Poetry Archives Bio


Lines Composed in Victoria Harbour,
On Seeing the Feet of James Cook. July 2, 2021

July 14, 2021

i wonder

how long it took
all the thoughts

similar to all
these simmering thoughts

in all these hot
heads to come

to a boil and then
overboil and run

and i wonder
what is yet

to come

abasement suite

June 26, 2021

as I exit the room
I turn off the sun

        the elk falls and falls
        like the glass that fills

  without cease
  the man of letters

             watches a carp
             ascend a waterfall

  we ought to speak soon
  Carthago delenda est

                 upstairs  the beast
                 with the perfect brows

        opens her third eye
        the fourth  the fifth

  a child in the form
  of a crab  teaches grass

how to keep nature
at bay with a blade

         downstairs  father
         plots the fall of man

         thoughts perennial
         and deciduous

and a chorus of ferns
describes l'effet de pluie

     l'effet de brume
     traces his linear descent

     on the windows a steel sun
    (an aid to remembrance and distinction

              that's a very yellow dress
              you're wearing

        I was asleep crossing that
        border  many years ago

my eye can trespass

                 the robin stirs
                 in the radiator grille

    a sharp nail (or shrapnel
    pierces the tongue

                 and suddenly you find
                 yourself in a grocherie stor

having tears

          it's the whiskey that makes you frisky
          it's the vodka that stirs your bodkin

          it's the gin that makes you sin
          it's the rum that makes you come

          it's the bourbon that draws the curtain
          and now

a lovely dance
in sight of the abyss

          rabbit hearts that beat
          like rabid hearts

   endless radium
   telephone toads

                     and Smyrna
                     ankles flash

        skirts flourish in the heat
        looks out over the fields

blesses all with fire

On Saturdays

June 5, 2021

To Rod Moody-Corbett

On Saturdays the grass is mown
Around the world at every home.
   The men pour in the gasoline
   And start the roar of their machines
And work the razor and the comb.

Time does not travel while they roam.
The sun shines brightly on the chrome
   Sedans reflecting whites and greens
On Saturdays.

They trim the bush and rake the loam,
And think of outstanding loans,
   And note their wives in tight-fit jeans,
   And watch the oscillating teens,
Their ankles and their collarbones
On Saturdays.

Meditation Under the Ash Berry Tree

April 19, 2021

i am a shape that
can but eat and turd
—e. e. cummings

To Rod Moody-Corbett

When you have finally gathered your thoughts into folios,
Inebriated enough for your detachment to perform field dressage
You carve symbols into trunks' throb—Rajeev loves Asmeet
And you know: the phonetic fanatics won't come. Instead,
On the day that we ate breakfast for dinner, I tell you, "I want to have you
Like a hot dog." On these days, I transcribe, I am drunk. I love you.
What I will not do is beg, roam the land, and bite the ankles.

Will you pay in cash? Will you wear a hat? On the prick paint a
Portrait of the artist as an old cad, and the presence of presence
It is presence, whether you're acetylene or just a-settlin'.
Cut a figure. Greed and wrath rend you absurd and obscene,
No longer a moveable feast: you winsome, you lose some. But no,
All vinegar turns to sugar as the slavering puss in boots
Turns a saurian eye. You'll light a cigarette; I'll roll and run.

I like a good shit once in a lifetime. She curses herself in one gilded
Motion as she turns to me. Hey, is gay Paree as gay as they say?
A tern in the skull tells of the runnelling of flesh, limitless and fecund.
This offal (oder awful; this tracery (aber treachery made of scrim—
(Do not scream. They yield tremendous signs that ever still
Distinguish us in German catafalques, though where is she,
The girl who rescued worms from concrete, she now bites

The heads off doves, despite the protestations of the captive silk;
I know her ilk. As she gambols, I frolick. This girl will spurl, pay into
Her rent many a golden gülden, on the face a shambolic glaze.
The pump judders and shudders me on my perch. I love Lorelei.
I mark the headings, draw a jumbly line. Do you remember when
Your life was ruled by bells?
I whisper a sort of limned adumbration,
A slip off the promontory, or is it a fall? (from the ground a sough

The stairs tromp upwards. I enjoy a purloined watermelon salad,
Spoon after spoon. It is useless, unless you worry the paper, roust
The dross. The neighbours gather wood, piles and piles of it,
And burn it all. I am a vessel for love, observing the susurrations
In the grass, the roundelays, the precocious head of the indian
paintbrush, verdigris on the roof, the drooping palms and fronds,
A lassitude that penetrates the days like summer, recollected unawares.

From thence doth come the travesty of sales, a figmentation of the
Mind, a cruelty that's more than hobby, less than calling. I fear,
Fear, for we will go amaying, to confute the shuddering while the
Canopies hold bowls, explaining the blockade was not an act of
Aggression, but one of mercy. The island looms large. Suddenly,
As on a dark stair, we recognize the shape of the thing. Les grelots
Dans la tête tell me that the rains in Spain fall mainly on the plains,

While the rains in Russia are going to crush you. Here, touch the paint.
The colour alarm down the street alerts the bear; what shall he do?
Focus on infinity? Return to the Corinthian order? Turn on the spirit
Screen as the mind autocorrects May to Might? Between architrave
And cornice, John competes with the washing machine where the
Unusual becomes ritual. Is it a seagull or a sea eagle? Don't worry about
Trusting your eyes; all evil is logarithmic. The monkey brain dances;

Le sentiment es disparu. You get a little older; your scars take a little
Longer to heal. You lick your wounds. You cut your nails and your losses.
You get the job simply because you don't steal. Somewhere, Lima has coast.
A yellowchinned spinetail rises on the wind. A man exits the supermarket,
His shopping basket full of knives. A gibberer gibbers. Màya mashèena
Galubàya. Màya sobàka zhioltàya.
The fat, happy tadpoles swing their tails.
A bumblebee's wings raise dust. A small, curious snake rears its head.

At a Table in Alberni

March 6, 2021

To Rod Moody-Corbett

A waitress to my table came;
At once, she took a census.
She startled me—boozed, cold, and lame—
With "Hey, what's the consensus?"

I looked about me, left and right,
Consulted I and i;
Conceded then, to her delight,
"We'd like another pint!"

Максимус, сам себе

December 31, 2020

This is my translation of "Maximus, to himself" by Charles Olson. You can listen to Olson read his poem.

Мне пришлось учить простоту под
конец. Что делало трудности.
Даже в море я медлил, руку протянуть, пресечь
сырой дек.
                 Но дело вод, конечно, не моё.
Но даже дела́, с ними, сбоку стоял
отчужден от всего знакомого мне. Был отложен,
и недоволен аргументом его
что отсрочка эта
теперь есть натура
                 что нам всем поздно
                 время медля
                 что нас растёт много
                 И единое

Но возможно, хоть в резкости (achiote)
я в других отметил,
больше смысла
чем в моих дистанциях. А ловкости

                 показ весь день
                 кто дел жизни
                 А кто природы
                 так как смысла нет
                 сделал я любое из

Диалоги сделал я
обсудил древний текст,
бросил свет какой мог, предложил
такой кайф
doceat даёт

                 Но знамо?
Это, мне должно было быть дано,
и жизнь, пыл, и от одного
весь мир.
                 Но сидя здесь
                 смотрю я как ветров
                 и вод человек, ищет
                 Не видит

Я знаю жилище
погоды, откуда она,
куда идёт. Но стебель мой,
что взял я из их приветствий,
иль их отказа, меня

                 И дерзость моя
                 не уменьшилась
                 ни росла,
                 от сего сообщения


Об отменённом деле
говорю я, этим утром,
с морем что
от моих стоп

Found Poem XXVI or After Borges

December 31, 2020

To Rod Moody-Corbett

These are some of the things that can be counted.

Long slender objects

Times or occurrences
Numbers in series
Multiples of things

Small animals
Large animals
Birds and rabbits
Small fish and shrimp

Sheets or flat things
Long objects
Cupfuls or glassfuls or bowlfuls or spoonfuls
Boxes or boxfuls
Suits of clothing

Machines and cars

Parts or components
Parts or partitions
Sets or pairs
Pairs of things
Pairs of footwear
Tenths of things
Discounts or tenths discounted

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