Sitra Achra

I’ve chained him
in the cellar with strong
links three times your weight but
I can hear him rending
his limbs as he thrashes
against the bonds, yowling.

It is too easy to say
he is a rabid wolf that howls
at the invisible moon. Easy,
but precise. Like the blade
of a knife. Powerless
rage sustains him so long
before he comes out to feed.

Can you hear what calls
him up? It is your voice.
Can you feel the key
to the lock in your pocket?
Leave it there. He is
no empty metaphor, no device
for a poem. He is
as real as the lines
in your hands, as real
as my shot eyes searching
the night.

Lie in bed and listen
to him beg. Let me out.
Let me out. I will perform
your secret desires. I will
bend to your will.

He is bursting through my flesh.
He is erupting from my fingernails.
He will sleep when day
treads over hill
in exhaust. Then
you can help me pull him down
and hold him fast.

Leave him be.
You can see the foam
fall from the edge
of his lips and know
there are creatures
that cannot be tamed.

Just help me
hold him down.
He is not a pleasant person.
Help me
banish him to the black vortex
of memory.

Here is you do it:
Leave me.

I Will Not Be Midas

Hammocks tip easily when two
people lie inside, so try
hard to be still. Nothing but
your lips should move. Alright,
you can move your hips, too.
Like that, yes, that’s fine.

But I digress. We lounge
in this precarious net,
and you are feeding
me poems you want
to see written.

For instance: The sunshine
after a rainy night is like
right now.

Such a line, but the poem
you want to write is different
than my own. You want to hear
how rainfall mirrored
our biting words in the night,
pitter patter of jealousy
on the skin,

How when light
crept into the room, we caressed
each other’s faces and spoke
plainly, how we were illuminated
as the room was illuminated,
how when we stepped outside
the air was fresh as we were fresh,
new things erupted in blossom
on the same tree.

You will have to write it yourself.
My poem concerns the moment
in the hammock when finally
it is still.

The Dual

I was looking through old Microsoft Word files when I found this. It's the first poem I ever wrote (I must have been 14 or so at the time). Take a look.

As a child I was admonished
That the quickest way to contentment
Was the resistance of the existent:
Favoring spiritual sustenance
Over desired abundance,
Placing objects of the soul
Above interests of the self.

Lately I am taught
That the life worth living
Does not require thought,
But freedom:
From remorse, from regrets, from responsibility;
To consume, to exploit, to waste.

From these aberrant disciplines,
Dueling inside my mind,
I have created a living image:
Carved in marble
But easily chipped.
Step off your pedestal, Galatea,
You’re too high to reach.

Though you’re but a projection of my psyche,
You feel solid as stone.
I would possess you, but I fear you’re fixed,
I would deny you, but for defiant allure.
In your creation, you do not fall
Into either category,
And certainly not
Into my arms.

If this does not seem satisfactory, visceral lady,
Design of dreams, inhabitant of days,
Then tell me of your nature-
I think we could be natural.

Out of Season

We have to write a poem for Valentine's Day in my poetry writing class. This is due tomorrow night, and is all I could come up with. Any help/suggestions whatsoever are appreciated.

When the first warm rays
of spring Valley sun thawed
the soil Mother and I would step
into the raised bed and turn
over the earth with shovels
and hoes, then sow seedlings
that shriveled up in the oven-baked
Fresno summers, remorseless and cruel.

Always I wanted to plant earlier,
but everything in its season she said.

Now you and I have covered a seed
with rich soil in the depth of winter
and I can see it sprouting up
like the river flooding its banks
close to home. Gently I tug
at the stem and feel the roots
resist, rub green leaves,
drops of moisture beading off.

I wonder whether we’ll remember
it in the spring rains, to tend and prune
as it grows taller and wider, because
in spring everything new forms,
minds start to roam, hearts to wander.

Well, my heart’s been wandering a while,
up and down the smooth curves
of your soft skin, over your eager
lips, above your eyes taking everything in--

Delving into your heart,
sounding the bottom, a pearl
diver grasping for oysters out of reach,
out of breath, vainly diving deeper nonetheless.

Whether I emerge
with the orb in hand,
or choose to leave
it under the waves,
I’ll tend to the tree
grown thick with time,
a monument to winter,
to a love made
out of season.

Botticelli Woman

Our mornings remind me of a painting
(not a Bosch, thank God) I think Botticelli
made around 400 years ago.
He painted us.

Mars and Venus lie naked in an Olympian palace,
sipping white wine and munching chilled grapes
while sunlight bursts through a Palladian window
and Vulcan is watching from a corner burning
with jealousy and you know if Mars caught sight
of him he would be too willing to throw
him in the forge for disturbing the moment.

Because there is nothing I would rather do
than lounge around with you, even if
the windows have cheap plastic shutters
and even if the view is of another, identical
room, and even if the sheets are a garish hot pink
that Botticelli could never have captured without acrylics.

Even though they inhabit that moment forever
(I admit it would be nice),
we are better than a painting.
When I touch the surface in my mind
my hand doesn't go through. The canvas
is a wall, the scene illusory.

But when I pressed my hand to the curve
of your hip, it was real.

Still Untitled

My father was always down on cats.
No that thing will not come inside
the house and spray its scent and claw
up the chairs ‘til there’s nothing
left but shreds and cotton remains.

One day the door was cracked
open and I heard a strange
voice on the porch cooing.

I peered through the peep-hole
and saw him with one of the wild
cats that spent nights under the deck
yowling and keeping light sleepers
awake and half asleep the next morning.

Yes, you’re a good kitty such a good
kitty, he whispered and scratched
behind its ears while it lapped
milk from a bowl on his legs.

So that’s it, Father:
Real men do not speak
of love. They create it.
Real men do not write
poetry. They live it.

Thanks for Calling

With a week I could have made you a memory.
Hell, with a week, I could read five books,
find a job, make a million in the stock market,
bring democracy to China,

wash your scent from my sheets.

Someone would ask me where you were
and I'd brush the question from the air,
mutter some vague pronouncement
about celestial bodies out of line.

You didn't have the decency
to give me even a day.
And for that, I thank God.

You're Welcome Here Any Time

I haven't been writing as much as I used to, and I feel like I'm getting rusty. Feel free to rewrite this, or tear it apart, or make any suggestion you want.

It was cold
and windy last night.
Those are my favorites,
though I hate
the winter, because it means
that you will elect
to stay in my bed
even though
it is roughly
the width of a sleeping bag.

Neither of us slept
a wink. The most comfortable
position required us to lay
on our sides, face to face.

With someone else
I would have to kiss
or talk to fill the space
between our lips.

With you I can be silent
for hours.

The High Dive

I waited deep in the water
and gazed up at her on the peak.
Jump, I said. And she plunged.

Her descent was graceless.
She fell tumbling, arms wrapping
her legs and in the moment
when her head struck the surface
I struggled for breath.

Here is where the details become murky.
She must have forgotten that to resist
a fall in water, one must arch one’s back
upon entry and spread the arms wide
as though reaching for support.

When her nose crashed
the bottom it shattered
and blood spooled
through the water.

She lay asleep at the floor of the pool.
I swam to her and carried her up,
raised her over the side to lay
on dry land, pressed her chest
once, twice, to cough out the fluid.

She came to. I saw her nose bent
off-side. Blood coursed over her eye
in a stream. I saw flaws.

Spark

Thanks a bunch for the comments. Very in depth, analytical, and most of all, helpful. I appreciate it. Here's what I have, and if you have the time, let me know what you think. It's due tomorrow (eep).

A stream of light trickles

from a street lamp 

through shuttered blinds

into shadows.



The glow glances off one
diamond earring
into eyes waiting
inches away.



Then a wisp 

of soft hair falls

over the ear, shrouds

the spark that shot forth



and the room dims to black.



I have a feeling these changes link the images to the meaning better, than before, and I like the rhythm and feel much better.
I'm not sure how much I like having to write in a specific style of poetry, but it sure made me think a bit about the craft. Spent more time on these thirteen stupid lines than I have on any other poem I've ever written.

Telphone

On the table lies
the phone, waiting
expectantly. Cold,
black, silent--
like a bear
in hibernation
deep in winter,
full of dreams
in its slumber.

Still when his hand
grasps it, flips it open,
finds her number,
he cannot press the final
button that will send
it through.

He is through
with the numbers,
has played them too long.
Even when the lucky ones
turn up and the dice fall
sevens and the royal flush
is dealt, still there are

Memories. Inalterable,
immobile, regretful.
So he closes it, sets
it down and waits
instead for the ring.

Lonely Note

I am hiding out at Starbucks
just across from my apartment,
hiding out from people.

Jazz speakers above mix
with smoke and empty conversation,
rinse over me to create

a strange sort of quiet
isolation and lets me drown
in a paper mug almost empty,

but still there is one vibration,
thirty million times a second
that I can just make out.

It is the lonely note,
timbred in absence,
and sometimes I wonder

when I am hiding out at Starbucks,
if there isn't someone else
listening for the lonely note

that might come to my table
with a sorrowful smile
and pluck another string.

Same

Jenna tried
to make this place
home for me, pasting
pictures on the wall
with blue red yellow
paper frames.

Early in the morning
lying on my bed,
having just climbed
out of my jars

high-beam headlights
from speeding cars
on Russell Boulevard
imbue these pictures
with some semblance
of life–

they climb
off the walls
and whisper
there is no home
for you anymore.

Changes have come.

But still the tule fog
drops in from the Sierras,
tract homes still
mar old orchards,
and familiar things
remain the same.

Crows

I know you see them.
You too are surrounded.
They leave at noon
but when the dusk comes
they all rush to join it,
and when our hands part,
fill the space in between,
take up their perch,
rake their talons across it

and you will howl,
cry that space was not left
for clawing black wings,
but then you'll remember
that scene from the Passion
where the crow stabs
the sentenced thief's eye,
recoil and gasp
in stark understanding--

It's too late,
our love has been stolen,
but which of us
is the crucified?

Uncertain Morning

There is light yet coming.
Just beyond that building
I can see it spread.
It is the dawn
of new morning
sashaying boldly
through a retreating
night.

Walk alone
towards it.
These things give comfort
and room to think
in that exquisite place
where the two meet
and one can forget
feelings forged
only moments before,
weigh them dispassionately
on the tip of the scale,
the dividing line
of an uncertain morning.

Gray Scale

He ponderously rocks on the porch,
outside ashen clouds sift down. If he stopped
to sniff the air, he'd smell the coming storm.

In the yard grass grows long and unruly,
while he puffs his crude cob hand fuses
to chair, he inhales a memory.

These are not limited to shades of gray,
they are vivid and vibrant, full of life:
The blond hair of a woman long left.
The bent light of a sunrise through water.
The pale peach of her hand as he held it.

Do not speak to him of these, Adelaide.
I know his mind. In a while it will be mine,
and I'll let these thoughts curl ‘round
me like the smoke, then blow them away
to disperse
in the wind.

Impulse

Coalitions vie for supremacy
til at last one sends a signal.
Chemicals spill 'cross space and time,
ignite a chain reaction.

It wanders through fissures and gyri,
here a sign, there a fire.
Through sweeping diversions, stops
and changes it reaches
its destination and raises
the singular emotion
of longing.

This is all it takes?
I'll take the mystery back.
These neurons mean nothing--
but the sensation and image
of your hair strewn
on the pillow
while I write wide awake
in my chair
is vastly more complex
and beautiful
then a simple
electrical
impulse.

Blurred Vision

She dwells in the blurred line
between light and dark,
but keeps her true nature
a secret.

She stands in the place
between night and day,
but still she remains
unseen.

Where my whiskey
mixes with soda she rests,
whether lightened or dulled
I cannot attest.

Occasionally, in a time
of transcendence, she flits
by my eyes, leaving
me breathless.

Stand still for a moment, my girl.
There is no one else here,
And I'd never speak
of this sharpened vision.

Act of Faith

I am reposting this, with thanks to PB for edits on the poem portion.


The door creaks,
your eyelids shudder
into conscious
vision.

Those eyes,
speaking
more than I
while trying
to leave as gracefully
and quietly as you
lay sleeping.

Why leaving
now? Why slipping
away without
a single word?

How can I say
this? It is the middle
of the night, it is 2 AM
not truly morning,
and you, soundly sleeping,
slipped your arm
unconsciously over me
with an unknowing
affection and I awoke
from my fantasy
concerning a girl
from last week.

Yet already I am
in your dreams?
One humbling
simple act of faith,
when I cannot find
faith in myself
even to kiss you
goodbye.
---------------------------------------

He awoke around ten in the morning, the stifling air immediately flowing into his nostrils. As always, she lay asleep beside him. She didn’t rise, but dug herself deeper beneath the covers. He could feel her presence. It rose out from the bed, mixed around with the air and diffused into it, slowly suffocating him.

They were at some sort of conference when they first met; he couldn’t remember what it was for. By some strange twist of fate they had been seated at the same table, and over wine and a salad they had a little argument over this or that aspect of a talk. He found she had an unconventional sense of humor, an intriguing manner of speech, and he spent that night with her—and he stayed.

Intrigue was all it had been, though, intrigue and convenience, along with a none-too-healthy dose of sheer animal attraction. There was the rub. It was so easy to glide through the life she thought they were building together and see only those aspects. She could turn a blind eye to the world and look to him, while his own eye turned inward, seeking an answer to an unasked question.

But as he looked within, the without gnawed at him. His was an artless life, without observation. His was a life of staid convenience, of an internal creation that blocked out all else. The air grew thicker, and he felt that if he didn’t move, he would choke. Rising from the bed, his hip cracked and she turned over.

Quietly, he moved over to the desk, picked up a pen, and wrote. Not on any paper, but on the wood itself. The note was short, but would stay until scrubbed away.

He walked to the window and opened it wide. Outside the rain clouds were gathering, borne by a strong wind. The smell of an impending storm hit him full on, and he took it in. That was the world. He could live alone in it, or together in no world at all. His hand stretched out to grasp at the nothingness, the futility of it, and as it did, the first drop hit him like a hammer. Then it poured down, slowly at first. After a few minutes it came down in droves, a cascading waterfall. Continuing to hold out his hand, he looked back at her. She was still there, oblivious. For a moment he thought to kiss her goodbye, to execute the routine as he had so many mornings before.

But he had to break that connection, that simple cycle of events that occurred without fail each day. Wordlessly, he picked up his wallet and dropped it into his pocket. Walking to the door, he looked back again. She was stirring now. Quick, before it’s too late. Turning the handle he stepped outside, and the door shut itself with a soft click. He could hear her yawn, and he walked down the hall and outside. The rain still dropped, but softly. He had forgotten his coat, but that was all right. Every drop that fell on his arm he could feel.

Tributary

I am a little creek
that winds quickly
down from the mountains.

Downstream is the San Joaquin,
the river that nourished
the land in the days
of old.

Seamlessly I flow
into that river,
that great river
that wanders so slow
through the valley.

You. You are my river,
my San Joaquin.
You absorb me,
a glove on the hand,
magnet and iron,
the part--

that makes the whole.

My question is thus:
Would you still flow
along and nourish
the land without
my humble, tributary
contribution?