A Ghazal for the Rainmaker

The ancient Weather God, in his dark guise, would arise and make rain

Hittite mountain to Trojan plain, riding the thermal to make rain

Once the night was old and fear a cold hoar-frosted shard embedded

On my pillow tear after tear appeared the only way to make rain

They say fear cannot live where passion reigns unloosed, ancient Greek verb

“luo”” unleashed for peace, for fire, for joy, so divine flesh makes rain

Every shaman dreams, seeking the silky opening to other worlds

With purpose and intent to tune the blue moon and make rain

There is thunder on the hillside and a prism arcing where you are

And I a water witch will watch that throbbing silver sky make rain

If you go blind again and again, if roses blush, if river

Currents rush home, you have to wonder about the ways to make rain

I would argue that very few lovers knew the those cumulus

Heights where snowy stars by kisses spin then melt again to make rain

I, in my skin boat, may fear the tides, quickly lost, weep when I come

Home, but I see light on the water and bless the One who makes rain 

This Same Sky

If Anne Frank wrote one last diary entry... 

i have a paper

living living

in my hand

in my white blind hand

in my white blighted hand

yesterday’s warm sky

cannot cannot

be this sky

this same sky

this same blue arc

in this cattle car

pushing pushing

toward the end

the never again end

the never ever end

yesterday’s bright sky

cannot cannot

be this sky

this same sky

this same silent shroud

between the slats

pushing pushing

my tiny paper

this ragged sweaty paper

this ragged scrap paper

yesterday’s night sky

cannot cannot

be this sky

this same sky

this same frozen cry

If you read this

live, live

love for me

love a little more for me

love sweet things more for me

yesterday’s last sky

cannot cannot

be this sky

this same sky

this same air we share

Rusalka

I have always loved Dvorak's Mesícku na nebi hlubokém [Oh Silver Moon], and often ponder the story of Rusalka. It is a tale similar to that of "The Little Mermaid" but deeper and even more sad. The Rusalka story takes place in the inland swamps and waterways of Eastern Europe. The themes of betrayal, forgiveness and enduring love make it a haunting version of the water-nymph story.

Many cultures have stories concerning a feminine sprite that haunts watery places - the Nix, Ondine, Kelpie, Selkie, Water Baby, La Llorona, Melusine -- sometimes they are evil and sometimes just sad, but few versions are as affecting as the Rusalka story. Fairy tales seem the perfect form for a sestina, (see Swan Songs), the difficulty mitigated by the sweet way that this old repeitive form compliments the themes of a folktale.  Here is a link to Renee Fleming singing Mesícku na nebi hlubokém, perhaps the saddest song ever written.

 

What a man builds he may then so easily tear down--

Small betrayals or subtractions, every day more thorns,

Hearing strange and joyless cautions from his careful heart .

Thus we women come to haunt the old road or water-way

Unmade, undone, damping fires, revisiting, reflecting,

Still in love, still wishing for the fair, free ghosts we crave.

I saw you in the marshes, and thereby learned to crave

I, your white doe, your flameless fire, paused and went down,

By a voice on the river, smoke and stars reflecting.

I left the old confines, cut across my deadwood thorns,

To meet you sliding hard along a silken river way;

Only one to only one, the theory of this heart.

You said, my liege, that no such bright omens of the heart

Exist, that no stars cross, moons neither align nor crave

To sigh upon the earth just as we did in a way

Perfect, rare and fine. Then you faltered, turned me down,

Backed away, betrayed, and now here on November’s thorns

I wait and watch the marsh fires now in black reflecting

Those hands, our breath, and every flagging hope reflecting.

The witch warned that I’d live in joy until my heart,

Of volition, you would cast away on long-bow thorns.

So, I am taught how “grave” will always rhyme with “crave.”

Master of my old weakness and my new strength, look down

River and call out again, laughing, as was your way.

Fairytales dictate a girl’s submission as the way,

For giving sweetly seasons sweat, our eyes reflecting

All. This lesson the moon girl learned from mortal heart.

Proud, twined in garlands of cold blue pearls, I lay down

My stringent self-impalement, my sleepless, sleeping heart,

The burning bushes in the fields, my kiss and all you crave—

Admit it prince, somewhere you bring me the moon and thorns.

Many ways to end a tale: upon a bed of thorns,

Beside a pool, beneath the frosted grass, all the way

To room nineteen, on the night road,  words and tongue I crave,

By the river, upon the sea, in the tomb reflecting,

Or with sacrifice, my love, a pyre, the goblin’s heart.

A tale maybe fanciful, but brings the darkness down.

Crave no sad and brutal thorns, forget the way;

Down along the river I no longer wait and crave,

Reflecting, still reflecting, to salve my moonlit heart.

Truth or Consequences -- Against the Coryphaeus

 

They said you had no life

Outside

My imagination

They tell me that the few words

You spoke 

Were empty

Only a residue of vodka

Beside the pillow

They say you had no life in you

That I did not put there

But I believe

In neurons and in you

Chorus: 

Did you not smell the smoke on the wind?

Did you mistake fire for flame?

Did you see the absence of promise

As a sign of an honest heart?

Hear us now:

Kisses are but ashes on the breath

Of an unkind lover.

They said you were never anything but cold

Clay

And I breathed upon you

The only heat you held

Past dawn. 

You had already put me down

In those first weeks

Looking across Montana for the next woman

To prove

What I already believed

Chorus: 

Forget,

Forget, what you think you knew.

His kisses were ashes

Lie, lay, lye

Under my hand your face went still

You brow unfolded

And thus you settled, lay across me, rested

We slept and did not

For my lips a quicker quickening

And I persist in thinking

It was no false delight when you laughed

And surely I did recognize the tremor

When you so recognized

Me

Chorus:

You should've listened to us

Do not fall so hard against

The unquiet evidence of hands,

Of lip, of tongue, of breath, of sweat, 

These most tender gifts easily spin

The only human treasure

Or slip upon the weft of that oldest lie

A fool is fooled

As many before and many will after be

Ashes of kisses

Lies upon October

December silence

January empties

No deposit, no return

Why grieve over

The detritus of faith?

They say you were poaching

Needing nothing

But the seducer's micaceous gold

And by finding it again and yet again,

Can prove you still have the stakes--

Until, of course, you do not

And must take what is left

Paying then a higher cost for smaller heat

Proven wrong

Even thrice

With the instinct of the branded

I am yet a last believer

In the paradox of who

I knew

Chorus: 

Fool, he gave you nothing, brought you naught,

Took you nowhere, showed you to none,

Gifted you without one object of good faith

Kisses are only the ashes of breath....

Hush now

You singers

Tell me no more of the acid moon

The sorrows of sparrows

Nor of birthday's without wishes

And one lost black feather

I hold the secret

I believe

On Alterations

 

Some will tell you to choose your path with care—

For this may be the last dress you wear.

Do not put credence in such dark advice,

For those who say it cannot know the price

Of cold years lived in tattered raiment.

They don’t count the cost, but see the payment.

We who wear our ripe flesh lightly must stress:

A woman always finds another dress.

Woven, spun, knitted, in toga or sheath,

We must to our daughters this lace bequeath:

From ashes, fire or dust we still create,

To thus re-stitch our selves, souls, lives and fate.

The long work of mending cannot be put down,

But Love, you will always have another gown.