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As I Walk on Whiskey Island in Winter, I
Think of James Wright
I began in Ohio,
I still think of home
James Wright
(1927 – 1980)
James, if you reach down hard
enough with me through the Cleveland
dirt
layers of shale and garbage earth
you and I might touch dreams
and failed seeds of Irish root mothers
those without names, frayed rope lives
tied
down on tin shanty roofs far from the
bright
sun of Western Ireland’s night.
We might find stained glass
from St. Mary’s of the Flats
bottles of holy water blessed
by Amadeus Rappe
here on this island, on the edge
of a sliding city
at the beginning of another century
of already too much pain.
Your finger bones could rise from the
grave
and help me scribe the sounds of
broken rosary beads buried
in unsanctified ground,
candled hymns and High Mass
lights, hidden baptisms
and rectory marriages
intertwined with blessings
from knotted Carmelite rope.
The cracked tea cup
stained brown inside
at the bottom leaves of green tea
gone
like the reader and her readings.
And further on to the south and west
past hills time and swamp tales
of Ohio City, we could discover
petrified tracks patiently waiting
inside clay cliffs or fields of
abandoned story
You could help me find words, create
heel an toe casts
from Cleveland Steel’s hired Pinkerton
men; or my grandfather and his
union friends
hiding out at night- afraid to go home-
and bring the weight of violent shoes to
narrow wooden steps.
We two, could shine halogen lights and
search
for the trace and smell of sweat hanging
from haloed images of longshoremen’s
heads;
the boys fresh from the docks,
as they stood at the main corner of the
Angle,
Detroit and old Pearl; watching
greenhorn girls
walk past after a day of service with
the millionaires
on Euclid Avenue;
Unaware of the future
only we can see;
a cathedral wedding and twelve priest
Mass
or lives magnetized by bar stools and
beer bottles.
All mere memory shapes; holograms and
dance shoes
sticking to us like nightclothes on hot
summer nights.
But maybe, all we can find are residue
of oak tree limbs
fallen and scattered into an American
hope for coal
blooming into diamonds of rust
while the Midwest lake and its ceaseless
winds
embrace a crying banshee reconnoitering
for the soul ashes
of the forgotten dead.
In the Palace of Teenage Dreams
We walk in pairs, parent and teen,
into gray painted rooms. They are
nice to you today for without you
they would not be there. They have
their picture taken, proudly smile,
fret over the lengthy handbook, so
afraid of failure; so anxious to drive,
veer away, accelerate to fast speed
lanes of time. Poster teenagers look
the same, wear distressed jeans and
dark winter coats. We tired parents
like our cars, blare out our incomes
in a frame worked lottery of knife
jacked life. No one is exempt, a blue
collar father and his languid daughter,
wait next to a rich uptown mother and
son. But we talk to each other, wear
smiling masks, try to keep them on
when our children pass the test. We
leave in pairs with fast car dreams
aside wheeled nightmares of horror.
As I Walk on Whiskey Island in Winter, I
Think of James Wright
I began in Ohio,
I still think of home
James Wright
(1927 – 1980)
James, if you reach down hard
enough with me through the Cleveland
dirt
layers of shale and garbage earth
you and I might touch dreams
and failed seeds of Irish root mothers
those without names, frayed rope lives
tied
down on tin shanty roofs far from the
bright
sun of Western Ireland’s night.
We might find stained glass
from St. Mary’s of the Flats
bottles of holy water blessed
by Amadeus Rappe
here on this island, on the edge
of a sliding city
at the beginning of another century
of already too much pain.
Your finger bones could rise from the
grave
and help me scribe the sounds of
broken rosary beads buried
in unsanctified ground,
candled hymns and High Mass
lights, hidden baptisms
and rectory marriages
intertwined with blessings
from knotted Carmelite rope.
The cracked tea cup
stained brown inside
at the bottom leaves of green tea
gone
like the reader and her readings.
And further on to the south and west
past hills time and swamp tales
of Ohio City, we could discover
petrified tracks patiently waiting
inside clay cliffs or fields of
abandoned story
You could help me find words, create
heel an toe casts
from Cleveland Steel’s hired Pinkerton
men; or my grandfather and his
union friends
hiding out at night- afraid to go home-
and bring the weight of violent shoes to
narrow wooden steps.
We two, could shine halogen lights and
search
for the trace and smell of sweat hanging
from haloed images of longshoremen’s
heads;
the boys fresh from the docks,
as they stood at the main corner of the
Angle,
Detroit and old Pearl; watching
greenhorn girls
walk past after a day of service with
the millionaires
on Euclid Avenue;
Unaware of the future
only we can see;
a cathedral wedding and twelve priest
Mass
or lives magnetized by bar stools and
beer bottles.
All mere memory shapes; holograms and
dance shoes
sticking to us like nightclothes on hot
summer nights.
But maybe, all we can find are residue
of oak tree limbs
fallen and scattered into an American
hope for coal
blooming into diamonds of rust
while the Midwest lake and its ceaseless
winds
embrace a crying banshee reconnoitering
for the soul ashes
of the forgotten dead.
Patterns in the Parlor
Father stares at me and waits for his
words to settle.
I sit in the parlor become lost in the
fireplace flames.
I remember my struggle to breathe.
I do not move and stare at the blackened
grate.
I sit in the parlor become lost in the
fireplace flames.
The door creaks closed and is locked.
I do not move and stare at the blackened
grate.
The fire crackles and hisses, its sordid
heat fans out.
The door creaked closed and is locked.
My thoughts are discordant: out of place
and time
The fire crackles and hisses, its sordid
heat fans out.
I am alone with my books.
My thoughts are discordant, out of place
and time.
And anger bores into my soul and brain.
I am alone with my books.
We are tied by money hardened blood and
honor.
And anger bores into my soul and brain.
I want to speak, to write, to tell my
story.
We are tied by money hardened blood and
honor.
Tonight’s words echo in the smoky air.
I want to speak, to write, to tell my
story.
I want to say goodbye and leave.
To night’s words echo in the smoky air.
I am trapped with him and anger.
I want to say goodbye and leave.
He will never let me leave.
I am trapped with him and anger.
He lied to me.
No one else has heard his words.
Father stared at me and waited for his
words settle.
They were ugly and rotten.
I remember my struggle to breathe.
Sapphic Lines :
A Meditation on John Lafarge’s Painting
Circles of color green wide leaves
supporting
late spring flowers hyacinth blue star
point
petals radiating from gold cores hung on
a
scuffed stucco wall
And down below near the water mark level
Greek graffiti “EPEOK NEON IKT\AMENOIO”
words painted in bronze echoes
announcing the reincarnated spring notes
from Sappho through time
“As summer was just beginning” sound
bursts of
sky and field colors capturing us all
and
sprouting hope for joy and more filling
space left
in a cold white void
In Rhythmic
Awareness of Eru, the Irish Earth Goddess
The sweep of time,
the visible half circle arch matched with its invisible half heard
bellow below, time flows leaves or comes
emanates from the stones laid across
the lands and the poets’ hands hover
feel the energy where it comes, where
it leaves. Before the first fall, we
Irish danced on Eru’s body reciting songs.
Time comes and leaves again, while we
clean bone debris, sweep it under the green
patchwork rug where mounds grow
unencumbered. And always the wars and spills
of red blood. The spills leave stains
on land, the first none of us can ever move; the
family shadow. And the stain cannot be
rubbed out. Our shadow rises and falls; the
bright shine of hard cinder truth rubbed
from our sleepy eyes. The smell of blood
remains. Brown sheep wait to be washed
clean, wait to be made white. We cannot keep
clean, and battles go on and on. Eru’s
body torn and rent, while pretty purple flowered
potatoes turn rotten. Darkness cannot
be swept away cannot be rubbed out.
Circles break apart, time seeds
scatter,. Ships sail away. Eru’s body auctioned off
going once, twice, three times, legs,
arms, and hands. Time passes, stones sit, refuse to
speak, crumbs of language fall astray.
And slow go the poets, neither this nor that,
sweep the dirt out in the open over the
world, at the blank edge of space, fall in the sun
and burn
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