What I Assume

William Blake (1757 - 1827) had an early and directive impact on my view of poetry, and is rivaled only by Shakespeare and Milton for the crown of British poets. Though my first exposure was surely The Tyger I first learned of Blake through his Songs of Innocence and of Experience, which I loved for their sharp, precise language and the juxtaposition of good and evil, fantasy and reality, idealism and pragmatism.

Discovering that Blake had illuminated his poetry was like an awakening, for I had always loved art as a child, and Blake’s dramatic illustrations were an apt helpmate for poetry’s sensual qualities, and hinted at Blake’s own supernaturally visionary and prophetic powers of philosophy. I remember as I became interested in bookbinding at the end of my high school days one of my first projects was to dissect the sewn sections of a paperback edition of Songs with full-color plates, and rebind them to boards.

So here are a few poems from Songs of Experience by William Blake, with color images of his illustrations (a full collection of Blake’s works, including illustrations, is available at The William Blake Archive):

• William Blake - My Pretty Rose Tree mp3
• William Blake - Ah Sunflower mp3
• William Blake - The Lilly mp3
• William Blake - The Sick Rose mp3

My Pretty Rose Tree

A flower was offered to me,
Such a flower as May never bore;
But I said, ‘I’ve a pretty rose tree,’
And I passed the sweet flower o’er.

Then I went to my pretty rose tree,
To tend her by day and by night;
But my rose turned away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight.

Ah Sunflower

Ah Sunflower, weary of time,
  Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
  Where the traveller's journey is done;

Where the Youth pined away with desire,
  And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
  Where my Sunflower wishes to go!

The Lilly

The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
The humble sheep a threat’ning horn:
While the Lilly white shall in love delight,
Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

The Sick Rose

O rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy,
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

I was listening first to Blur, then Shostakovitch, then Beethoven, then John Coltrane when this snuck up on me. It was a long drive.

Ba'al with a Battleaxe

Beowulf's pride battened down
the hatches in the hall.
Grendel's bride, bedded by
a stranger, lay
in the shadow of Babel's wall.

O, Abraham, the gall of
Ba'al with a battleaxe,
stiffening to the smash!
of shared and sculpted brethren.

The goblets emptied, the
seeds are spilt.

Bash!

Revised 11/06/08 in Phoenix, AZ.

A Fog of Fuzz

A fog of fuzz,
two magpies black
and whites aloof, in gray,
against a bearded veil of rain
their forked feet peck and kiss
the ashen leaves that stuff the iron drain.
And gutters flood the graveled road, frame
a fog of fur the magpies cluck at;
pull out a red steam worm.

We break through the storm
from opposite directions meeting for tea,
to pick and scrape at words. And how
can I describe this to you
like it was, like it is
my lover's love
for you.

Mirrors on the Inside

Must have been some miles
through cringing and crunches on a winter sidewalk
this guy comes in and orders coffee black
bits of ice hanging stuck in his silver beard,
his breath still warm enough
to fog in his glasses completely.
I noticed. He nodded.
“They're mirrors on the inside,” he says,
“but I can see my whole face twice in them.
Imagine, seeing your self up close
each time you come in where people are,
every flaw, every scar, every
unshaven needle of hair.
All the time.
It'll drive a man to kill, if he doesn't
find a way out.

“But if I take these glasses off
I'll trip over the chair just sitting down,
straitjacket and entangle myself just
getting this damn coat off.
I'd even miss my mouth when
I mean to sip the mug, and then
sue you for making the coffee too hot."

I smile, he grins. Then blows his heat up
refills himself with fog, and explains,
"So I keep them on, I try to ignore myself,
and stare at the glass itself,
the gray ghost wrapper
that I control.
It fades away again and again."

I’ve been drafting an alternate ending for A Mason’s Grip. This ending is considerably longer, which troubles me, but it is a draft, and I post it only to act as a tightly bound string to constrict and swell my thinking finger.

A Mason's Grip

We have signs that we two know
and no one else can recognize.
The Odyssey, Book XIII

This paper is torn in two:
My two mason’s hands grip
the larger scrap which still retains my name.

Your half is between bent fingers torn
bit by bit until
there is nothing to hold onto, nothing
to fear but your perforated palms.

This paper which joined our hands
let scatter, the white flakes of ash
breathed throughout the darkening park,
and eaten by the wind, who stomachs
a nightmare yell, comes back with claws
at my throat, begging me to choose:
to chase the scraps, or cherish
what remains within my reach;
neither path is guaranteed.

I coagulate in indecision
as empty-handed you
grow bored, turn,
and walk the tv on.

This was one of those thrilling middle-of-the-night scribbles which I spent some time on this morning.

A Mason's Grip


We have signs that we two know
and no one else can recognize.
The Odyssey, Book XIII


This paper is lacerated in two:
My two mason's hands grip
the larger scrap which still retains my name.

Your half is between bent fingers torn
bit by bit until
there is nothing to hold onto, nothing
to fear but your perforated palms
knuckles, cuticles, and fingertips
flicking off the shreds like a farewell bid.
The white flakes of ash
breathed throughout the darkening park
to be buried in the wind.

I mean this to be neither “stream of consciousness” nor surrealist. And so while I think a lot of the lines are right, the structure or order is subject to on-going revision. To illustrate this, the original has color-coded lines, which I would use if I thought it wouldn’t be distracting.

How Bad You Want It

someday you might have time to learn to paint
it may be Spring when your son is embarrassed sick of you
air travel and it's thundering take-offs
fast is how it will grow boring
know by heart
her bare feet pressed the glove box
it was you who loosed each embrace
a winter morning too cold to buckle a seatbelt
acrid strings of spittle cling
alone in a public restroom and reading anything
will you call me she asked
young man
waited to shave, want now to stop
the surgeon tugs another bright-eyed insect light overhead
speak up
stay or go, just make up your mind
some in-flight turbulence, and it was a bumpy landing
thousands of unread titles have been written
you didn't build wings let alone melt them
as always, the librarian is turning off lights
there will be time
you can't always be the last to leave
the tv on all day
white noise helps you avoid hearing
music of an untranslated song still makes sense
change from a ten, two ones, two dimes, one penny
fibs chalk-mark the walls
perspirant halos from her perfect ten toes
is sleep black or beige
you have no idea
if the universe has a definite size and shape
blistered and rainbow-swirled
blow more bubbles
uncontrollable
variations within the species
where have you been
where were you when she wore that black dress
the living will never outnumber
a surprise of snowflakes
some February night or morning the newly dead dog froze stiff
know by touch
turning off the alarm that you yourself set
will you please shut the door
weep in the closet
nobody sees
it was the monkey who killed
with two open hands smacking temples
you didn't see it coming
look at this, look at this, dad, look at this
you'll appreciate sunshine and the smell of cut grass when you're feeling better
now it's too late
social behavior within packs condemns the weak and injured
so shut your mouth
despite the language barrier
I saw Darwin on the savanna chased by baboons and hyenas
don't let sleep take you
in bed her back turned against you
the space between stars
the scars will be small
another tattoo that didn't turn out right
no obvious branding of six-sixty-six
stitches will disintegrate
counting from one to ten, you fail at five
and now mother owl won't wake the sun
o, omnipotent
all-ending anesthetic
du kannst fliegen
we'll be there when you wake up
will you be
dreamless like the dead
perchance
one in a million typing monkeys
try your luck and roll the dice
if you can’t say something nice
call it dark matter

I dug this out of a moleskine I’d used on the ferry from Plymouth to Santander in 2007. I revised it as I typed it.

How the rainy years do vaporize!
Each day more translucent than the others!
We ache across the fog of gaping love
like estranged brothers,
throwing breadcrumbs to the wind-blown skies.

April 30th

Snow runs straight across the road parallel and pale gray,
plankton on the unseen currents.
Normally Summer upstages Spring here,
but this time April ends with this howl,
having inhaled numberless seasons of mockery.

A magician, before diving in the tank
to break his breath against death,
first fills his blood with euphoria,
and stores it.

Everything is backwards.
I've wakened from the walking sleep of day
ending the warmest April in this freezing fool's night;
The heater in my car feels cold like a vacuum;
Classical plays on the punk rock station;
Twenty minutes ago my head rested on my wife's warm ribs,
who scratched my hair-thick head.
My nose whistled, a mewing puppy,
comfortable and quiet in the face of peeling laughter
the universal joke whispered every day.
I've never caught the punchline, but I've heard enough;
even though they get the details wrong,
details don't matter.

The universe, they say, will contract like an elastic band,
and with itself bury itself,
or it will expand until the elastic breaks.
And if it contracts, it will expand.
either way it must have somewhere to go;
oblivion or persistence—involuntary either way.

And now the snow has stopped, on the road:
remnants of a light Spring rain.
And the car has warmed.
And the green light grins, Go.
Go to a place you never go
for a hot drink and a cinnamon roll.
The light licks it's green lips,
Go,
and,
There's nothing you've forgotten,
nothing left at home,
except the funny passing moments
you call love.

Eventually the puppy will begin
to dig holes for his bones;
not out of practicality, but because they are so precious
he knows not what else to do.
He'll plan to come back,
but never will,
having forgotten the holes and the bones, and any
way, having
somewhere better else to go.

Anthropomorphizing Spring

Laid lazy across the horizon two mountain ranges form feuding families,
a mix of soft curves and angles, both are draped with snow white stoals
two jutting peaks, warrior guardians to the rift between them,
a canyon tomb of their clans.

Beneath an unbending, single-minded cloud, who spreads it's eagle wings and shades
grow gray rows of outcast trees, starved branches eerily ashamed of their budding greens
and the baptism their roots shared with the grass in the winter run-off.

While the trees meditate in the cold spring wind the grass just bristles;
as it's million precocious leaves wait to begin cheerleading for the tulips
youth misled by perennial beauty, by the winter run-off,
rushing towards the dry, interminable summer,
or, of their own accord, misleading.