We dwell here with the poet lady
She a sandpiper ,a friend to mint
Creeping on the edge of the path.
Mint smells strong early morning,
Brushing the white pant-leg green.
We dwell with a place in her time.
We have mint in our tea co-living
A green life with an essential sea,
Green sea that runs in our blood
And its minerals make our bones.
Plover is neighbor of poetry aunt,
Bird taking off in a mineral blood
And airy insects it ingests into it,
We are all minerals in sea blood.
We dwell with our place like mint,
And smell strong green on pants.
(Getting to know the beautiful poetry of Lorine Niedecker (1903-1970) from an article Dwelling With Place :Lorine Niedecker’s Ecopoetics by Steel Wagstaff in his blog Edgeeffects)
Break is what touches metal
And nerve and mental state.
Break is sound of disconnect
From life’s living and loving.
Break is midnight of strange
Huge bus cutting down life.
Break is not another dawn.
I am overwhelmed by a golden morning
When it comes with the sounds of cattle,
In a distance, of dust from angular hoofs
Overwhelming mud-tracks up to the sky.
The cattle are overwhelmed by their time
By milk overflowing from the red udders
In thin jet-streams that will overwhelm us
In our faces behind a morning’s hind legs.
The fleas overwhelm them in the hind leg
Of a tail that seems the end of the world.
Some times I am overwhelmed by words
Flowing smoother than cow milk streams.
In the white halls, when I leave the world,
I am overwhelmed by endless milky ways.
Our old poems are intimations
Of mortality, of a flesh rotting.
Ask no body for whom it tolls
Tolls are generic for all D.N.As.
Intimations are mortal like us,
Settling down on an old earth.
A photo of a woman stares at table
A landscape about her is memory
The occupancy of a space in time
A twilight reflected in eyes of skin,
A yellow sofa ,a light green pillow,
The newspapers unread in clutter.
Where is a language ,you will ask
A silken print of letters like brush
A wall of murals, a graffiti spread.
She is a language born and raised
To be lost to a breathless infinity,
The last of the birds in migration.
She is wall that stares at beyond
And it has the graffiti by all of us.
We have heard woman poems,
Some envelope licking poems
In bone and flesh and without.
We have witnessed at sunset
Woman poems in a brass pot.
They are best poems on river.
We have seen woman poems
In the tired eyes of old men’s
Bodies from woman’s bones.
Sound is the word touching crackle
Of a dry firewood in predawn fires,
A fire ‘s tongues licking a darkness,
Hot bathwater in copper cauldron
Its bottom black like moonless sky.
Strike the word to bring child back.