|
Jacob's Ladder is a Tree that Grows out of the Earth
December 2003
For John Byrd, who was with me at the time
- This all happened
somehow like this
exactly
and I will write love poems until I die.
like the tortured prisoners of Abu Ghraib
naked in the face of Allah
under the face of the moon
forced at gun point and snarling dogs
into un-Godly deeds of disgrace
reported in the passive sentences of America . . .
-
prisoners anally penetrated by phosphorous tipped nightsticks
prisoners fondled by female guards
prisoners fed from toilets
prisoners ridden like dogs
prisoners forced to eat pork and drink liquor. . .
arms extended
ankles cuffed and crossed
standing like Christ on the Cross
-
thus mocking the path of holiness
- with
the full moon of May in Baghdad
or may not
caressing my own anger
my mother is dead
Hush, Bobby, hush now,
East 96th Street New York City
where that same orangey Baghdad moon rising
fleshy and rosy
startles me
into sudden forgiveness
mysterious Central Park autumn blossoms
falling as memory
already softening up my heart
so I raise my arms in surrender
lie down in that grassy field
I am ready to talk
to ask for mercy and forgiveness
to sit quiet
to spill the beans
to tell everything to the faithful enemy
of my separateness
the world is too full of my words
hearts and blossoms drifting fresh and pure
in the shit and grime.
A Thread of Ubiquitous Light
Sometimes
when I sit quiet in the morning I find
a thread of high pitched sound,
an unending hum that resides at home
inside my brain
beneath
the flutter of self-centered thoughts,
the white noise of cars going back and forth
a train that lugs tanks and ordnance toward a killing field,
sparrows and house finches chirp at each other,
the pigeons flap their wings, the grackles
scream their plaints of hunger and anxious love.
The composer John Cage wrote somewhere
that this high-pitched buzz
inside our brains
is the squeal of our nervous system,
a silken thread that stretches
back through the door of our mothers' womb
where we were all surrounded
by liquid night
is where I first heard my father's voice
saw his face. . .
My mother is dead now.
Every day
like a spider in the corner of a room,
Bobby Byrd grew up in Memphis during the golden age of that city's music. In 1963 he went to Tucson where he attended the university. Since then he has lived in the American Southwest. In 1978 he and his wife, novelist Lee Merrill Byrd, moved to El Paso with their three children. The city and the border region have become their home. He and Lee are publishers of Cinco Puntos Press. In 2005, they received the Lannan Fellowship for Culturl Freedom. His most recent book of poetry is "White Panties, Dead Friends and Other Bits & Pieces of Love." See Lunar Authors Books and Chapbooks link on Lunarosity's Index page. (April 09)
her breath stopped repeating its magical formula,
and her hand turned cold in mine.
I unravel the thread of sound a little bit more
and with the same sacred material
my children and grandchildren do the same.