Poetry Post 1.

(Excerpt from the Popol Vuh, translated by Z. Crow)

Are uxe' ojer tzij
waral K'iche' ub'i'.
Waral
xchiqatz'ib'aj wi
xchiqatikib'a' wi ojer tzij,
utikarib'al
uxe'nab'al puch rnojel xb'an pa
tinamit K'iche'
ramaq' K'iche' winaq.

or

This is the root of the ancient word
of this place called the Naked East.
Here
we shall write,
we shall plant the ancient word,
the origin
the beginning of all what has been done in the
Naked East
country of Naked Eastings.

--

the pencils easiest to snap
are those uncoated.
the green, metallic text tears,
the wood splinters brilliantly -
the most satisfying crack
and the book propping the paper
wears the wound.

there is no letter "t" left
on that keyboard.
after a grueling day it bust its joint,
flung free from the system
and left the alphabet short.
remaining letters took the hint
then took off, too.

now i have nothing
to write with or on.
almond eyes cranked slowly shut -
allergies acting up.
a big blue pen slaps sloppy drip
on torn bedsheets
a sorry medium.

chunky-cheeked toddlers -
relatives of mine -
ask what joy comes from ruin:
"why did the pencil crack?"
"why did the letters run?"
with a sore and a void
bloody fists are never fun

--

I recited these words
one by one
only moments ago now-
It must have been you speaking through
the moon I was staring at

and when I hit that car
or when it hit me
and sped off like I wasn't even there
I was shocked to be standing
still on my bike
like an immovable force
and I thought
Damn-

and I was glad to know
that what I'd been sensing all evening
was more than a simple inkling,
indeed a real life prediction
that I faced without hesitation
and did not waver
when it really counted.

But he came back after all
with a flat
and no side mirror,
just about speechless

--

sons of new france

found in the appalachians,
white water moored to the bend
of two birch vessels tethered by the stony autumn
the photographs are unmistakable,
the kinsman drifting in the northern air
like waifs and leaves; my heart unyielding

and I stare from the foot of the dry hills
as the tribal motorists band
the green right lanes, too many hinged on token
animal skins and shine bottles ringing on the air,
there a soft belief that greater truths
lie elsewhere in feather beds, the nimbus,
beheld in infant wonder crowning the
idols of the church adorning them

somehow the smoke rings through the piping asters
and I linger with their image in the book,
uncertain where the motors run these young men through
who waltz through the placid evenings aging
with their liberation songs
and cloud at statues in the deafening parks
where hurried placards glow with the elusive strength
that boils as they, frustrated, daily coalesce
and I strain to point my neck
watching them grapple for the unretrieved
as if to wrest, to throne and worship
the tides slipping back to the sea
and I sense that grief;
not certain where the keyhole was
they grappled for the answer in the dark,
the riddle hiding on the daylit streets and pediments
they lament, without their noble, celebrated oneness;
the broad streams sing in the gentle light of the spring,
day closes over the forgotten fields.