English Poems

The first seated takes the chance he’ ll be
stood up. She’ s getting on with the hope she may
get off. One and one make one
in this riddle. Or, more closely, comedy routine:
first, impressions; second, observations.
Impolite to have thirds. Bachelors and bachelorettes
beware: more than tonight they can mess up your order.
Who would go for the lobster expects the claws.
No pets allowed, keep your shirt on, places this strict —
like loony bins — require a jacket, sir. Mark sudden pauses,

Frosty, green through gray rising steeply,
top of the bank a big top, red with a sign,
misty, fantastical on the walk to school.

“My sister can’ t express herself properly.

Imagine if those performers
were stuck in their caravans
forever. If round the back of the big top
the doors were locked. That’ s her.

She’ s a trapeze artist, lion tamer,
cramped clean-faced clown
drinking tea, practicing tricks,
movement through frosted windows.

Language is her caravan on bricks,
with tiny little windows in.”

On rain washed paper dried, ink
still blurs. But all words
are stains. The paper’ s rippled
lunar, mountain and crater,

and seas on the moon, misnomer
of plains that looked like
water once, no-end-to-it shadows,
fractal to fractal. The telescope’ s eye

fooled the eye. From there, does
earth rise and set? Or a thrush,
would it sing its trouble backward? —
the most private tremor first, then

An old man with a new hat
is running out of pride.
I want to tell the truth
but I don’ t know how.
The wind is our best pen
and it blows poetry out of the water.

I wait for days and weeks to enter
a feeling that’ s had years to leave.
The ocean keeps throwing questions
it has all the answers to.
A candle lights a room
and dims the stars.

It’ s now all about money
about which poetry rarely reaches
transcendence. But love must still fester
even under that. Everyone I know
frets if poetry can still matter,
but what about love? It’ s all become
too much for them, and they’ re all
on the soma. It makes sense
with these pills when the someone
they thought they loved for years
by never thinking about it says,
“I don’ t love you anymore,
but let’ s stay friends in that mellow
woebegone way poetry now
sings without singing.” Of course,

Birdsong, face it, some male machine
gone addled — repeat, repeat — the damage
keeps doing, the world ending then starting,
the first word the last, etc. It's that

etcetera. How to love. Is a wire
just loose? Build an ear for that. Fewer, they say.
So many fewer, by far. He's showing off
to call her back. Or claiming the tree.

He was touched or he touched or
she did and was, or they were
and would. Or the room could, its
three doors, two windows or

the house on a slant touching,
touched by the drift down street, cars
pressing quick or slowing. All along
the town touched a river, the river

As if  anyone has the desire   ...
Vickey trailed off, pouring another lager

There'll be nothing left
But fur and bone, as my lawyer once explained

To my ex, she resumed, tapping a long cigarette
On the bar. My, you're a bit snarky tonight

Said Luther. Maybe you need a change of  venue,
A beach with your breath on it

Oh, she replied, nodding towards the far corner booth,
These writers are so obnoxious

I wish they'd find a new place to complain.
Ha, said Hillary, they wouldn't know a good story

At the table, at the grave not knowing
whether to grieve or celebrate, they seemed
to find a way within the stalled noon clatter
and the dusk over oily swamps and elder tangle
along a locked stockade of heavy machines,
as the blue heron, looking down, flew farther on.
Nothing dissolved for them the mortal green
and black in transparent power of spacious streams
now gone from earth. The flickering they found,
terror-hope-terror, in fire of sunset clouds
remained unwavering in its progress to night

I have a yong suster
Fer beyonden the se,
Many be the drowryes
That she sente me.

She sente me the cherye
Withouten ony ston;
And so she dede the dove
Withouten ony bon.

She sente me the brer
Withouten ony rinde;
She bad me love my lemman
Withoute longing.

How shuld ony cherye
Be withoute ston?
And how shuld ony dove
Be withoute bon?

How shuld ony brer
Been withoute rinde?
How shuld I love myn lemman
Withoute longing?