I Know What I Feel

author’s note:

“O world invisible, we view thee:
       O world intangible, we touch thee...”
               --  Francis Thompson, In No Strange Land


SPINNING EYES

Open eyes at birth closed
with the first whack
of life.  But I could still feel
with my red skin
and sensed
another world
right behind
my left elbow.

But every time I turned to see
that world turned away from me.
Don’t tell me “no”--I know
what I feel: this other world
slips like a wild animal
into the brush, and watches
as I work
to discern its markings
among the leaf shadows.

Perhaps this other world
is so hard to see
because this other world
is really not “other”.

Yet this desire of ours
is the best frustration:
I’ve turned, turned, turned

and though
never quite quick enough
to catch that other world
off guard--

all this dizzy motion
has me spinning, thus giving
momentumto my slow, steady
spiral--opening
upwards.

© 2009, Michael R. Patton
earnest audio
new steps

A Word with You

author’s note:

“I praise what is truly alive,
 what longs to be burned to death.”
            --  Goethe


PERMANENTLY EVANESCENT

“Evanescent”--
I thought I knew
what the word meant:
glowing, luminescent,
phosphorescent.

One more good word
for states of being
I deeply appreciate.

But no, according
to my dictionary
“evanescent” is vaporous
and will disappear
in a long wisp
twirling slowly upwards
then suddenly gone
into the darkness.

Lao Tzu tells us
the Ancient Sages
were as evanescent
as icicles.  So I guess
they still are

though they’ve disappeared
like the steam rising
from the burning ice--

the vapor mixing glowingly
with my own
warm breath
then lifting to
the luminescent moon.

But even a moon
so solid in the winter’s night
is evanescent: one moment
a full white shadow--
the next, an empty bottle
with a crescent puddle
at the bottom.

But nothing is ever lost--
not even those phosphorous ghosts
of the upper atmosphere
wandering in the cold
among all the abandoned
balloons.

I don’t know
where my better mind goes
during the dust
of the day.  I only know
I’m constantly breathing
and what I exhale
is never lost--

no matter where
the invisible smoke
of my flame goes...

though no longer lit,
no longer aglow
no longer luminescent--

it remains

permanently evanescent.

© 2009, Michael R. Patton
earnest audio
new steps

Fortunate Reversal

author’s note:

Yes, I did see such a woman.

It was a waking dream.


BACKWARDS FORWARDS


I saw a woman walking backwards
today and something within me
said “yes”.  The best dreams
are immediately known, known
beyond speech.

Interpretation takes second place
when feeling is provoked.

Someone started to laugh at her--
but I understood his fear.

When she neared the corner,
she turned and started to walk forward
and I felt relived--something within me
again said “yes”.

But after only a few steps
she stopped--as if remembering--
and began to walk backwards
again.  Though now she faced
the opposite direction.

I knew my prayers couldn’t help her--
I know that what is fair
doesn’t always appear fair--

Nonetheless...

because I couldn’t follow her footsteps
I kept wondering about her--
which is prayer
disguised as imagination.

I hoped that people
might perceive her danger
and open those glass doors
--every accident
   is collective pain--
I hoped that distant people
would recognize
her noble mission.

But some accidents must happen.

Will she ever reach the end
of all that backward walking--?--
then return
the same way she came--?--
but this time, looking forward,
put all her perspectives in order--?

Yes, of course--sooner or later--
and then she will tell
of that time
when she walked backward

and her story
will always contain
a beginning,
a middle,
and an end.

But of course
only children’s tales
end so neatly.  Yes,
she will finally turn
and return, but over time,
turn again, turn again,
turn again.

Moving so swiftly,
I often feel dizzy;
moving so slowly,
I often feel bored.

© 2009, Michael R. Patton
earnest audio
new steps

Wounds of Growth

author’s note:

In observance of Veteran's Day, I am reposting this poem.

“Only songs make us great, not war.”
                        --  Ernesto Cardenal


WOUNDS

All the armies of the world
have tramped across my chest
in a march begun
by the first Sumerian king.

I lie here on the earth
bleeding from the wounds
of every warrior ever injured,
my oak tree armor rotting

in the sump of our
accumulated rage.

Yet in all this decay
we find fecundity.
And sometimes a golden spire rises
with such ambitious sacrifice

that we feel gifted by the glory.

I lie here on the earth,
tied down by the deep roots,
deep roots that siphon
black water to me, feed me
as corn stalks pierce up
from my chest--the golden spire stalks rising
until they break the cloud cover
to bring down swords of sunbeams.

Yet even under such growth
so many wounds still bleed...

while others remain dormant.  Perhaps healed.
But a new wound always threatens
to open one of the old--
when is a wound
truly healed?

I apply prayers to every wound.
I pray all day long, all night long--
all through my dreams--
as I walk over the world’s shadow.

But of course,
we all pray--constantly--
for the wounds.  Even those
who have yet to confess
the wounds to themselves--
in their sleep, they pray.

Some celebrate the wounds.
Perhaps I would do better
to celebrate.  But some even laugh
at the wounds:
              as if to chortle at a baby
              carved into three pieces.
Their laughter only makes sense
when you consider
the power and the pain of the wounds.

I believe, I hope, I feel, I pray
I’ll eventually decay my way to freedom:
give enough of my harvest body
to the hungry black earth engine--
give enough of my gold fire heart
to the white sword sky--give enough
in lost struggle to humble myself down
until I finally must surrender
this turmoil of sadness
and allow my beaten fists to open,
to release the sun and moon--the sun, the moon
of my birthright, our birthright.

Then the wounds will have truly healed--
or at least, healed enough not to feel threatened--
this healing also a birthright, a birthright realized.

At the end of this defeat, I hope to see
--around the shadow of my world--
a penumbra of understanding
that will finally reveal the need
behind all the wounds bleeding--
              an understanding
              first put into motion
              by the marching soldiers
              of that wounded / blind
              Sumerian king.

© 2008, Michael R. Patton
dream steps
earnest audio