#stephen berg

[beguines]

Stephen Berg, from "On This Side of the River", Grief

[smakkabagms]

"At this late hour by the river the cherry trees stand along, / black tongueless sentinels / that report nothing."

Stephen Berg

[acataemic]

“This afternoon it was so lonely here / I wept for people I have never known”

— Stephen Berg, from Grief (1975); “About Love”

[cutiewithawakenedheart]

“One of those lost autumn days

you love.”

                 ----Stephen Berg

[poem-today]

A poem by Stephen Berg

The Holes

Suddenly I remember the holes, Suddenly I think of a man with no entrances, no exits, the closed man, with feelers or claws so sensitive that he can tell what rock is, or flesh, water, or flame. Where does everything go when it comes in? What should I do with the pure speech of cells where we find ourselves? The river flies, the dusk crawls into the ground, the streets get up and leave, the sun recklessly feeds our blood. We could be crouching on the branch, we could be gnawing the brown feathers and thighs of a new animal, we could be plotting under the ice while others dream. But I want the infinite man who sleeps in my veins to rise, I want to hear the thin buzzing that floats out of my chest like an arm of locusts making terrible decisions. Sometimes I want to die because of this.

Stephen Berg

(1934-2014)

[giftfox]

raining or not walk lifting your heavy wet sleeves

- Ikkyu (transl. Stephen Berg)

[lainmensaola]

DON'T FORGET

I was always called in early for dinner. It was dusk usually, half an inning to go, I’d hear my mother calling me to beat the dark, everyone would mumble, I’d throw my glove down and      leave. At home, sitting at the table, I’d imagine the score, and the speckled homework book seemed to watch me until I opened it, stared at the numbers, and fell asleep. Damp laundry rustles in the yards of the houses. Everyone was punished like this because our parents worried we’d fall, and missed us, but we always got hurt anyway, or we’d sit for hours sanding the wings of a wood fighterplane until they shined like metal. We climbed walls until we slipped and our legs      broke, our first kisses were so murderous we almost fainted. Don’t forget, this is inside us every day. We want everything, our hands stop too soon, and who are we when a face whispers and opens to us like a wave? The tame grasses of the head, the moist spiral      ear, some water nobody has crossed — you feel yourself leaving, you can’t lift your hands, you stand there, leaving. Stephen Berg

[heteroglossia]

we disappear eagles tigers nothing in the gold nothing in the emeralds nothing in the feathers nothing in the word // it is so hard to live like this! no happiness on the earth for me // we live on earth lent here we are men over there ones without bodies in your house here home between a little while only // on the edge of war near the bonfire we taste knowledge // because I cry because I am desperate I am left alone there is no compassion on earth how can I live among men even at your side god I am bitter // where are we going Oh where are we going are we dead are we still alive is this where time ends is there time somewhere else people are only here on earth with pungent flowers and with songs and out of the world surely they make truths! // only with our flowers can we find pleasure only with our songs does our sadness dissolve

Stephen Berg, Nothing in the Word: Versions of Aztec Poetry