Warning: file_get_contents(/home/www/settings/mirror_forum_db_enable_sql): failed to open stream: No such file or directory in /var/www/html/content/Forum/functions.php on line 8
Easter If this were a man if this man were poisoned if phosgene invades the man inhales the phonograph issues broken sanded washed if this were a man and his photogravure his image etched scratched came to my life representing life coloured measuring light walked and spoke eyes shining and alive I was convinced if a man came buckling up from the hide seasoned cured had rotted in his blanket at night if my man had steamed like Jesus in a cave delivered a man a philosophy a phobia a blue knuckling voice sang and cried warbling bloody if this man died in 1914 in a war he inhaled and he curdled down into himself resurrected his death flocked his tall tall tree his reverse breath dimpled his reverse breath his cheeks collapsed livid purple as his eight day rock and his sap let loose if this man had sap he was then wrapped loosely and tied whitely if this were a man his burning watermark remains his bearded water stamp remains
Here rise to life again, dead poetry!
Let it, O holy Muses, for I am yours,
And here Calliope, strike a higher key,
Accompanying my song with that sweet air
which made the wretched Magpies feel a blow
that turned all hope of pardon to despair
They got old, they got old and died. But firstâ okay but first they composed plangent depictions
of how much they lost and how much cared about losing.
Meantime their hair got thin and more thin
as their shoulders went slumpy. Okay but
not before the photo albums got arranged by them,
arranged with a niftiness, not just two or three
but eighteen photo albums, yes eighteen eventually,
eighteen albums proving the beauty of them (and not someone else),
them and their relations and friends, incontrovertible
playing croquet in that Bloomington yard,
floating on those comic inflatables at Dow Lake,
giggling at the Dairy Queen, waltzing at the wedding,
building a Lego palace on the porch,
holding the baby beside the rental truck,
leaning on the Hemingway statue at Pamplona,
discussing the eternity of art in that Sardinian restaurant.
Yes! And so, quite franklyâat the end of the dayâ
they got old and died okay sure but quite frankly
how much does that matter in view of
the eighteen photo albums, big ones
thirteen inches by twelve inches each
full of such undeniable beauty?
If this were a man
if this man were poisoned
if phosgene invades
the man inhales
the phonograph issues
broken
sanded
washed
if this were a man
and his photogravure
his image
etched
scratched
came to my life
representing life
coloured
measuring light
walked and spoke
eyes shining and alive
I was convinced
if a man came buckling
up from the hide
seasoned
cured
had rotted in his blanket
at night
if my man had steamed
like Jesus
in a cave
delivered
a man a philosophy
a phobia
a blue knuckling voice
sang and cried
warbling
bloody
if this man died
in 1914
in a war he inhaled
and he curdled
down into himself
resurrected his death
flocked
his tall tall tree
his reverse breath
dimpled his reverse breath
his cheeks collapsed
livid
purple
as his eight day rock
and his sap let loose
if this man had sap
he was then wrapped loosely
and tied whitely
if this were a man
his burning watermark remains
his bearded water stamp
remains
Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow; I am the diamond glints on the snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain; I am the gentle autumn's rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft star that shines at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there; I did not die.
been there 
