I am on to dead beat poet
Who once was anti-clock.
He never liked clock’s face.
He would prefer a sundial.
But sundial was pro-clock
That moved with shadow
In park I chase my shadow
In usual anti-clock rounds.
I see other clockwise faces.
Their hands quickly climb.
The faces have an urgency
Of sun flower toward dusk.
This night’s calming sounds
Are of sea’s waves with gulls
To kind of oblivion one loves
As by Ashbery , since passed
Beyond anyone’s conjecture.
If it is difficult to open poem
Come inside to hear sea gulls
Trespassing your bird passes.
Gulls are waves of a thought,
Late night music to compose
And now it is raining outside.
We are composing our wave
The poem about an oblivion,
A sea where old poets went.
(reading John Ashbery’s poem Not Beyond All Our Conjecture)
We have not heard of Rohingyas.
Perhaps they have not heard of us
As we both keep pace with death.
We often commit Cummings type
Nuisances in poetry’s backwaters,
Both in capitals and in lower case.
We love humanity in deep down
Feeling death comfort like mom.
(reading e.e.cummings poem”humanity I love you”)
Beyond the rail track ,her bones live.
Her blood traces a train’s light beam
In pitch dark of a guilt-ridden night.
There he waits outside for the creak
Of broken string cot that has sagged
Of many heavy bodies, light pockets.
Sorry ,I forget the name of the bones.
She shimmered in her white wine.
A black night danced in my veins.
I wake up blearily on the next day
With white marbles of memories
That clattered against each other
In the vacuum of my heavy head.
I return to spit fresh sonic words
Into poetry and look up thimble ,
Quotidian, high sounding words
To catch world in acoustic grasp,
Its essential emptiness gathered
In a porous cement canvas bag.
This way, I shall catch the world
By sonic words that have made it.
Spring day is too loud to walk,
With flesh too tired of bones.
Flesh is barking on its bones.
An uncle’s dog is out in snow.
And now flesh stops barking
Only raises a hind leg to tree.
Soon it will be nobody’s dog
With flesh tired of its bones.
(reading Jim Harrison’s poem Return)