Thursday, August 28, 2014

For Lidia's Urgent Matter of Books


It's just a covering of leaves.  There are quite a few of us under here.
We've stripped bare, lit fires, we toast our food.

We don't post lookouts.  At the signs of commotion that would snap
dogs to alert, graduate their status, we keep right on fucking.

We lick each others's wounds.  We read about preventative care,
gardening.  We step out every now and again, search out more to read.

We fill our pockets, packs, pouches designed to hold water, letters
and lamp oil, strawberries and pens.  We are hoarders for books.

I am into Paolo Yashvili and the Georgian poets now.  I think, don't
worry, we aren't going anywhere.  They'll burn the whole thing

down looking for us and we will rise out of the ashes every time,
we'll write in the ashes again if we have to.



©2012 J. Patrick Bennett

Monday, August 25, 2014

Street Lamps for the Uncertain


One—

Uncertain, they wander
–effigy in periphery–shuffling in place
      of a falling star

spin off to the 'verse,
the uncertain,
      Terse, unruffled.

What quality has left them?
Of what value have they been emptied,
      unsound in the deep?

They do not sing.  Unlike comets
punching their holes in clouds,
      hammering the sea with shafts of starlight

They are unmoved by ends
of earths.  Uncertain,
aimless.

Two—

We once had made to bath them with emerald light,
we gave them wrong undone by right
      –attuned to flight, they fled, one by one.

O, lend one a length of rope for your knots,
but save your breath!
      Weave your stories behind drawn curtain,

      for the uncertain are certainly near!
Their angels all have fallen—
      gathering in her town square,

Their Matron Saint awaits her golden hour
yet, for the uncertain there are only the cobblestones.
      No unspent blessings to prepare them!

But one effort remains that might guide them,
that on every lane a streetlamp
      be dedicated to the memory of the uncertain.

Left lit by day and by night,
Their own brand of sight,
      a common flag under which

the uncertain might gather, as one,
one celestial tapestry, cascading with sirens and iris,
      a vision leaning back,
            drawing breath,
                  looking up.



©2014 J. Patrick Bennett

A Tattva Blessing — for Ellis Morning


Growing fond is one grand feast,

    whose celebration on the tongue

        and celestial caress express of two

a three,


    whose cornucopias

        present as antibodies,

            flora of a ‘smile's unsayable flower’

—unrevealed bracken of wilds,

        earthen as a sacred lake.


To Life and Death,

    connubial, variegated displays of affair:

        critical are lips,

            hazelnuts, growing sweet:


so a great host of comet and nebulae

    whorling on the cosmic tide,

        present themselves dear one to you,

the gift with eternity's child inside.




©2014 J. Patrick Bennett 

Saturday, August 23, 2014

Drunk at the Floral Bazaar


Drunk at the Floral Bazaar


At midnight my pride climbs quietly from the bed
Pads past the open door to the hall
down the stairwell and into the woods
to hide its poem with everything in the words.

At dawn, the townsmen light torches.
They gather at the base of some totem
of terrible significance which I fail to place,
a ghost among the remains of the day.

I can dream about your beautiful eyes,
how grace wanders in and out of the gates of them
a spirit and a silken fan gone drunk
at the floral bazaar.

Your absence hits me—
in the chest and I know I've fallen
as if from a great distance of height
and come crashing down on the rocks

at the base of Eden's waterfall,
as though Heaven were discovered by splitting a stone
and I'm home.
Tonight!

I will lie at your side,
and with the moon as our cover we will
cast sigils for healthy children, for
luck in wrestling, and

finding home in rough weather inks.
We will marvel at stars
spilling secrets on the backs
of comets

punch holes in the clouds,
hammer the sea with fists of gardenia
and as the waves rear up in response
I'll climb quietly

from the bed, pad past the door
to the hall, run into the woods
and bury this poem
with forever inside.



©2014 J. Patrick Bennett

Thursday, August 21, 2014

Saturn has always been a ringed planet. . .


Three Images for Saturn


Saturn has always been a ringed planet.  Crop circles, it's told
are boldly suggestive of a talent for vanity—single-celled amoeba
act as yet another indivisible signature dish, indistinguishable
from nebulae, or black holes, or the magnitude of a dog star in
open comparison.  His rings, once believed to be the ash of life,
merely courtesans at the theatre of gastronomic dinner-circus.

Saturn's rings casts shadows over him as if they were clouds.
Night has no place to sleep for long.

Saturn throws a violent temper, he rages from his birthplace:
In the middle of his first kiss, the poet tastes electricity.
A comet punches holes in the clouds as it breaks apart over
A nearby lake, scattering liquid gold over silver light.
A new ring was formed that night from available elements.



©2014   J. Patrick Bennett

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

A Fox


A Fox


Many years ago a photograph
Captures a young woman casting
A peculiar smile, her lips parted
in a knowing,
mischief in her.

Vines overgrow the sun-
side of the main house, pink stones
frame her theatre.

Peat rich loam,
alfalfa pellets mounded around
the base of "A Touch of Class".  Her

Moss-emerald leather chair warms
her long gray hall:

her estate keeps books,
her iron hinges weep
under a lover's fingertips,
the east gate latch disturbed—

and her courtyard is overrun!
Petals deep red fall.

Birch leaves continue to clap
long since the wedding bells drew down,
long since her battered shores
swollen with sorrow—her conscripts drawn
to wander in the mean
vacant of a main force—
 relinquished pulse for all but loss.

She eyes the post,
Eyes the skies in vain for signs of candlelight.
Horses cry from the cumulus.  How ages in an instant pass.

Ghosts wander her halls, the draperies rear up
in a breeze weaving themselves in between the voicing
of the floorboards
and a come-hither door
and softens them.

A daughter knows her—
no one else has come.
A fox moves off in the thicket.



©2014   J. Patrick Bennett

A great many of my poems are Matins, Songs, Hymnal in nature and this one, a gift for a far away friend finds its place as I do, in the garden we call life.


Song


The tree in our garden should always have the wandering cloud to talk with—
Both are formations devoted to named elements.

I will always see the tree, even when the tree is looking away.
Even looking beyond the skies I know, beloved tree, how the lights there

Reveal a widening cestus, how they resonate with a chorus in magnificent melody!
I know how they call you home—I also hear their call.

I can always see the bride of the heavens—not a single star matches her eyes,
Not one bed of diamonds prepared will shine behind her.  Silk is her instrument

When wood bends, wheat winds and unwinds upon the suggestion at her lips.
Music is her appetite—from her empty hands all life is given, freely.

I will always hear the Priestess of the Moon, she who drapes the lake in moonlight
Side by side the earth bows in honor of her, and below its clay sheath

Life rises to the cell, driven in unborn knowledge, inspired to fly, wanton
To surpass the limitations of lungs and breasts and flesh and rejoice!



©2014   J. Patrick Bennett