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Fatih's Tree

A dream tree, Fatih's tree:
a thicket of sticks,
each speckled twig


ending in a thin-paned
leaf unlike any
other on it


or in a ghost flower
flat as paper and
of a color


vaporish as frost-breath,
more finical than
any silk fan


the Chinese ladies use
to stir robin's egg
air. The silver -


haired seed of the milkweed
comes to roost there, frail
as the halo


rayed round a candle flame,
a will-o'-the-wisp
nimbus, or puff


of cloud-stuff, tipping her
queer candelabrum.
Palely lit by


snuff-ruffed dandelions,
white daisy wheels and
a tiger faced


pansy, it glows. O it's
no family tree,
Fatih's tree, nor


a tree of heaven, though
it marry quartz-flake,
feather and rose.


It sprang from her pillow
whole as a cobweb
ribbed like a hand,


a dream tree. Fatih's tree
wears a valentine
arc of tear-pearled


bleeding hearts on its sleeve
and, crowning it, one
blue larkspur star.




Tonight I Can Write

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.


Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'


The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.


Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.


Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.


She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.


Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.


To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.


What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.


This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.


My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.


The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.


I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.


Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.


I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.


Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.


Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.




The Makers

Who can remember back to the first poets,
The greatest ones, greater even than Orpheus?
No one has remembered that far back
Or now considers, among the artifacts,
And bones and cantilevered inference
The past is made of, those first and greatest poets,
So lofty and disdainful of renown
They left us not a name to know them by.


They were the ones that in whatever tongue
Worded the world, that were the first to say
Star, water, stone, that said the visible
And made it bring invisibles to view
In wind and time and change, and in the mind
Itself that minded the hitherto idiot world
And spoke the speechless world and sang the towers
Of the city into the astonished sky.


They were the first great listeners, attuned
To interval, relationship, and scale,
The first to say above, beneath, beyond,
Conjurors with love, death, sleep, with bread and wine,
Who having uttered vanished from the world
Leaving no memory but the marvelous
Magical elements, the breathing shapes
And stops of breath we build our Babels of.