In the Calm of the Sea
We are sleepers in the mouth of the sea,
Wishing from the corners of dying waves
We will reach the shore if only by disaster,
And like seagulls feed forever on some god,
Beached—and dead.
Low Tide
The Sea it coils round his landlocked lips
The Land it cradles round her seaful hips
The Sea it cringes, oldest of Earth's hands
To kindle fires and make Her heart the Land's.
The Stars they envy such white foam they cry
The Land it hears the weeping from the Sky
The Sea ignores and sighs onto the sands
To kindle fires and make Her heart the Land's.
The Land it knows no love beyond, below
The Moon and Sun that circle high and low
Two men look out: one to night's winged Horse
Another looks at churning Waves their force.
And so the Land it cradles Sea but loves
The Night Ladies' celestial white gloves
The Sea ignores and sighs onto the sands
And sinks from the rocks that touch the Land.
The Cyclops Hymn
Then let me leave,
With a mess of stars hung
Like convicts in the gallows' night;
Leave by broken moonlit lanes,
The ancient rains
On sleepless days in memory's caves; I roam,
Leaving a floor made of scattered bones:
Lanes that wind like question marks;
Trouble sparks
When no one comes . . .
To tell the number of the day,
Tales of Troy's decay.
The Dark Sun
Is there a victim more at loss than God's
Visionary few that fall to darkness, blind,
Cannot regain their sight of wonder, awe,
Cannot forget their sight of wonder, awe,
That live embittered much like the dead;
The dead that haunt Gehenna miserable
Because they came to earth before the sun,
Like Vergil, prophesying Augustine's rule,
Yet blamed for being unable to know. . .
But dead are dead, the blind alive, desperate. . .
Is there a victim more with loss than God?
What Sort of Men These Are
The foot soilders are maching
The leaves crack, the boughs snap,
The wind burries its head
Deep in the throat of winter—
The foot soilders are marching
They have captured the foam of the sea
They have peeled the clouds from the sky
And thrown their spoils to the earth—
The foot soilders are marching
The womb of heaven pangs with blood
The calvary charges on splintered dust
Down the horizon. . . down the ship—
when the wind blows the craddle will rock,
A single tower stands against the mountains
As the armies approach without a face,
when the bough breaks the craddle will fall—
The armies with shadows painted red
Claim the trembling mouths of earth underfoot.
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