#word hoarding

[armsaround-thestereo]

Summer Dusk - Charles Simic, 2022 (from No Land in Sight)

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When the Fact Of Your Gaze Means Nothing, Then You Are Truly Alongside

Donika Kelly

late spring wind sounds an ocean through new leaves. later the same wind sounds a tide. later still the dry

sound of applause: leaves chapped falling, an ending. this is a process. the ocean leaping out of ocean

should be enough. the wind pushing the water out of itself; the water catching the light

should be enough. I think this on the deck of one boat then another. I think this

in the Salish, thought it in Stellwagen in the Pacific. the water leaping looks animal, looks open mouthed

looks toothed and rolling; the ocean an animal full of other animals.

what I am looking for doesn't matter. that I am looking doesn't matter. I exert no meaning.

a juvenile bald eagle eats a harbor seal's placenta. its head still brown.

this is a process. the land jutting out, seals hauled out, the white-headed eagles lurking

ready to take their turn at what's left. the lone sea otter on its back, toes flopped forward and curled;

Friday Harbor: the phone booth the ghost snare of a gray whale's call; an orca's tooth in an orca's skull

mounted inside the glass box. remains. this is a process. three river otters, two adults, a pup,

roll like logs parallel to the shore. two doe, three fawns, a young buck stares, its antlers new, limned gold

in sunset. then the wind again: a wave through leaves green with deep summer, the walnut's

green husk. we are alive in a green crashing world. soon winter. the boat forgotten. the oceans,

their leaping animal light, off-screen. past. future. this is a process. the eagles at the river's edge cluster

in the bare tree. they steal fish from ducks. they eat the hunter's discards: offal and lead. the juveniles

practice fighting, their feet tangle midair before loosing. this is a process. where they came from.

for how long will they stay. that I am looking doesn't matter. I will impose no meaning.

[armsaround-thestereo]

Evening

Rainer Maria Rilke (trans. Edward Snow)

Slowly the evening puts on the garments held for it by a rim of ancient trees; you watch: and the lands divide from you, one going heavenward, one that falls;

and leave you, to neither quite belonging, not quite so dark as the house sunk in silence, not quite so surely pledging the eternal as that which grows star each night and climbs -

and leave you (inexpressibly to untangle) your life afraid and huge and ripening, so that it, now bound in and now embracing, grows alternately stone in you and star.

[armsaround-thestereo]

kitchenette building

Gwendolyn Brooks, 1963

We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan, Grayed in, and gray. “Dream” makes a giddy sound, not strong Like “rent,” “feeding a wife,” “satisfying a man.”

But could a dream send up through onion fumes Its white and violet, fight with fried potatoes And yesterday’s garbage ripening in the hall, Flutter, or sing an aria down these rooms

Even if we were willing to let it in, Had time to warm it, keep it very clean, Anticipate a message, let it begin?

We wonder. But not well! not for a minute! Since Number Five is out of the bathroom now, We think of lukewarm water, hope to get in it.

[armsaround-thestereo]

The Well Rising

William E. Stafford, 1960

The well rising without sound, the spring on a hillside, the plowshare brimming through deep ground everywhere in the field—

The sharp swallows in their swerve flaring and hesitating hunting for the final curve coming closer and closer—

The swallow heart from wingbeat to wingbeat counseling decision, decision: thunderous examples. I place my feet with care in such a world.

[armsaround-thestereo]

For a Coming Extinction

W.S. Merwin, 1967

Gray whale Now that we are sending you to The End That great god Tell him  That we who follow you invented forgiveness And forgive nothing

I write as though you could understand And I could say it One must always pretend something Among the dying When you have left the seas nodding on their stalks Empty of you Tell him that we were made On another day

The bewilderment will diminish like an echo Winding along your inner mountains Unheard by us And find its way out Leaving behind it the future Dead And ours

When you will not see again The whale calves trying the light Consider what you will find in the black garden And its court The sea cows the Great Auks the gorillas The irreplaceable hosts ranged countless And fore-ordaining as stars Our sacrifices

Join your word to theirs Tell him That it is we who are important

[armsaround-thestereo]

"Guard the Jade Pass"

Kimiko Hahn, 1999

i.

I am in the middle of “The Fourteen Poems" by Sun Bu-er (“Clear and Calm Free Human”), Taoist and one of the Seven Immortal Sisters who took up the Tao after she turned fifty-one, after her three children grew up, after her husband attained enlightenment—highly approved by The Complete Reality School. She was born in 1124. Commentary by Chen Yingning of the twelfth century. Translated by Thomas Clearly. Copyright 1989. The Chinese is not included.

ii. Some of the titles: Gathering the Mind Nurturing Energy Cutting Off the Dragon The Womb Breath Facing a Wall iii. Imagine words with a dimension not unlike the light and dark regions of the moon. The back of planets. The crators. Words that orbit the body like a plea granted. iv. I am in the middle of— what do you call this pass? v. When I am unblocked, not in the midst of students and professors, I walk around light-headed as if there is too much oxygen in the air. Who needs sleep or water— vi. in the middle of— vii.

The secret texts may reveal how to really be alive. Those by Sun Bu-er are said to have been handed on by revered Taoist; one of whom was known as the “Realized One of Mount Heng.” viii. I keep a cigar box on my bureau and fill it with objects befitting a private altar: coins, feather, thread. An empty envelope when you forget to enclose the letter.

[armsaround-thestereo]

The Migration of Bicycles

Nancy Willard

I have seen them flash among cars or lean

so low into the curved wrist of the road

to brake would kill them, yet a whole pack

will stand for hours in the rain

yoked to each other, chained to the rack

till the shops close. I have seen

them balanced on one foot like a clam,

the front wheel turned, at ease. It waits

like a severed centaur, for lover or thief

to give it a running push, shift gears, and ride

off with the Great Bear and the full moon

hooping the earth, winding the spring tide.