poetry…

comes to us in many ways. On the road, sometimes we wonder as we wander. The poem Delft Blues is dedicated to a Dutch town known for its ceramics of a certain color and to a musical tour years ago that revealed some European soul...we bring the music, but they do supply the setting.

Delft Blues

Saxophone strokes
notes
hand-painted blue
with the breath he blew
and he blew

Music fired by the sun in places like
Africa, Alabama
Glazed in the heat of Chicago nights

Some call us dancers
We call ourselves foot soldiers

Meanwhile, beneath my window,
clomping, stumbling and bellowing his way home
this townsman needed no one special to cry the news:
Even in Delft sometimes
they get the blues


bothallandevery

—for q.r. hand

bothallandevery
not either/or
neither nor
not never but
whatever
is better
no matter
the letter
the spirit calls
time takes off
the heart beats and listens
the heart leaps then looks
the heart beats and beats

bothallandevery
a hope
a prayer
a reverie

The wordWind Chorus
Reginald Lockett
Brian Auerbach
Q.R. Hand
Lewis Jordan

 

A Confusion of Poetry

music is about
first things first... 

to the ghosts
from a heavenly home
with no visible means,

careening carefully,
revealing compassion

to us, to those born later,
bothallandevery

to the bird
with sympathy,
i am with you, proving myself,

an axiology as formless
as a water sketch

everything's on the one

 

Poetry comes to me as a way to make language a living force, as a way to make connections again and for the first time, the implicit explicit. It is a way to make certain that we never cede the creation of meaning to an other. “We mean to mean,” and “definitions will belong to the definers.” How I or we show up in the world is a constant struggle. Once, at Rainbow Basin with its fossil beds in southern California, looking at the patterns of the weathered land, like water came to me.

like water

seeking my own level
i flow this way and that
around indissoluble objects
my thoughts separate
and then run together
unearthing bits of old life forms
exposing places
where imprints were made
before i can remember

anyone who wants can see through me
can even know where i’ve come from
i approach resistance the same as you
the less the better
yet the paths that seem so worn now
once were never traveled
while the immovable ones limited
but never defined
me

 

poems of remembrance

—for Alfonso Texidor

possibilities

there are only two possibilities
   either Alfonso’s still here with us or he’s not
      if he’s still here with us, that’s okay
      if he’s not
there are only two possibilities
   either there’s life after death or there’s not
      if there’s no life after death, that’s okay
      if there is
there are only two possibilities
   either he’s in heaven or he’s not
      if he’s in heaven, that’s okay
      if he’s not
there are only two possibilities
   either he’s giving the devil hell or he’s organizing a poetry reading
      if he’s giving the devil hell, that’s okay
      if he’s organizing a poetry reading
there are only two possibilities
   either he’ll be reading in spanish or in english

 

We are often complicit
A careful silence
Concealed in so many words


Answers help us to forget
We are the questions
We don't even dare to ask


In the place where I begin
Others continue
Separate an illusion


The mirror shows me smiling
Happy with myself
I see what I want to see


 
 

this folk evening

this folk evening
when our history is present
and our future a reflection,
when we don't care who said it first,
when we are glad
together
that it was done and was said
by someone or some ones who we imagine
remind us of ourselves.
this word of mouth, this ritual created
and recreated in our native tongue
under the trees
on the front porch
around the table
by the fire
the night before we have to go back
to another kind of home
where more recent memories are kept
and privacy is a concern

this folk evening
when we re learn
the never old ways
when we forget
how long it's been
since we remembered things this clearly
and spoke with one another
as if we knew we were listening
when we are glad
together
in the backyard
under the moonlight
on a walk
by the lake
the night before we have to leave
for another kind of home
where time comes in waves

You don’t have to believe everything you think.