Thanksgiving Poems – 10 / 10 / 2011
Posted: October 10, 2011 Filed under: Alexander Best, English | Tags: Thanksgiving poems Comments Off on Thanksgiving Poems – 10 / 10 / 2011.
Alexander Best
GIVE THANKS
.
Green growth in a clay pot, citrus peel,
cat’s paw.
Rakes, staves, a busted clock.
Clackety spinning of rusty wheels.
Nuts and bolts in a bashed-up box,
kicked across the floor.
Hair-raising feelings. A bare ass to the world.
Clear. Early.
Cool air, and straight-back chair.
Cat’s ear. Basket, of rough weave, trumpet-shaped.
Heavy tasks. Leaves, a stump, some stuff.
Unknown Men and Women.
Hammered tray and coffee pot of
brass / wood, looks like a
sputnik with minaret.
Cat’s chin, offered upward.
A pyramid of lemons. A big-wide
cracked maple bowl
(flung as the lover fled, spent winter
face-down in puddle-deep yard).
Cat sleeping, after the hunt…
no longer hot and full of craft.
Cotton, wool, gravel,
soil of several consistencies.
Sandy-shale pumice for ‘seasonal’ foot.
Rain, sun and cloud,
of course. Remorse.
Being human.
All cats, contented and cross.
Agéd treetrunks whose bark suffers loss,
cement and copper, dross.
Stones in groups, free-thinking boulders,
grasses tufted tiny and tall.
Porridge-of-bricks.
And, put to no purpose:
wedges, clods, mud.
Fragrance, the Body.
Cats-as-judges. Purring-song.
Pig and cow, fowl,
Sardines grilled, and memory of
flash-fried scallops.
A meal set down before me.
Snoozes. Solitude.
Ripe hollering, and
Crude.
Kind people.
Passionate ones.
Sad or angry anybodies.
Cat’s nose.
INVISIBLE HOME
.
The cast-iron gate at the top of the fire escape swings open, swings shut. The skinny girl who lives across the way skips down the metal stairs in her hideous, clunking platform shoes.
The ugly, charming bulldog scampers around the flat tar-and-pebble roof; sniffs, snorts, and whines. Its master opens the door a sliver; inside’s a muddle lit by two computer screens. The dog walks itself in a cold dark built of specific small noises; scratches at the door then disappears.
The clunking girl returns; dances, graceless and free, up the fire escape; the gate talks on its hinges.
Voices banter, in burnt or polished tones. Footfalls approach, on ice, mud and trash;
boots crunch over starchy snow. Regular strangers, alley trudgers.
These…the night sounds through a gap in my window.
Is my face neutral – or grim ?
My face shows nothing, as I sink and rise into the hours of sleep.
Smiling, I am smiling; borne along these sounds of night,
glad to be here, exactly now.
_____
THE VIVID PICTURE
.
Curls of incense, gusts of cold air, meet in a little room.
Means the world to me, this space; and all objects in it
– broken, brassy – are beautiful.
Here, the eye everywhere falls on
Something that soothes the human animal.
And you, my darling, are come to me – at last –
And you came in your own way, taking me by surprise,
Like the tender return of the wanderer-cat; or the
Kind face of the January sun.
And a crow’s voice tells-it-like-it-is this visionary morning.
You’ve let me touch your body…and it’s a
Reaching-Home after long absence; a
Perfect walk in darkness, the jig of a blind man with his sugar cane.
You and I, we can still speak !
Your field-and-forest feet cover mine richly,
and the whole of us is a vigorous stalk.
You laid your head on my thigh,
Remembered my body’s health to me.
And like a great journey in progress,
Being is strong throughout my limbs.
Lying a-bed after pure-ancient Moment, our
Body arrives at the place of the Soul. And
It’s happened together.
Shall we rest ?
Upon a chunk of earth, Heart takes its ease.
Home is invisible, but
Today I caught a glimpse. And
I’m gonna ’scribe it
Before the vivid picture fades.
CAN’T PUT IT IN WORDS BUT I’LL TRY
.
Can’t put IT in words but I’ll try…
Didn’t mind being had, hung out to dry. There
Is food in mouldbread, good’s come of bad, I’ve no
Beefs / bitter gripes. And besides:
’T’were a suspect load I dragged.
We’re grown now…berry’s bit, dice sown, and how.
Are green and grey; in places, brown.
My chores ( + questionable deeds ) are done.
Was clever as a knife…carved a jigsaw life.
Spat nails in righteousness, squandered hate
(wrong, delicious) down to the
Last hot penny, glad it’s spent.
Cried a great cry, very late in the day,
And dipped a biscuit in water.
And something worthwhile, many-hued-and-fine,
Came clean via palm-packed cakes of
Sand, peppered-pinecones, ashes and fat.
Crush my spirit, there’s more of us yet, and
Whisk the thick-and-thin mix.
Will not keep telling lies. There’s a mouthful.
Crows: be commas, colons, punctual dots.
Underscore me, and lend me your sceptical weight.
Some plans won’t fly.
Dearly beloved / abandoned, we are
Scattered here today…
Can’t put IT in words but
I’ll try.
.
(2002-2003)
Zócalo Poets 