The Park (Gustav Klimt)

 

The first leaves to turn lighten

From dark green to warm pale

Before a single one drops.

The gardens beyond brighten

Even as the flowers fail.

The nothing in the world stops.

Voca Me: A Poem in 72 Voices

They cried with one voice as they ran 
        toward me.

"Wait, oh, wait, for by your dress 
                       you seem

a voyager from our own tainted country."

Ah! what wounds, some new, some old,

branded upon their bodies!  Even now

the pain of it in memory turns me cold.

                                                                                                                                      The Inferno

“Membranes in countless layers, gathered

  like phyllo dough, thick and thin

layers touching—separate, together—

  the men in death—the deaths in men.”

  *  *  *

“Prepared to swoon into the It

  on the operating table, I laugh,

having been out for a minute

  they say was an hour and a half.”

“A young man, I dreamed of You—

  your mirror-ball lidless eyes,

your smile a gash of scar tissue.

  I saw Nothing in Its disguises.”

“You say you believe in He Who forgets

  you said you don’t believe in God?

Is that it, then, your big secret?

  Faith is not faith, if not flawed?”

“Whose pale beast charges the air,

  amazing birds, churning ashes,

driving the roar of motherless despair,

  urged by a whip made of eyelashes?”

“I’m like an old hissing swan,

  with half its upper beak torn,

flapping up and down the lawn,

  lunging in vain at scattered corn.”

“He asked of me complete surrender.

  I was not to reveal or suppress

myself.  I was only to wonder

  what other men would not express.”

  * * *

“For return of the boy, we danced

  in the mask with only one eye;

through its mouth, I glimpsed

  bloody hands and pale blue sky.”

“Seated, screened, I absolve sins

  with whispered sentences of penance.

I kneel like them and He begins

  with unseen mumbling, then silence.”

“They’ve dispensed with the crucifix!

  Now we’ve a risen Christ and cross!

Instead of the Trinity, let’s have six,

  and God the Pope, already the boss!”

“We sit cross-legged on a flower—

  ankles rubbing up and down my back.

We measure our ecstasies by the hour,

  her white flesh slowly turning black.”

“I sit by the bed, comfort the dying,

  or their survivors, know what to say

to those who profess, find myself lying

  to the bitter one gone astray.”

“A coin on my unconfessed tongue,

  the host wouldn’t melt, tasted

of nails, blood coughed from the lung.

  So, sacraments can be wasted.”

“When the person in my eye turns

  away, the breaths gather round—

exhaled fumes from light that burns

  the air clean of sight and sound.”

  * * *

“Preacher tells me, ‘Believe in Hell,

  where devils chew on dead men!’

Why doesn’t he bother to tell

  me what angels do with men in Heaven?”

“Off the battlements, the bodies tossed

  into the river Styx.  Some float,

some sink, but all are lost.

  None find Charon before they bloat.”

“In Dante, silly demons, afraid

  of the living who pass Hell’s gate,

believe they see Death unmade

  when He has only decided, ‘later.’”

“If I must drink this cup of Lethe,

  remember what I’ve asked Your Son,

Lord—to have His death ensure me

  life, to live in recollection.”

“Wouldn’t we, forsaken, die in Hell?”

  Even spirit couldn’t brook such horror.

So, the truth will be the final evil;

  after, we’ll know nothing more.”

“The house, they said, burned quickly.

  His family of five did not awaken.

Now there’s a new house, I see,

  which their spirits have forsaken.”

“Given the promise ever since birth

  of a personal God with white beard,

outside time, I’ll walk the earth

  by roads old Dante nicely tiered.”

  * * *

“The devil, I think, might have sinned,

  thinking, ‘I’m better than my brothers,’

but not when he fought what was ordained—

  one son to be the equal of the Father.”

“As angels, meant to be, not think,

  we don’t go where not told to go.

No wonder some prefer Hell’s stink.

  No smell at all to Old So-And-So-And-So.”

“Parvati, hand poised, the flection

  of her hip sweet, if not demure,

arouses her Lord Siva’s erection,

  proving gods divine, if not pure.”

“I dream the Angel of Death’s love,

  the warm embrace of her plush arms,

her wing’s beat lifting me above

  the cold brain’s vaporous charms.”

“Two of her hands hold weapons of war,

  a third a skull of blood to her lips.

What does she hold in number four?

  Her hidden hand is what we worship.”

“’That which is spirit becomes real

  when body and heart reflect the inner

conflict of the soul,’ says Gabriel.

  ‘Think!’ shouts the Original Sinner.”

“Angels saw the essential elements

  in pattern, connections objectified

in simplicity, but not what it meant

  when I smiled every time I lied.”

  * * *

“Adroitly, starling’s reedy piping

  interprets the dazzle its splashing

in rainwater gives wing—wing,

  spray, flash, wind clashing.”

“The surf churns.  Pocked with fossils

  once life, now petrified, mineral,

gray limestone looses its cells

  upon the sand—final, sempiternal.”

“The bee, fly, gnat, katydid,

  populating the weeds among

The fences, feed the toad, who rids

  us of pests with stuck-out tongue.”

“The lamb spit blood and died,

  yet untouched by the lion’s claw.

I knelt between them and cried

  for strength—found it in his jaw.”

“Fish at the bottom of the sea, bleak

  with their emission of pale light,

each ignorant of his shadow, seek

  darkness the way we seek insight.”

“Answer.  On both sides of a lightning

  bolt, blue beneath a red cloud,

lips smile, poised to sing.

  The sound?  Answer!  Sweet or loud?”

“Snow falls upon the living side

  of death, the dead stays dry

and temperate.  God called.  I died

  cold and wet, not knowing why.”

  * * *

“If anything has the capacity to exist,

  although it doesn’t, there must be

something.  Thus, what is, mist 

  or dust, is mere alternativity.”

“Light transmits the tree to the eyes,

  is seen unseen, God’s mind,

but is not the tree.  The mind lies.

  Light comes between, God’s blind.”

“Vaguely certain kites are flown

  between the wind’s unseen wings,

I fly across my father’s lawn,

  thinking,  wind . . . kite . . . not string.”

“Our euphemism for death is change—

  what was is no more because

of tendencies in things to rearrange.

  Thus we interpret immutable laws.”

“The circle’s path turns progressive,

  but ends where it began.  Illusion,

too, the triangle’s third successive 

  span.  The spiral unbinds confusion.”

 “If forces seek a lower level,

  perhaps we are collapsed remains

of a universe devoid of evil,

  waiting to collapse again.”

“The speed of an object’s flight

  times its time’s velocity

is always equal to the speed of light: 

  space, time, light and gravity

“are products of Creation no greater

  than consciousness, the fifth dimension.

Time may stop, but sooner or later,

  I’ll see the sequel to oblivion.”

  

“What did he see, the man who looked

  and understood seeing was to act,

not simply a reacting to?  Crooked

  in a placid pool, God became a fact.”

  * * *

“Nothing is far to God, unless

  you count the vacuum of my faith,

which is uncertain and can’t guess,

  won’t move closer fearing death.”

“When, once again, all became clear,

  and I knew myself, my increase

and diminishment, something nearer

  said:  ‘Do not look for peace.’”

“I nod, head grown heavy in my palm.

  The lion yawns.  The Word has covered

my eyelids with its black balm.

  ‘What,’ says lion, ‘have you discovered?”

  * * *

“On my belly sits some kind

  Of man, scratching his chin, uncertain,

I seem to think, about the blind

  horse nosing my bed-curtain.”

“If God be for us, who against

  His will, man or nation,

dares to threaten our defense—

  our church, our congregation?”

“I stood at the top of the stairs,

  looking down for the longest time,

then I fell.  I felt—it scares 

  me still—like the victim of a crime.”

“Some thought me innocent of reality,

  touting a god who wouldn’t turn

his people’s thirst for brutality

  against his enemy—but they learned.”

“‘I don’t believe in Mortal Sin,’

  I said.  The priest:  ‘Of course,

no act is unpreconditioned,

  but you are evil at its source.’”

“I’ve lived here for thirty years.

  I eat and pray, knit and sleep.

At night, I blink back the tears.

  Everything I have I bought cheap.”

“Newly confirmed, fervent, awake,

  I clutched the missal in my hands.

I said a prayer for my soul’s sake

  and cursed the devil in my glans.”

“The nuns taught me to say Hail Mary’s

  as a child, to ensure a good marriage.

I hope that quaint guarantee carries

  some indulgence for my miscarriage.”

“I’m a lonely woman, sick and weak.

  The paper boy is only thirteen,

but he responds to the little peek

  I give him.  He says I’m ‘keen’.”

“I took the crozier from the Bishop’s hand,

  swinging Saint Michael and the Dragon

to set a miter on his Eminence’s head and

  martyred him.  ‘Again,’ he said, ‘Again!’”

“A god my cock.  Big as a hose.

  Almost all hole.  Harder than rock.

Go where the twitchy butt goes.

  Snuff what it wants.  Give a fuck.”

“A nice boy, couldn’t make decisions—

  he wanted peace in the house.  He said,

‘God loves all men, and all religions.’

  He left the Church.  My son is dead.”

“I know He is only a god of what seems,

  never of what is.  I lead my flock

in rising, self-abasing screams.

  At least it keeps them off the crack.”

“Perfectly sober, I drove with my thumb,

  holding a Manhattan in my lap,

felt the road crumble, the car jump,

  thinking, I’ll draw my own road map.”

“Armageddon was in Nineteen Seventy-five.

  The flag and evolution are Satan’s tools.

Because it’s ‘Eighty-nine and we’re alive,

  the humanist politicians think us fools.”

“Whom shall I give my small fortune?

  The symphony and the art museum

provide less eternal recognition

  than carvings on one’s mausoleum.”

“All the things that men forget,

  I remember yet.  Call me Sid,

who hid in Suzie’s hairnet

  ‘cause Daddy did it with his kid.”

“I had eaten, and become immortal,

  so I ate another white tab.

My eye exploded.  Infinity’s portal

  soon closed up and formed a scab.”

“My whore held a Bible by her cunt

  as she kneeled swaying above me.

I said, ‘I have sinned!’ in front

  of millions.  Oh, how they love me.”

“Last year I harvested the hay,

  left the bound rolls in the field.

Resting here, I sense their decay.

  Why does the ground go untilled?”

“Not know what covetous meant,

  when in everything I had what

most would not even think to want,

  I showed men what not to covet.”

“That day the snow came down like moths,

  and it was May.  I watched a squirrel

nibbling its perch—a twig tossed

  by the wind—ignoring spring’s deferral.”

“He made us like him, not Him,

  teaching us to blink, not think.

One could follow Him, or them.

  I too drank the cyanide drink.”

from Voca Me (2)

  * * *

“We take a moment to devote

  to God, the opposite of rhyme,

a song, a single silent note,

  nothing sung in metered time.”

“My soul was like a weaned child.

  It was He, not I, who made me.

Just His laughter would reconcile

  my rage with my vanity.”

“I grew to question the pyramids—

  poured cement, not quarried rock.

Unlike Stonehenge’s cold Druids,

  I knew the sun was not a clock.”

“What they saw over Bethlehem

  was the birth or death of a star

aeons before faithless men

  could look up and say, ‘How far?’”

“My fist lay on the filthy shop

  floor.  I screamed along with

the saw, which would not stop.

  Its teeth were now my teeth.”

“A medium, not a personality,

  a receptacle of others’ feelings,

I discovered my true identity

  in premeditated stealing.”

“Sleep and Death being one,

  conscious of the sliding minute,

I dream to comprehend the reason

  unconsciousness is infinite.”

“Dancing to quaint viols, antique

  tunes, beneath the mushroom shade,

we are like forces, strong and weak:

  we spin together, then we fade.”

“I saw three men, treacherous men,

  wading a river, murderous and wild.

It swallowed them, swallowed again.

  I saw it shiver, nauseous, defiled.”

“Upon the city’s grid of lights,

  I imposed my dynamic

rhythm—yellow, reds, whites,

  and blues, opposing, unmelodic.”

“In imitation of intercourse,

  bones line up, teeth chatter.

Fading into its depthless source,

  old ecstasies seem not to matter.”

“My concern is with the minimal

  thinking life in a man, the brute

moving away from its animal

  state, awakening, and still mute.”

“The flat black I painted

  concrete, looked like seeping oil.

I called beauty art tainted,

  truth wishful thinking soil.”

“Each of us is a devil’s penis,

  thrusts the earth above the ground.

Will conscience not wean us

  from sex before the final mound?”

“One of countless sounds, my voice

  joined the crowd’s absurd violence,

unheard of course, leaving no choice,

  but proud discipline of silence.”

“As Christ’s body I lived my life;

  did He as my head have regrets?

I think, whatever comes, afterlife

  or afterdeath, I’d rather forget.”

“He’s committed haram against the Prophet.

  You will not read!  You will hunt him

 to the city of the Riddah, where for profit

  he hawks his words like a mutakallim!”

“What was paradise?  A mere acre

  or two?  Or a million?  And Adam and Eve.

‘This is boring,’ said their Maker,

‘Either you get busy or you leave.’”

“Once, my prayer reversed the negative—

  light became nothing, darkness radiated

life.  As I watched the sun give

  off night, my yearning was satiated.”

“Are dead grins, I used to ask,

  more alike than living faces?

Which is actor, which is mask?

  One endures, the other erases.”

“The little wrens screw up their cheeks,

  stifling laughter as the boy wriggles

up through her cool body.  He seeks

  her mouth.  She wakes to their giggles.”

“‘Because you can’t know when the thief

  will come, day or night,’ said Matthew,

‘keep watch!’ referring (to my disbelief!)

  to the Second Coming.  Coming for you?”

“Mine the space of those who move

  along the serpentine circle,

the house-born triangular groove.

  I took my space in place of will.”

“As I died, alone, in my bedroom,

  he held out his arms to me, cried,

‘Take the stone from the mouth of your tomb.’

  I spoke, ‘Why were you crucified?’”

“I am old.  Starlight is young.

  I was dust when its flight

began: dust the star that flung

  it forth to die into my sight.”

“What has not the shape of a dog,

  can’t lie quietly there and seem

to be or fly like a rising fog?

  Reluctantly, I change my dream.”

  * * *

“Nothing is far to God, I guess.

  We move closer, the closer Death

holds us out to Him, unless,

  unlike Death, we drop our faith.”

“When, once again, all became clear,

  and I knew myself, my perfection

and diminishment, something nearer

  said, ‘Prepare for resurrection.’”

“Call me, says the bare branch to gray

  skies.  Call me, says the black

smoke to the stars.  Night, says day

  To darkness, will not call you back.”

Note: This is two self-contained sections

from my long poem Voca Me (latin for "call me").

It is one of my "voices poems," in which

each stanza is spoken by a different

voice. More sections to follow.