I Can’t Tell You Who Lives Inside My Left Eye…

I can’t tell you who lives inside my left eye—
The better one which though blind
Has followed the parade all these years.

Is he bitter? Hungry? Does he laugh?
He reads weariness like a cipher.
He follows faint tracks of birds

Though he can’t see them.
This is to say he’s unreliable
But cunningly so

Fast in the mother-darkness.

Ode to My Ears

Up river and down—life inside my ears
Ghost-boats ferrying horses
Steam engines spit
Leaves at my feet
Listening without a single body

**

Do you still have them?
The faux diamonds you threw at your father?

**

In the morning
What matters
Is having the right feeling
So the clouds will trust you

**

Ears hold the world’s depth
Eyes complain about the candy dish

**

I miss Anselm Hollo who gave me a book when I was 20
Poems by Paavo Haavikko

**

Snowing

**

Today I’m like the unborn
Listening and listening

Morning Notes

One month I carried the Torah everywhere
 The next month the Koran, the New Testament
 The Dhamapada, Emily Dickinson…
 
 I would like to speak with my 20 year’s self
 Buy him a cup of tea
 
 **
 
 The fact is
 Repeat
 
 **
 
 In Russia once
 I bought a coat from a man
 Then gave it back
 
 **
 
 Mike the farmer brought Christianity to Finland
 
 **
 
 If you plan any razzmatazz with me you better not be a member of the Chamber of Commerce
 
 
 **
 
 A friend said recently he wants to buy a samovar
 I told him I have one
 Then I remembered it was in my childhood
 That it’s long gone
 
 **
 
 I told a stranger my family came to America for the juicy prunes
 
 
 **
 
 I know so many poets who want to be celebrities
 If you can’t stand the neglect stay out of the aquarium
 
 
 **
 
 I hid inside a piano once
 
 
 
 
 
 
 – Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Diabelli

I’m listening to Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations on a windy November day when the last leaves are falling from the trees.

Did the ghost trains come through already?

All of a sudden he checks himself as if he’d said too much.

I wanted to buy flowers yesterday but didn’t.

When sighted people talk about blind certainty I wonder what they’re talking about.

About my other side, it has a lonesome house.

Everywhere, directions, possibilities, but still rain at the windows.

Where else would I walk?

I don’t like your smile sir.

Up river where they eat song birds.

I’ll lend my heart to you but only to make you hear.

Autumn, more ancient than my recklessness….

1963

Another day, another mass shooting in America. Sometimes I think if I were the kind of poet who adopts classical rhetorical forms I might say, “I lived in the age of gun violence” as opposed to “the age of gold” or even “of plastic” and should there be a future civilization more refined than ours they will say “that must have been very painful—how did they manage?”

There’s prescience in childhood of course. I recall the first day of school after John Kennedy’s funeral. Our teacher asked us to share our feelings about the president’s assassination. I was in the third grade and barely 8 years old. Some of us cried of course. Some of us expressed fear.
And then a kid stood up and said “they killed him with dum dum bullets!” He was thrilled to share this information. “My brother is in the marines, he said they used dum dums!” “Yeah, his head really exploded!”

No one of course knew what to say. I think our teacher said “let’s move on….”

But I remember being repulsed by my classmate’s enthusiasm for bullets and heads exploding. And I also remember understanding that Americans may like violence. I was eight for god’s sake.

Nowadays I think of my 1963 classmate rather frequently for with every mass shooting there’s someone reveling in a testosterone soaked dance about the bullets and the guns used.

I disliked that classmate.

And yes, he beat me up one day just because I was blind.

Love is Love, Go Out and Vote

I shall suppose for the sake of all things constructively imaginative that today will be blessed. I will meet good people. We will, despite our differences believe in one another by which I mean we’ll want prospective goodness for each other. We’ll not imagine goodness for me and no goodness for you.

What a thing! To write a paragraph like the one above! The things that we love tell us what we are. (Aquinas) I know what I love. There is nothing on this earth more to be prized than true friendship. (Aquinas) I can be friends with anyone. Can you?

To one who has faith no explanation is necessary. (Aquinas) I’m not in the business of explaining love. OK. Now my prose is getting thick. But I will believe today love is love. It is sufficient unto the day.

I was blessed just four days ago when Baha my Uber driver wanted to FaceTime with his brother in Baghdad so the folks back home could see my guide dog Caitlyn. We had four minutes of doggish joy. And the fellowship of love.

I was blessed this morning to know the difference between my ambitions and all I can give away both materially and spiritually.

The free man or woman is like those barn swallows delighting in their flight at both ends of the day.