for Bill Dickey

The strength of souls hung out dries up the sun.
Royal bodies like Bill’s, are like manly logs lit up
for Yule— dying at noon into the gold of day.

Wisdom’s frame shrunk, a vine bereft—manhood’s
reach wilted, a leaf released— wild one’s branches
limp— mustard-colored seed—emblem of his faith.

What faith persists through the thinness of plague?
Round mouth— vain to the end, yet fully in charge
Brought from the jaws of death more than once by

The sense of humor from his friends— last encounter
with him Valentines Day—in that rose-colored cashmere
jacket reading his poems, so well near his port-a-potty

— His poems finished. Blared stunning intelligent blue
eyes into day dreams— believing the Catholic
Church had forbidden him to write.

Yet, he died at Beltane— discerning time of year—
full equality of light, dark— writing today six months
later feeling for him.

The great equality of dark, light— was he the saint,
like my two cousins, or will we ever know?

I tell Jane Kenyon:
I cannot cease making space for songs
of the silenced to take off and soar.

Jane says there really is no difference.
She mentions it is all about birth.
I suggest it is really about transformation.

Jane mentions that I should groan through
transitions, push out my poems and rituals

Along with my blood. Together, we see spaces
change like dragonflies breathe, like midwives,

Like babes writhe into fiery shifting shapes
before we let our ashes fertilize Mother Earth.

Since you also played jazz saxophone, became a star
in track, I see how smoothly you attended your first rock
concert at 80, ventured to Star Wars films at 81 after a
lapse of 30 years— the travel in the moon, glint of the
eyes, sun-washed smile, made possible with Irish
whiskey, rare beef.

Backstage, listening, wonder leaning forward in your
stance— delight abundant— unconditional acceptance
of a child. Never any distance from trips you made
with your dad—Sundays scouring the
Museum of Natural History before dawn watching
Buffalo Bill’s Wild West unload.

A consummate showman, you presided at the Palace of
Fine Arts, illuminated the ancient world, projected slides,
proclaimed devotion for your wife. Gestures you
made to embrace animal ways, the seeded earth.
Your voice cracking with memory— deans of Columbia
determined mythology— not a suitable subject for study.

Five years in Woodstock, you read ten to twelve hours a
day— missing the show this year, returning to Honolulu—
laughing, describing Kundalini yoga, breathing through
right nostril, dying on Halloween when the veil is thin,
your cassettes droned on a ghostly white, your booming
New York accent sounded throughout my California house.

In my waterbed, this Saturday night, I lie back, listen.
You teach me to step over carcasses of white caribou
on a northern slope. My eight year old calls,
“Isn’t that grandpa talking?” You say, “We seek to
discover heroism as a means of finding
the heart of a culture.”

“Serious poetry in western culture is more or less identical
with potent masculinity.”—
Alicia Ostriker in Stealing the Language

Rodin never saw him— with his own eyes.
Yet in seven years and fifty studies:
heads, bodies, full figures, he shaped
and chose and shaped again.

(The Commissioners accused and rejected
again and again.) So Rodin had to hear it—
with his mind’s ear—how Balzac at night
would awaken to throbs and heart beats

At the door of the assembly of the Word:
under the flowing robe, his arms fold like
an envelope, so the hands could hold
the swollen cock, the naked paunch

Merged with that upward force. The legs fork to
encompass Earth, so the miniature head could
contain all of France. So I have to feel with
my imaginary instrument how greedy the heat

Of sperm pulses. He must place it fast
and well with ink, or he will drown in it.
I wonder if I have breath to revive him—
his tiny face floating on the page.

Once a brave woman named Barb
found herself in party director’s garb.
Making of cakes, passing of cards
Barb, of much time and talents, was robbed.

---

The old guard passes;
an infinite loop— the silent shape of tears.

---

No one wrote— the writers, the managers,
the green philodendrons.

---

What a wonderful day!
No one in Developer Press leaving for Netscape!

---

With what voice, and what song would you, Barb,
call the workers to their books?
Wild manager, wild editor, at what age
will you make your first flight?

So much depends upon the brown-haired Barbara,
her eyes glazed with tasks beside the blurred screen.

April 23, 1994

In dance, our vines take root eager for heat and damp,
seeking specific intimations of ourselves with earth.

Vines sing shapes, obvious forms their branches upturned
limbs contorted, outstretched in a broad dead run away

Or from particular, deep story. A solitary dancer in golden
dress whose limbs point to the earth against a dusty rose.

Above smoke fills space between shapes with grey, blue.
The area amongst the limbs tells the story. Near the top

Dancers nearly touch their elbows, in between lower
reaches of their trunks, a contour like a flower, a petal,

A seed pod flames. The vines don’t dance together, yet
lift their shapes in answer to life’s startling rattle call—

A drought, flood, fire. All forms turn away— save
a golden one trimmed in green, pulsing life through

a scene, pouring champagne at weddings, brandy after miscarriages, sherry at Christmas, port after the funeral.

to Kathy Williams— thanks for tickets to the ballet

White arms stretch out
her yearning wings

Lengthen, lengthen
love, quiver life.

Breathe Gesundheit
bow down to kiss

Turn slow cut black
air like knives

Her legs bend in praise
flesh, praise him

Whose arms lift
her slight frame again

To joy return—
dance to truth.

August 13, 1997

Whose songs shall we sing, if not his?
His voice silent in the soil that gave it
wings— sleeping sound, bereft of flight.

Still hearts long for the sweet one,
deprived of light, for the horned god,
known by clear song to tremble, fly

By love to soothe the troubled world.
What strain rises deep from the earth
into fallen faces furrowed by his smile?

In dance, runners take root— damp, eager for the heat
— in specific ways, intimating their relations with earth.

In song, runners take shape outstretching branches—
softening tentacles parting the mist.

In story, runners are seats for dancers— golden limbs
resting against the rose until dust calms— moves again.

In space, runners incline between smoky branches—
contours touch until within reaches of stems,
seed pod flames. Liquid petal flows.

In grapes, runners flood. Drought has stolen shapes
from the startled deluge. All forms must turn,
save reddish gold— trimmed in green.

In spirit, runners moan mystery, pulse of champagne,
bright fountain of brandy.

Even as shadows dance, joy sings out this dark history.

It may have been the colors of shapes,
or merely transformations in shades
made me think of Miró’s creepers,
gave me the sprawl of inebriation.

Six forms live on canvas. Still
three in upper space— a blur.
Dancers underneath loll— purple
frames in drunk repose.

Long robes of wine recline in grass green
regions of the past. Sides like glass—
slippery, offer little footage or rest—
creepers overcome by stupor.

The creepers— essence floats above rooms spin—
walls careen— in the party of Bacchus.
It is a dance slow, formal, utterly human
in tragic-comedy.

Drinking like creepers of indigo flail our limbs, fall
down to earth while our minds soar—uncontrolled
in unspeakable regions, giant vultures,
Flash floods in a canyon,

Young gods on a precipice— our thoughts,
veer off, hearts split open— unable to contain
contradiction, fullness, and the pain.

We are left with blue and green.

April 23, 1994

Vines in foreground— linking hands
vines in background— almost foggy field—
small dribbles of ochre near edges of the dance.

A dirge— united in our deaths— our nakedness
— we are stopped in an eyeblink. Yes,
knowing dance is slow— not stiff.

Below, vines are cut off at the waist.
Did they die before their time, or at mid-life?
Await deaths of parents, friends like vines—

Our hands bleed like red wine
feel how it flows through us—
behind us dance thin vines

Reminiscent of stones—
all these forms like a lattice
on which some green some fruit.

Some flower may climb into sun through
quiet fog— the certainty of morning—
connected by life, death, rebirth.

In between us form triangles, diamonds
— little vines caught red handed in
the very business of life.

We watch tall ones touch hems of garments
as in praise. Wine does that too. Let us touch
— if only for an instant.

Great grey vines have misty veils of silver
hair heads bowed towards earth,
towards their descendants.

December 6, 1992

You came out of earth’s insides, prayed to the earth.
Yesterday, you returned to the earth, I pray to you, tonight— 

you, Audre Lorde, mother of poets, black, white, yellow— 

to you, deep in our insides now, to you, who said
there 
are no honest poems about dead women.

I still want to sleep in your bed, to snuggle against
your 
smooth skin, bathed in moonbeams of peace,
warmed by sun rays of eros— you have mothered
me before— so I, reluctant in the grey morning light,
must again 
become a woman.

I want you to reveal to my daughters, as you did to others,
mysteries in stones— you, draped in
beauty, have left me instructions.
You, who have been a cape of truth to me, insist,
now I must wear your garment fastened with my trust.

I still want you to show me the strength of terror—
how 
you loved the empty space where your breast
had once 
been, how your jewelry would fit there—
just so. You have 
left me in that void, forever
pregnant with poems, and alone.

I still want to tell you so much, to see what you would say.
Maya Angelou is composing a poem for the inauguration,

U.S. troops are going to Somalia.
I have news for you, 
Mother.
There is no news, only how I feel tonight— without you.

Alone without your heat and milk, Mother, my
own company reeks. My throat teems with words—
messy, confused, upset. I am afraid. These words
are what you want from me. You have taught me.
My silence will never protect me.

December 5, 1993

I. On Hearing
A punch hard and fast in the stomach your death
took my words, left me gasping. One January night
I first glanced at wrinkled curves around your face.

Almost eighty, placing large-veined hands palm-down
on our table. It was late— still, you would write upstairs before you set your mind to sleeping— so would we.

Oaks and their sharp leaves took well to the news of
your dying. Grey ones were glad to greet you, knew
well how to fall— collapsing at home near your wife.

A year earlier, at Asilomar, you spoke of knowing
what students can hear about their work when,
making harmony with horses.

Readers, you said, find pleasure in poems, contentment
in relationship, relief in rhythms. Poets are nothing but tracer dogs— driven by nose and track to the next scent.

II. The Envelope
I had an envelope, business-sized, addressed to you in 
red ink stamped with two new poems inside awaiting the 
letter I would write.

You will not receive it. I was shy to say I’d lost your letter, 
forgot the name of the friend you suggested I look up on 
our summer trip to Port Townsend.

Knowing it too late, I wrote anyway, dreamed that night
of opening the envelope to put the letter in. You keep 
telling me, there has been a mistake.

You are not dead. Full of advice, you talk of your wife
and kids, who suffer neck strain. You only know how to
avoid this— look straight at people— never up or down.

III. Midnight on Mt. Hamilton

Full of latent fire, we have wound our way up the mountain— 
the grasses shimmer gold and brown. Chaparral 
mingles with evening in the sweep of an owl.

I carry your dying dark and green in my heart, offer it up, 
sacrifice to silhouettes of the pines. They never cry out
at sunset.

After all, you taught me when men are dangerous, and just 
what it is we all destroy when we swerve from what we are 
meant for.

We roll out blankets on a wooden platform and head for 
the deck— seven women laughing at the stars. The trip to 
meet you long and cold beyond the place

Where no one can see the sun through the spruce,
the rain over the hills, the wind in the sand dunes,
or the sharp edge of your Oregon coast.

In these far empty regions, your light burns steady.
Once called, you will not soon return, nor may I linger—
hurled earthward.

Landing squarely beneath the sky, hurting in all
dimensions— this trail full of dust, rocks— no balm
for these wounds but words, my search greater
than all telling.

January 25, 1989

It was only her arms you wanted— made of flesh
mostly remote soft water.

You called the western element—
not divine, a mother really— marble, unavailable Venus.

Like a blessed well— memory filled the sea outside
the window— purple red flowers in ebb and flow of silk.

Behind ecstasy— trembling in twilight—your wings not
of brown earth, yet words of bluest ink.

Your left arm held faithful to the page all the while—
your right danced mocking spirals— sensuous elbow

Impudent to the wrist each day and night til
yearning reached its end.

February 24 1993

My arm a cradle for the wine-marbled journal,
neglected months— my fist—rough embrace
— a dark blue roller pen— left for dead.

A library book tilted against wood grain—
bordering a square grey slate— shared with
another mother writing with purple fountain pen.

Between us, a metal container of light blue, white paper packages— sweetener— in pink letters
the word “Equal.”

Sounds of Spanish guitar seized air above the page.
Our fingers spiraling thought, playing rich rhythms, weaving our children’s lives, textures of personality,

The wonder of their aspirations— two sons, three daughters. Salt, pepper shakers side-by-side— transparent with battered lids.

White flecked substance in Maya’s greying curls,
pure coarse salt, chip of diamond in sapphire ring. Punctuation of broken glass on floor, four tin-foil

Wreaths with red bows on the wall. No evergreen. (Interruption from a work colleague— false smiles,
a revelation, journal, pen also in her hand.

Maya’s fingers keep moving.) I learn to turn my soul. Leaning over the book again— Maya’s blue sweater fringed in gold.

for Martha Graham (1895-1991) and Alvin Ailey (1939-1988)

You dance for us the joy of our hidden rites,
give us bodies all of a piece, celebrate melting
colors into sinew, tones into muscle. Our spirits

Soar then descend under the cover of darkness.
We witness— You flex and yawn, bend and stretch—
Transport us to this place. In the body, infectious

With danger— lurking in bones of attachment, run
then leap with the speed and accuracy of sex—
episode after episode like that.

Once a goddess rippling under a white umbrella,
another time a slave dancing seated on a chair,
fanning yourself, capturing revelation.

At ninety-six, your little steps across the stage,
reserved cautious, your generous bow showed us.
Movement transforms gesture into ritual.

The spirit is not forever caged in frail, vulnerable self.
Utterly perishable, the body insinuates soul in its
most secret, unmistakable language.

1918-1987

I.
Her father dyed her brown hair black to look more Latin
for the Vaudeville show— cascades of curls fell down
her back.

He taught how her feet must follow, hand must rest
unconscious on his shoulder, her wrist in his firm—
fleshy palm.

At thirteen, with her wings uncertain— clipped—
acting twenty times a week. An hour glass encased
in his arms, she felt vague music drift inside her—

Silent as the wind moves the sand.

II.
A husband bleached her smoky locks to make an
All-American pinup queen. She let that auto salesman
sign her— seven years making pictures at Columbia.

Then the war-swept world called for a moon goddess
to walk the earth. And oh! How the curve of her shape
that ardent inverted S met the need!

She knelt, a paper doll on satin sheets— porcelain hips
suspended in the filmy air. Fingernails— the color of
ripe beef, traced folds of creamy satin on a thigh.

A black lace bodice could expand to raise one shoulder high—
a greeting to a man. Though glued with photographic gloss,
the chiseled lips were shy—

Through those almond eyes—electric light, shone sunset
through chipped crystal. A glamour figure— bombast—
chest above the tiny feet— in spike heels.

Her sweet tractable image pasted on a nuclear
warhead. Eyebrows plucked as clean as the wings
of a poached hen. She might have flown.

Instead she fell.

III.
After the blast, her hair thinned— ends split, turned
silver, her marriages broken one by one. Children
appeared— kept her from the movies.

Photographers captured her— disheveled disruptive on
transatlantic flights. She failed learning lines—
gave up walking— took up shuffling— agitated pacing.

The doctors saw plaques and tangles in her brain. At the end,
a wheelchair took her from bed to shower— arms and legs
upheld. Head tipped back— vacant eyes looked the same.

Unable to talk or swallow, she felt more comfortable that way.

Perhaps colors in the shapes,
or transformations in the shades
slanted him towards the vines,

Inclined him towards the taste,
forms must live on canvas;
or they’ll stain the space,

Underneath, the old ones lie
in drunk repose. Their gowns
soak the fields with their blood

Of wine. The slippery slopes
of glass surround their will.
Bacchus blurs the walls —

Rooms spin — heads twirl —
in his party’s tragic comedy,
The fall of the inebriate —

The flash of vultures floods
the mind’s canyons. Like young
gods in a precipice, our thoughts

Veer off, poor hearts split open,
prisms for fullness and pain.
We are left blue and green.

for Georgia O’Keefe

Sky Above Clouds
Thanks –
For stretching out the canvas
Vast – still the endless puffs
Of your will does not stray.

How Long Contours Run On
Parched river beds wind then branch
Barren and pale – the leaf-like veins
Deep lines in mother’s open palm.

Amidst the Snowy Charcoal Spires
Sierra lake — the depth!
Aquamarine oval – the ice
in father’s one blind eye.

Mushrooms in the Clearing
Yellow toadstools of smoke
From factories – diminutive competitors
Their power in poison, not size

Chasing the Dusk
While our steel wings deflect
pink and grey – the hills
ridges swallow, bleed, and die.

Clamoring for breath
With the roaring
Lions of lament
My voice modest
Valiant as a violet
Burst through
Marvelous as mud
Of ancient creek beds
A tremulous tempest
Boils blooms trailing
Tears gold green hue—
Rhythm of petals and
Learning to imitate
Blake’s boisterous
Blasphemy radiates
Lions of Zion in turquoise
Torment the royal inner
Lesions Lawrence—
Purple Tornado’s deep
Lineaments of desire
Gratified.