Poems of February These poems of February tell of bygone days, risks, and absolute thresholds. Like a mother, as a friend, they speak in liquid verbs to the winding ocean. Three-sided affairs make these poems of February: careful as the prime lender; uncertain as jailbreak; rise, like the Challenger, with invisible connections trailing axioms of doubt from its spool of flame. In Bygone Days when stick ball was a summer's game of reckless dives on sewer lids amidst third base traffic's blaring horns safe was relative three strikes an embarrassed walk home I was there in bygone days... swinging the old broomstick at the spaulding dodging the ford and buick sweating with the boys we were the eagles our stadium was six stories tall bounded by tenements making home runs long arching narrow affairs climb like rockets into the next block in bygone days... no summer was complete unless I wore the black and silver patch on my t-shirt proudly bearing the wrinkled letters E-A-G-L-E-S on the back my team-mates were as close to sweat as we cheered in our dugout between on or under cars in the gutter the clubhouse was the alley sandwiched between 740 and 750 cauldwell avenue bronx new york in bygone days... I was a carefree rookie then unaware and innocent that more dangerous games would be played in stadiums as large as the world where home runs are few and far between and three strikes mean there's no going home like I could in bygone days... Risks Around us gapes quick- sand's hungry mouth- bearing row on row of teeth in a mine-field we can only hope to harvest peacefully- if the risks turn ripe. Profound dust shakes bricks- lands thunder south- tearing gold to goals of death. End of time will be man, (lonely dope of darkness) finally- if the risks turn ripe. Threshold Absolute Without request is given Love that alm for the poor more demanded than tithes our rich Lord does without Love is an absolute threshold less than ten-tenths will not do deny the smallest part and all riches become worthless Without WHOLE Love the parts remaining are nothing Mother As A Friend Mother you grow younger in my aging eyes each year for your words as short as yesterday are long tethers of the truth that binds us more like siblings/friends than a mother and her youth Water Poem: Liquid Verbs/Ocean Of Verbs Your love flows through me a gentle ocean. Its wave fills my emptiness with warm, peaceful liquid verbs- seeps into my life like water- its action wets the dryness of hard landscapes. Moistens. Your love eats away pain, a medicinal acid, burns through fire with molecular teeth, coagulates the blood-spill with hormonal wisdom- heals wounds of disfigured panoramas. Repairs. Where once flowed the empty dryness, (the hard, congealed sore-pained by burning acid) now flows your liquid ocean of verbs- sending gentle tidal waves to heal the most critical of my wounds- filling my emptiness with its medicinal activity. Flowing. Water Poem: Three-Sided Affair Water, a three-sided affair bonded by weak interactions of three separate atoms, keeps a triple rendezvous-with no concern of discovery. It rules, impartially, over three states like a universal trinity: flows; glides; slides in a schizophrenic menage-a-trois of liquid, gas, solid. This triangular orgy of water, steam, ice, can only be controlled by temperature's triadic desire, fire and ire- keeping the affair honest, lively, yet frozen in secret. Water Poem: Prime Lender The riverbank is the prime lender a liquid investment with no interest but to save the rich green stock from crashing or floating worthlessly into the sea's fickle market... Jailbreak! At the end of a most prosperous journey,/ through the cell-block/ past trustees/restless prisoners/ sun-glassed guards armed on the tower/ through the hot, dusty, narrow recreation yard/ barbed wire fence/concrete wall/ across the small road/along the periphery of the sleeping village/ through miles of dry grass/dense woods/ beyond lakes and streams outside the towering city/ past night-watchmen and prowling police/ through the block/ past drug dealers/wooing prostitutes/ gun-packing youth sprawled on fences/ through dark, musty, claustrophobic alleys/ barbed wire fences/concrete walls/ across the one-way street/the abandoned thoroughfare of buildings/ through yards of weeds/dense garbage/ beyond sewers and gutters/ past night-watchmen and prowling police/ through the block/ up the stairs/through the door of the apartment/ in her arms/on her bed/ deep in sleep/ he runs in circles, dreaming of the journey's end- in the prison of his choosing. Challenger Rising We all saw your orange flame as you rose to meet the sky and plunged, lost in the eternity, between God and ourselves. We are made more cognizant that the gulf, beyond our world, swallows more than frail machines in mystery. It also swallows heroic women whose sacrifice has made us curiously certain of our mortality. There will be more rising flames that fail to meet the sky- more heroic humans swallowed in heaven's throat before we prevail. For beyond, the diamond stars, glitters the prize that our frail bonds on Earth can no longer hold-as we- Challenger, rise! Our Hands Our hands are: delicate instruments; tactile machines constructed for caress; designed for punching power and gentle levitation; made for pushing evolution beyond its sluggard pace. Our hands: crushes the mighty ape to surrender; thumbs the eye of the eagle to blindness; slaps the wild horse's rump to obedience; fingers piano keys into submission like virginal brides. Our hands are: cradles for baby's bottom; tools that build architectural wonders; extensions of the artist's brush; wielders of the conductor's baton. Our hands hold: the weapons of war; the healing splints of shattered peace; the candles that shine through darkness; the promises of tomorrow. Yet these most versatile hands are strongly attached to us most frail men- evolution's dangerous oversight. thumbs the eye of the eagle to blindness; slaps the wild horse's rump to obedience; fingers piano keys into submission like virginal brides. Our hands are: cradles for baby's bottom; tools that build architectural wonders; extensions of the artist's brush; wielders of the conductor's baton. Our hands hold: the weapons of war; the healing splints of shattered peace; the candles that shine through darkness; the promises of tomorrow. Yet these most versatile hands are strongly attached to us most frail men- evolution's dangerous oversight. The Axioms Of Invisible Connections Stupidity is realized when wisdom is disguised as opinion. The certainty of truth is doubted by uncertain youth. If the homeless remain without a bed, restless nights are sure to spread. Abortion is a question only God can answer. Makers of war are breakers of peace- those trained in its school are fools. If freedom is the narcotic then democracy is the addiction. Religion may be universal, but faith is personal. Belief is measured by the quantum mechanics of reality. Diamonds last forever, but love is eternal. If marriage is the fusion of two lovers then divorce is the fission of failure. Evolution is the touch of Nature's hand- the Creator wears the rings. The deaf cannot hear the shouting of imagination but with imagination the blind may see. If food is life's sustenance then the hungry have tasted death. Ancient magic is modern science. Empty truth is a full measure of lies. The universe is a blanket of stars warming spaces between galaxies. Racism is the active denial of one's own humanity- prejudice is the passive acceptance of one's own stupidity. The genes of intelligence are expressed by a newborn's questions. Humans are social animals unlearned in living together. Music is the poetry of sound-words the poetry of speech. If all that is known is visibly connected then all unknowns hold invisible connections.
Carlyle Miller 1986-1991POEMS OF JANUARY (1987) January After last month's glittering holiday this first month intrudes- a dull stranger that must be tolerated and accepted like the cold frozen fingers of trees pointing for days at skies spitting sleet in this last season of insult the final inconvience before January is everywhere a memory beginning another time Storm On The Highways this season spits snow/ showers crystals of shining symbols on slippery streets/ slows highways to snake under speed limits/ spreads danger like poison/ fangs of ice crunched under teeth/ chained wheels/ fast clattering metal feet/ stomping speedily over sheets this careful season hides/ selectively waiting to slide the challengers/ spread supine by white defeat Saviour Quench me completely submerge my surreal eye totally drench the blindness unless I'll die Wash me completely cleanse my nightmared brain totally soak the meninges unless I'll wane Feed me completely satiate my hungry soul totally fill the vacuum unless I'll fold Change me completely alter my empty fate totally love the danger unless I'll hate Affair A fare was paid- tinkled in a box on crosstown bus. No receipt would show evidence- no deduction the IRS would challenge. It was all done in secret. Even a fair night would disguise his cheating this second time. To him she was a fair of glittering wares: diamonds; Giorgio perfume; silk peignoirs; expensive cosmetics painted on a sensuous body- driving him to ride on public transportation instead of the BMW. Miles, not travelled, need no alibi. This time he would not be caught between explanations and lies. He would return at the proper hour, shower, kiss the wife on the lips- complain about the long meetings- slip in office gossip of affairs going on. Exhaustion would be his excuse for guiltless sleep. Yesterday Or Tomorrow Yesterday it snowed the biggest news of New York City Satellites and computers knew for days the accumulation but once you've been to the moon nothing's news Tomorrow the stars will fade behind us and the great metropolis will be crumbled dust Satellites and computers will know for days exactly which building fell when or where but once you've been to the stars what's new Yesterday or Tomorrow? An Excellent Poem An excellent poem written without contrivances or worry about who will say what in attempts to interpret what is already perfect in the head like uncluttered pieces of music Mozart wrote an excellent poem stands its ground on its own stable terms through the centuries not criticized by critics and loved by others who would naturally do otherwise Improvisation I'll show you all my mistakes no cross-outs or hidden lines just the bare facts of unaltered language will I show to you and my meaning will be the same show of what I am poet or charlatan creator or impostor no word will change who I am or how you see me look what's showing through this old soul gold or rusted metal stability or change god or magician neither is what I am the trick is the poet on the poet trying to change language to art divining lines only a god can interpret and feelings only a man can know because the errors are bare facts crossed out over and over again for improvisation Dream-Spell I dream for my daughter to speed the first ionic ship beyond Jupiter's gigantic orbit I dream for my self her flight driving the engines in spaces unknown and never to be understood by me I dream of infinite galaxies twirling around the prize I could not win but by genetic extension are realized through the glide my little precious one rides diving towards unknowns never never to be seen by me yet experienced like the dream-spell of January Month Of Discovery I. Discovered, this January, the desire to create: music; art; philosophy; religion in theoretical physics subatomic particles dancing the will of God. Discovered, this January, real meaningful things of life: beauty in snowfalls; birds in flight; rhythms, colors, prayers; thoughts created in my mind. Discovered, this January, that I'm living for the first time. II. Without hesitation I'll take winds, snow-drifts, sub-zero freezes and all! These sufferings blow me to life- they make me feel the first stumbling human on the arctic circle. The sun is low in the sky. Without pause I jump to touch its radiance which can barely melt a flake. Yet I struggle to be number one- suffering under the cold moon that in January is June far above the equator's other side of suffering heat. III. June is the heated mistress January the freezing master Together both passions are Averages of gospel and science Like Luke and warm Season Of Siege the season of siege is running out an hour glass spilling soldiers by the second on battlefields till the siege is over and cities are free at last to bury dead survivors in the sandPOEMS OF FEBRUARY (1986)
