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Following orders
the pen sat hiring ships to go to war
in a pretty hand
and is now very discrete
more than me
I am among other things a man
that history missed
my victory over doubt
was killed and taken
Poems on the topic: history
Poems on the topic “history” on Poets.by.
Microcosmic
visions like whole books
a history of land
a history of light
where all things end in a green garden
and some cherries
my wife lying with me
The end of history
Noon came
by appointment
after the war
and stayed till late.
I see what it is:
another night.
Ahistorical
Time as thin as pain,
yesterday lessened
and pretty,
we invent a bespoke
weather of the hour
and find things
to own and talk to.
Self-censor
these days i wear wonder
like a broad-brimmed hat
when the moon is dead empty
i try to lose my shadow
i cut what i thought were tethers
they turn out to be roots
when i stop writing on paper
the trees become less hostile
i could swallow what’s left of my fire
and tend bees
i would write myself out of history
line by painstaking line
Voyages
the urge to go on a voyage
body moving with purpose
the devil is in on it
the best way to keep me from myself
whatever comes of history
we could wake without hurting it
hunt for a nipple
in the clear rain
Thimble
The first thimble was the tanned hide
of an enemy’s thumb. Whisky
had yet to be invented, but
needles were employed as lances
in desperate finger-to-finger combat.
Battlefields were so numerous,
they were stacked into other battlefields
like Russian dolls. Soon, brass
was pressed into use, & one armorer
began dimpling the surface
to ward off smallpox.
Prostitutes made their Johns (then
still called Jacks) wear thimbles
on every finger, because who knew
where those hands had been?
Meanwhile they were measuring ale
* * *
(as you go into Seir or Ives)
once worlds were
small as battleships
or nine dozen ballfields
enough to be perfect
but a number of things
now go wrong
mysterious expectation
with the worlds merged
no god-like power
that we can conceive
we see in front ahead
and why not be there
while math is quite the bag
of a half nonillion tricks
so Goya went mad in the end something like
Public Affairs
what's all the shouting about, the
man wanted to know; i couldn't
tell him.
It wasn't, even, as if
there weren't anything to shout
about, there was plenty, i can
tell you. but how could i translate
successfully enough? to tell him
just what the shouting was about.
so finally, since he kept insisting,
i told him all, how the colts had
deserted their sacred oath, and more
important, the border guard, and
alexander, big man, halfway into india.
Dust
Dust,
Through which
Proud blood
Once flowed.
Dust,
Where a civilization
Flourished.
Dust,
The Valley of the Nile,
Dust,
You proud ones, proud of the skill
With which you play this game--Civilization;
Do not forget that it is a very old game.
Men used to play it on the banks
Of the Tigris and the Euphrates
When the world was a wilderness.
Japanese Hokku 10
Life is history.
Turn not away from the book.
Write on every page!
The Negro Speaks of Rivers
I’ve known rivers:
I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.
I’ve known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
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