of unfairness
Wrong-headed & intemperate thinking
And I get nowhere remembering
The heavy blood in the awful words
We do our damn'dest to forget
The shock they caused the tears and pain
& other acts that held a bigger knife.

But the dark woods of the tongue
In such wilful distance from the heart
Only seven years after the scattering
And of all the poetry washed under
Looking for ever better tidings
One nation under a blessèd sky
& now moved on, fuck that guy.


© 2012 Rob Schackne

A Jan de Roek Poem

 In Hoc Signo


In this world of listed buildings
of comics, singers, couturiers, travel agencies and novelists
not of poets, in this world, this laundry
of civil servants, in this world of meetings,
of meetings with the same, the eternal speakers and writers
in this silk-lined time of minks and furs, in this dolled-up
cautious time, this paper time of paper
people, this time of insurances and shrieking popes
in this dulling time, not of poets,
of copywriters, of journalists and advertising
tonight, as a poet, I lend this occasional poem – as you will see.
In this time of rubber stamps and counters, of forms,
not of hands, in this disinfected, prefabricated
time, I read you these, my credentials.
In this time of plush, this sticky time
in this faltering time. In this ritual time
of capital letters. In this raging time.
In this time when only brothels flourish.
In this time of wigs and whining
I stand with you defending myself.
I want them to listen. I want to speak to someone
in this soundproof time, in this grave,
polite, impersonal time. In this world suffering
from chronic prosperity, this contagious world of prestige
and ambition. In this world of photocopies,
of enlargements, in these lowlands where homage
is grown in rows, where they like to hold commemorations.
In this quenching land, in this land of bend or break
this grinding land, in this land of nail-biters
where the priests are surly judges. In this humanist
land from before the Renaissance. In these late middle ages.
In this time of euphemisms, in this, the time
of subjunctive moods, in this belle époque
in this fin-de-siècle, in this time garnished with whipped cream
and with mayonnaise, this time of ice-cream parlours
and afternoon concerts, I am attempting to write a poem
with words that are familiar to me. In this land of
thirteen thousand nine hundred and seventy-three parishes
where the church catches the rats with jukeboxes.
In this land of giving and taking and of grabbing
of grabbing. In the midst of this pastoral people,
in the midst of the sheep, in this, the applauding time.
In this time of open doors, in which the generals
undress in public. In this hygienic time.
In this time of nude culture. With a minister of scouting.
In this time of nickel, in this chrome-plated, silver-plated,
gold-plated time of sports trophies and medals.
In this time of immortals. In this time of mediation
and of house calls. In this time they still speak Dutch,
even the animals speak Dutch,
but there are no poets left.
In this, the parboiled, plodding, passive time.
In this time of indirect speeches, in this, the timid time,
this time of excuses, this time of lack of time for
lack of time. In this posing, plumaged time. In the sleeping cars
of this, the yawning age, the yawning age
I am trying to speak.
See how we are snowed under with rubbish,
with avalanches of newspapers. The drool of news reports
sticking to our faces. We know our beauty queens.
Sometimes we wake up in the middle of a film.
Sometimes we say I’ve read that before: an eye for an eye
and a tooth for a tooth then back to sleep. In this, the obscene time,
in this, the neutral time. In this time,
in which the poets no longer swear.
In this, the bitter time.
Here, nothing is lost. Here everything is useful,
to somebody or other. In this, the competitive time,
this time of for or against. In this world of storeys
and towers, in this, the steep world, on each
floor the world becomes smaller for these, the surviving Babylonians
(Nieuwenhuys, you should know) and the fear grows
amongst the Quakers. In this world of enclosures
a poet knows only shame.
And he is equally ashamed of the Vienna Boys’ Choir
and the inevitable ice show.
In this, the idyllic time, in this time of pastorals
and ballads. He is ill at ease in the saunas of politics,
in the ready-to-wear off-the-peg behind the scenes in the parties’ compartments
in the foaming future. In this time of imitation,
of curves and axes, of averages. In this literal
time, in this close-cropped time, in this time of tinned food,
in this sterilised time, this museum time,
in this shadow of old masters, beside the gloss
of the oils a poet can no longer speak.
Here everything is diluted, adulterated, cut and
shut away in the remote refinery of authority.
Here, in this deep-frozen time, every breath is broken off,
frozen to death. Here, only the barracks stand open.
In this, the world of glasshouses, only the shares
and forget-me-nots flourish, not the poems,
and a poem is every necessary word that needs to be said
in this, the grim time.
For believe me, poetry serves not for trade
but for discussion, in this, the one-sided,
the superstitious time. And it is no revolutionary
floor show, either, no international rock or beat, but
it holds the attention in this, the time of headlong
and hurrah and hosanna. In this, the time of Geiger counters
and the atom. In this time of false teeth and teeth whiter
than white. In this time of make-up, this time of
radar screens, documents and archives. In this time
where stop is a swearword. Defenceless, the poet looks on
with a lump in his throat. In this time of
polyester, in this, the plastics time and sings out of tune.
And still living and pressing patience on the lotteries. In this, the thrilling
time. In this, the paper time. This written time,
this sung time. From behind their armoured glass
the showrooms of politics still beckon
to the rat-catchers and believers. The poet, he looks on
he watches it with his underground friends
if needs be he can undermine it.


13 February 1970


Tr. Rosland Buck, 2012

POEM: "Let There Be Junk"

Let There Be Junk

                              for Oliver Raw

To the true progress

The line in-and-out

A bee flies to the candle
A hand is upon the wheel

Let scattered indirection
Be your god's perfect lie

Every straight edge tries

A falling off to the side

Like a stamp lies in the atlas

The cat on top of the fridge

A glove on a snowbank

A sandal in the waves

All things lost someplace
Please let there be junk

That when it comes to us
We can relax & move fast.

© 2012 Rob Schackne