Poems from the home page, 2010
WILD
Dwell where wild blueberries grow
and, as season turns to season, live fruitfully.
Discover secrets you were meant to know.
Wade with me through early river's flow
that can, if winter's fall is high, too lustily
swell where wild blueberries grow,
because on any mountainside green gusts that blow
inflate our senses and, like poetry,
mother secrets you were meant to know.
Walk beside a dawn-streaked glow;
listen to the summer's songbird wistfully
trill where wild blueberries grow.
Resolve to never leave, although
such knowledge must be guarded, carefully,
with other secrets you once meant to know
and then, at last, as we surrender to the undertow
a memory may linger, still, of this mortality,
with all its lovers' secrets you were meant to know
so well, where wild blueberries grow.
STEVE'S SECRET
TO A LONG AND
PRODUCTIVE LIFE
Find as much satisfaction
from shovelling snow
as you do
in writing a poem.
PHOTOGRAPH
Everything
in the picture is white
—well, almost everything.
Ceiling, with glowing
florescent fixtures,
walls, even the floor.
The clock face is white too,
with a white plastic case.
Only numbers and hands
disrupt the pattern (must,
I guess, be able to tell when
the appointed time arrives).
The frame is white, too,
on the window
that allows witnesses
in the room next door
to see what takes place
when the appointed time arrives.
The main contrast is the chair itself.
It is, you can tell right away,
a very special chair,
the only one of its kind
at the Greenville Correctional
Facility in Jarrett, Virginia:
an aged-oak color,
with dark leather straps--
both of which are more likely
than the ceiling and walls
to match the color of a prisoner
fastened there until
definitively corrected.
The color of the human hand
that, when the appointed time
arrived on so many occasions,
threw the switch, delivering thereby
the requisite correctional jolt,
is not public information.
But you don’t reallyhave to know.
Just remember: Everything
in this picture is white
—well, almost everything.
NAME A CLOUD AFTER ME . . .
. . . you know, one of those clouds
which grows from nothing
on a late summer afternoon, soon
pummels the ground below
with rain, hoping, even if in vain,
to spawn its tornado, leave thereby
some lasting mark upon the earth
before vanishing into a nighttime sky.
For among those who measure themselves
on the time-scale of clouds—most
producing no more than a cooling
breeze, do not squeeze out even
a single drop of rain—
such a storm must be the great one,
long to be admired, and remembered.
Which is why, as I attempt
to pummel the earth, spawn
a tornado which may leave
some lasting mark, this appeal
goes out to any one of you
who measure yourselves
on the time scale of humanity:
If, by chance, you have felt
the attempt of my lightning,
pay me this small tribute
on some summer afternoon
while watching a thunderhead
create itself, out of nothing.
Name it after me—even if,
for all of the others,
I may produce nothing more
than a gentle breeze—felt
on its appointed day,
before vanishing, forever,
into a nighttime sky.
[On April 13, 2010, I listened to a radio
broadcast of the third story recounted below
and conceived this poem. Later the same day
I heard an interview with Alice Walker about
her new book, Overcoming Speechlessness.
This verse is dedicated to Alice Walker--SB.]
TODAY I HEARD THE NEWS
Today I heard the news:
Earthquake victims in Haiti
victimized again by earthquake relief.
And there is nothing I can do
but write these words.
Today I heard the news:
Dozens die, explosion,
West Virginia mine. Hundreds
of safety violations left uncorrected.
And there is nothing I can do
but offer you these lines.
Today I heard the news:
Pakistani women defaced
in acid attacks; husbands
and in-laws face the minimum.
And I decide I will
compose a poem,
believing still that if each human being
who hears the news
(I mean, who really hears
the news) provides us
with just a few words
or a few lines,
together we might compose that poem
which proves, at last:
There is, indeed, something we can do.
broadcast of the third story recounted below
and conceived this poem. Later the same day
I heard an interview with Alice Walker about
her new book, Overcoming Speechlessness.
This verse is dedicated to Alice Walker--SB.]
TODAY I HEARD THE NEWS
Today I heard the news:
Earthquake victims in Haiti
victimized again by earthquake relief.
And there is nothing I can do
but write these words.
Today I heard the news:
Dozens die, explosion,
West Virginia mine. Hundreds
of safety violations left uncorrected.
And there is nothing I can do
but offer you these lines.
Today I heard the news:
Pakistani women defaced
in acid attacks; husbands
and in-laws face the minimum.
And I decide I will
compose a poem,
believing still that if each human being
who hears the news
(I mean, who really hears
the news) provides us
with just a few words
or a few lines,
together we might compose that poem
which proves, at last:
There is, indeed, something we can do.
I HAVE NO NEED TO CURSE YOU . . .
. . . you, who live in the elegant
house, with a big-screen TV
in every room.
I have no need to curse you,
you, who worry so intently
whether the color on your walls
is properly coordinated
with the upholstery.
I have no need to curse you,
you, who believe that life
in New York City
is defined by Park Avenue
or maybe by Broadway, do not
know what it is like to walk
under the El on Westchester
next to the projects
in the South Bronx.
I have no need to curse you,
you, who are too fearful
to remove your shoes,
let the soles of your feet
come in contact with the dirt.
I have no need to curse you,
you, who live in the elegant
house with its big-screen
TVs, have not a single book
of verse among your possessions.
I have no need to curse you,
you, who act as if
everyone in the world
speaks English.
For you are condemned
already, to a lifetime
in which you will never,
not for a single instant,
be allowed to comprehend
the meaning of this poem.