Sixfold Poetry Winter 2013

by Sixfold

             of echoes buried deep, lasering

  stillness to a shrill point B

                             embedded in point A

  by line alone, and only then

  after the flight is over; not the discipline

                             to lift a mouth and eyes

  from food, from coloring,

               or the fundamental music

               wingbeat speed produces.

  What figures is the wanderlust

                             for flight, the worry

  the one that flies inside inspires: how

  to chase it out? The shooing

                             of the bat that matters

  most; or all too fast, the blur

               of the hummingbird whirring by.

  Stream Water, Stream Light

  Stream water, stream light in the easy creek

  that snaked and hissed at the bottom of the hill

  all summer long, while houseflies at the crest

  assembled to swing in signatures across

  garbage bags ripped open by raccoons,

  regalia of the driveway. We ignored

  this festival of feastful decay whenever

  we came indoors or left—the stores of moisture,

  pools of light prismatic in our eyes

  transfigured those peripheral scenes and stenches.

  How we held on to an unswerving comfort,

  reclining in our shared stretch of the bank,

  groping among the termites in the wicker,

  staying naked, since our clothes weren’t clean.

  Michael H. Lythgoe

  Orpheus In Asheville

  Every Prelude is a beginning; preludes begin in the heart.

  Carla is the diva of the opera at the Biltmore gala;

  her moves are melodies; she is soprano of the samba,

  Telemann, and Gluck’s Orfeo, a Brazilian with the Vanderbilts.

  Her curves are smooth as polished wood. He plays her

  on his hand-crafted lute . . . lingering on each swell & hollow.

  His fingers work wonders on each fret; he feels the timbre

  in each string of her. Each of his tunes is a prelude to love-

  making; a prelude is a love song old—beginning anew.

  And he knows, as he plays the theme song from Black Orpheus,

  that he is creating a multilingual score; she leaves him a scent

  of gardenias, on the arm of a tuxedo; in the lobby Orpheus plays solo.

  He is the grandson of an old-world stone mason, an artisan

  who built the Biltmore Estate to last. His musician’s hands

  trained to knead deep as in a spa’s hot stones massage.

  The guitarist loves her operatic interludes caressing his guitar.

  Gliding away in a limo, she leaves him composing in the lobby.

  In a midnight slide off Black Mountain Road

  she is a skater in a love story ending in broken glass,

  black ice; mezzo in shards; rime ice clasps her body,

  clouding Craggy Cascades in icy droplets—a glistening freeze

  on the windward face’s mountain limbs at dawn. He lost her;

  she left him on New Year’s Eve for a mountain in fog; he searched

  underground for her, charmed cave mouths into a chorus; the trees—

  around the Highland Hospital where Zelda burned—learn arias.

  Orpheus’ fingers melt Looking Glass Falls every spring into lyricals.

  A mythical musician, ever-improvising Preludes, plays instrumentals;

  stones—cold Blue Ridge stones—break into Bel Canto.

  Schumann Composed For Cello

  On the car radio, NPR plays a concerto.

  Schumann, they say, was soothed by cello music.

  So he composed slow paced compositions, to soothe

  his troubled moods. No longer does a duo

  make beautiful music together on violin & cello.

  A woman screams at a man—waves her bow.

  Their romantic instruments, left unplayed, soon break.

  The duo flares, burns up, flames out before their libretto

  ends in ashes, breaking the ancient Dao of Ying

  & Yang; no smooth curves fit Dao harmony

  into place. Artists cannot last if love is less

  than their music. He leaves for the Beijing Symphony.

  She stays to teach. They shared a bed before bows

  crossed their strings like electric shocks. No concerto.

  Frida Kahlo On South Beach At The Bass Museum

  I had no idea I was going to miss her so much.

  —Diego Rivera

  Frida wore white on SoBe for art deco,

  a floor length native dress to hide her legs—

  (Madonna wore a man’s tuxedo)—

  peasant beads, bare arms, scooped neckline.

  A floor length native dress hides her legs

  as she lies recovering from a miscarriage, in body cast.

  Frida loved folklore, peasant beads, scooped necklines.

  Next to her, Rivera—muralist—is an elephant.

  Lying, recovering from a miscarriage, in body cast . . .

  Picasso gave her golden amulet earrings in Paris.

  Next to Frida—a dove—Rivera is an elephant muralist.

  Frida’s features in photographs line the gallery walls.

  She wears Picasso’s golden-hand earrings from Paris.

  Her dark eyebrows, thick as fur, are wings in flight.

  Frida’s images in photographs line the gallery walls;

  an unsmiling face reveals hints of hair above her lips.

  Her eyebrows—like dark fur—are wings in flight.

  The dove was crushed by Rivera’s seduction of her sister.

  Unsmiling face, Jewish blood, hair above her upper lip,

  superstitious artist, loved by other artists taking her picture.

  Rivera ripped her heart, seduced her sister.

  At Casa Azul, she paints from a mirror, exposed in black & white.

  Photographers fall in love taking her picture.

  She paints nudes in jungles, poses with parrot & monkey.

  In Casa Azul . . . gored by trolley handrail, exposed in black & white;

  Frida unbuttons her white native dress to the waist,

  she paints nudes in jungles, poses with parrot & monkey.

  To reveal solitary, pale fleshy pearls—plain pink nipples.

  She unbuttons her white peasant dress down to the waist,

  clasping her hands under her bare breasts with pink areolas,

  revealing pearl twins of pale flesh, plain pink nipples.

  Bewitched by her Tejuana look, I feel her spell; another lover.

  Clasping her hands under bare breasts with pink areolas:

  Frida, Nude Torso, 1938 photograph—alive—by Julien Levy.

  Bewitched by her Tejuana look, I feel her spell, another lover.

  The third eye in her surreal self-portrait, an exotic tattoo, hypnotic.

  Alive in her art, Frida, Nude Torso, 1938 photo by Julien Levey.

  Kandinsky leaves his tears on her cheek as he kisses her.

  The third eye in a surreal self-portrait, an exotic tattoo, hypnotic,

  hooks me like Picasso’s earrings, her mythic scarves, ex-votos.

  Kandinsky leaves his tears on her cheek as he kisses her.

  I leave Robert Deniro to drink in art deco at the Chesterfield,

  Frida, mythical in her scars, Picasso’s earrings, ex-votos,

  pass Casa Casurina, where Gianni Versace was murdered.

  I pass Robert Deniro drinking in art deco at the Chesterfield;

  Al Pacino played a Marielito—Scarface—at 13th & Ocean Drive;

  I see Cas
a Casurina, blood stains gone, Versace murdered.

  I taste Frida’s skin even after the iced bitter lemon drink.

  Al Pacino played a Marielito in Scarface at 13th & Ocean Drive.

  Selma Hayak wore a white peasant dress at the Bass Museum.

  Frida’s taste lingered on my lips long after the bitter lemon drink.

  Versace models slink & strut as I leave a lover, artists in art deco.

  Driving to Columbia

  Last night I heard Thank you

  for taking care of me.

  I was reading A Handfull of Dust; last

  night I heard the icemaker cough.

  My dead father stares at me

  from an empty store window.

  I smell coffee, raspberry, rain,

  and Old Spice this morning.

  The pink rose in the garden fell

  into petals before I left the house.

  People gather on Route 302

  for a horse show. A horse trainer

  drove his horse trailer 21 hours

  from New Mexico to run for roses.

  Used cars wear their worth

  on their foreheads. Confederate

  soldiers, on their way to a war

  in a pickup, stop

  for a red light. Smooth Jazz plays

  Bony James covering

  Stevie Wonder—

  a song I no longer remember.

  I heard you say to me thank you

  for taking care of me.

  Ars Poetica

  Our words are words for the clay, uttered in undertones . . .

  —Charles Wright

  If you keep your ear to the ground,

  you will hear oceans form shore lines.

  Each line is a breath, a complete thought,

  a lapse, a story, a Station of the Cross,

  a meditation. Some words are as heavy

  as a horse’s hoof. Others are nimble

  as a dancer with ankle bells. Some drum.

  Always sing words out loud. Don’t let them fall

  flat. Pick up the vowels to roll like marbles.

  Spit fragments out. Consonants cut a rock face.

  Carve or break the stone of the line;

  what is left is what you mold; what you speak.

  Then you chisel it in. Then you put it down.

  Keep your ear to the ground. Words are coming.

  The ocean sends shore lines to ground.

  Maybe the dead walked in your room

  last night, looked in the mirror,

  touched your body with the gloves off,

  left an envelope on your desk.

  Open it. Listen. Try to get the words right.

  It takes a certain mind to read between the lines.

  Silence is the space, the air, the pause worth hearing.

  Feel absence in your bones; a heart beat is a tone.

  Atone. Let yourself go in the undertow.

  To hear clay utter undertones, go alone.

  John Wentworth

  morning people

  Like the twisting, turning path that at last breaks

  into a clearing where you can sit among wildflowers,

  and the cacophony of noise along the path at last disperses

  into calls of birds and leaf rustlings that you can isolate and truly hear,

  the hours of another day and sleepy night bring you at last

  to another early morning and to the worship of the stillness of the moment.

  How is it that the you you most truly are is so concealed?

  When along the path so many stop to talk and listen?

  When so many truly care to know who you are?

  How is it that they never know?

  This pencil, this crack in the window glass, this dead flower—

  pick any image you like—

  is not the same in the stillness of the morning as it is at night

  and for anyone who fails to understand this, well, they can

  try to understand you as hard as they will,

  but they will never get it right.

  Watching My Love

  Pick something to watch

  And there is so much there to see

  Almost no matter what you pick—

  A mushroom on tree bark in the woods

  A cat’s-eye marble under bright light

  A leaf floating in a fountain

  The night sky

  An envelope stained with a lipstick kiss

  A fly-covered horse hind-end twitching in the sun—

  If you pause at nearly any image for long enough

  You discover something about the image

  And about yourself.

  “I see.”

  (“Look closer.”)

  “Oh, yes, I see.”

  While my lover sleeps, I watch her face

  As the streams of breath through her nostrils are in my veins

  As the lashes over her eyes are rich, webbed thickets

  As the shiny slope of her nose trembles in the scent of dust

  As her matted hair curls delicately around the lobe of an ear . . .

  And as her plump lips trace faintly just the notion of a smile

  I understand that I love her best while she sleeps.

  “I see.”

  (“Look closer.”)

  “Oh, yes, I see.”

  But I am so sorry.

  I am so, so, terribly sorry, my darling

  That through teary eyes I watched my love again this morning,

  And it was you that I saw

  It was your breath in my veins

  Your sweet whisper at my lips

  But all in the past, or in my memories, or in my imaginings as you sleep.

  For when I bent to move my lips onto your hand,

  Your fingers had moved on your nightgown into a fist.

  I watched so closely.

  I watched so closely I could hear myself watching in the silence of the room.

  And what did I understand? What did I believe I knew?

  That this fist was your heart toward me, clenching tight, never to open again.

  A tear slid down my cheek onto the foot of the bed.

  I turned from watching bitterly, my eyes blank and empty,

  So that I did not see the fist blossom like a flower, open into fingers

  That might have held me yet again if I had looked closer, and longer.

  Saying Goodbye

  Five times we have said goodbye,

  and there will be more between us.

  Have we built our love on our goodbyes?

  I see you in bed, on the streets of Alexandria,

  in airports, and in the brown grass of muddy fields in fall,

  saying goodbye.

  In dreams, I see us in the places we’ve been together,

  and also in places we’ve never been,

  and from everywhere, it is the same—

  you are waving goodbye.

  Learning from both slow, frozen tears shining in glass

  and the torrential bursts of heartbreak,

  we are becoming fluent in the language of goodbye.

  Even now, from a car window, your fingers deftly spell our alphabet:

  goodbye, goodbye.

  Of course there is only one true goodbye.

  And I wonder, will I recognize the day I never see you again?

  Will I wake up with that heavy knowledge,

  or will I never know, always hoping

  for one more hello, yearning for the broken promise

  of one more greeting?

  If you’ll let me, I will share a thousand more goodbyes with you

  before our last one—

  and that very last time I see you, ever,

  I will say hello,

  as we settle in together into our home

  of my heart’s memory,

  where, even while you live the minutes of another daily life,

  you will live forever with me in a
n eternal goodbye.

  1929—for my father

  “You’re tracking footprints in the house,” she said.

  Was he dreaming? Wasn’t he asleep on the screened porch,

  The midsummer breeze touching his toes hanging over the couch,

  The fat part of his arm a pillow under his head,

  His eyes closed to the golden sun glinting in through the screen,

  His belly full from a burger and four bottles of beer,

  His day behind him a spent dollar on a lazy Sunday,

  His night ahead a warm glow of lamp light on his bed,

  His memories mixing with his ideas of how things were &

  How they were meant to be?

  “Have you even thought about it?” she said, somewhere nearby.

  He breathed a breath, felt the breeze on his toes,

  Aware of her somewhere near him, sweeping the floor,

  Stirring dust, mixing tomorrows with yesterdays.

  Half-asleep, he was dreaming, seeing his future

  Laid out before him as sure as the radiant days already lived—

  But now with his boy, his first child, his son.

  It’ll be a boy, all right, he thought. It’ll be a boy.

  The sun glinted through the screen onto the porch,

  And the breeze was a whisper, a promise, a secret.

  Christopher Jelley

  Double Exposure

  Dad rattles into the family room,

  groans down in his big yellow chair.

  Trying to focus warped vision on the album,

  he puzzles over the faces.

  Our first time canoeing through Bull Sluice:

     we broke a paddle, nearly wrapped the boat,

     rammed the bank, snagged roots.

     We both nursed an ice-cold Murphy’s stout.

     Dad, all smiles, pointing to his beer, me dripping dry

     in a spring sun that set almost forty years ago.

  A camera flash:

  I’m an old man in a new photograph.

  Love and Waffle Fries

  We rehearse The Tempest,

  conjure fresh magic

  from five hundred year old prose.

  Reciting our lines into a mantra,

  more than mere meter and verse,

  an ancient incantation,

  a transmutation of flesh—

  we are Miranda and Ferdinand.