BENEATH REMAINS
(for Margaret Atwood)
BIRTHDAY NOV. 18
The nightfall sky
fades by rain
where your nature
still reaches out to us
on our shadows
in an Autumn repose
of dissolving darkness
with your mysterious
presence of language
flies like the mourning bird
will return to us as new life
with its clairvoyant
voice by the woods
where wan memory
resides below
I can still hear your novel voice
on the B.B.C. and C.B.C.
at us earth-wise who read you.
ON THE NORTH SEA
Surprised by the anonymity
trembling on the frozen sea
in the staring eyes
of distracted tourists
eager for a ship's ride
toss silver coins
by emptying their pockets
for good luck in the ocean,
gulls rise on the silent sky
then hang out by the boat
water lashes my jacket
with a last collection of words
of a poisoned love letter inside
the wind sweeps by the porthole
in cold breathless air
I'm always carrying
a poet's still harbored notes,
with galleys of navigation
under my pale sleeve.
IN THE SKIFF
My teacher called me captain
speaking in French
of this bi-coastal skiff,
I was just a school boy enraptured
with rowing out here by waves
so black and blue
it almost tears and foams
wet with these wavered colors
wreathed in a sailor suit
at dusk, full of stars
and sprinkled with eclipses
when the sky moves higher
by a bird cloud horizon
soaring from silken water
its breath beyond gull voices
resounding over the silvery Seine
from a procession of Parisian light
asking the moon's exiled laugh
not to forget the face
of a deeply blue chilled poet
enjoying wildly the winds,
half-kidding in a threadbare coat
to answer all the jokes
directed toward my rowing
by grey shadows
backside at the dock
this young poet takes shelter
from his sleepy weariness
contemplating the night's air
like a newborn embracing
these decomposing notes
of a day dream world
releasing his silky thoughts
on board with words
that will survive this voyage.
(for Margaret Atwood)
BIRTHDAY NOV. 18
The nightfall sky
fades by rain
where your nature
still reaches out to us
on our shadows
in an Autumn repose
of dissolving darkness
with your mysterious
presence of language
flies like the mourning bird
will return to us as new life
with its clairvoyant
voice by the woods
where wan memory
resides below
I can still hear your novel voice
on the B.B.C. and C.B.C.
at us earth-wise who read you.
ON THE NORTH SEA
Surprised by the anonymity
trembling on the frozen sea
in the staring eyes
of distracted tourists
eager for a ship's ride
toss silver coins
by emptying their pockets
for good luck in the ocean,
gulls rise on the silent sky
then hang out by the boat
water lashes my jacket
with a last collection of words
of a poisoned love letter inside
the wind sweeps by the porthole
in cold breathless air
I'm always carrying
a poet's still harbored notes,
with galleys of navigation
under my pale sleeve.
IN THE SKIFF
My teacher called me captain
speaking in French
of this bi-coastal skiff,
I was just a school boy enraptured
with rowing out here by waves
so black and blue
it almost tears and foams
wet with these wavered colors
wreathed in a sailor suit
at dusk, full of stars
and sprinkled with eclipses
when the sky moves higher
by a bird cloud horizon
soaring from silken water
its breath beyond gull voices
resounding over the silvery Seine
from a procession of Parisian light
asking the moon's exiled laugh
not to forget the face
of a deeply blue chilled poet
enjoying wildly the winds,
half-kidding in a threadbare coat
to answer all the jokes
directed toward my rowing
by grey shadows
backside at the dock
this young poet takes shelter
from his sleepy weariness
contemplating the night's air
like a newborn embracing
these decomposing notes
of a day dream world
releasing his silky thoughts
on board with words
that will survive this voyage.
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