Honored to be featured in this issue of Streetlight Magazine.
Does Leonard Cohen know?
We call upon him to scratchily explain
How exactly he learned of our singular pain.
Lenny, please. Again?
Aren’t you already out of amens?
To think we can save our sons from the wound when
it is both self-inflicted and a thing that we teach them.
Some blog comments and a email of mine on UVA’s recent “Guru on Grounds” event with Sharath Jois, ended up on a prominent Yoga blog. Anthony Hall, aka Grimmly does an excellent job following and musing on the history and practice of Ashtanga yoga (and related practices) with a emphasis on its relation to the original teachings of Krishnamacharya. He also has an amazing library of video demos, asana lists, and a wonderful eBook guide to the Vinyasa Krama sequence as taught by Srivatsa Ramaswami (and that’s just scratching the surface).
We start in the belly of night
For the first time today
I pinpoint my breath
It’s there at the end on my nose
There in the waiting
“We can never be with loss too long.”
– Spencer Reese, At Thomas Merton’s Grave
The planks and bricks rickety, low, so
Cal Cooley built that bridge for the local boys.
Part and parcel public works for his
brave little state of Vermont.
“1924″ chiseled in Gothic on that
white granite found deep under Bethel.
The floodwater of ’27 just a stain. How to measure the
other years? By cracks and the dignity of graffiti?
Even my days sag and run together, to know those before
like removing the spring’s daily trickle from Silver Lake.
When my forewaters spill in ’80, you’re old if you recall prior.
On some lost who-knows-when, Locust is dammed-up deep there
with mossy telephone poles,
the best swimming hole beneath. It’s a 20-foot drop and clear to the
I’m 13 and dizzy on the rail. Some years you touch.
You learn to make your body sharp, muck the better of red welts and blue wails.
More cracks, which are just more cracks, but the graffiti more street.
When I climb up at 26, I shiver in advance and almost fall instead of
Strange that loss functions as ballast.
Duly sessile then, till I found my bride.
Then filled and fleet and the splash is back.
She wondered if my Nanne and Gov would be safe as
Irene blundered up the coast.
Hurricanes don’t hit Vermont!
Except in ’38, I see. Which is the same as never.
A photo kept in my wallet, count back from ten: that pool, that bend in Locust
before the road up to the old farm,
before the summer unwinds.
A “timeless” view, but of course, exactly time.
And now you really can’t get there from here,
not by bridge. And I won’t even recognize the vista. Just
this is the way it was when the water came rushing in.
Soon we are not with loss but of it.
“Oh moon, don’t cry for me,”
we would grandstand and clown for
Mr. MacDonald who didn’t like Wordsworth,
Dying in snow and seven siblings, all that shit
The light brigade: sabered morons.
No deep lovely thoughts afterward,
because you are dead.
Life was the only thing worth living for.
He stood up with Blake for the chimney sweeps.
We read Catch-22.
And all about the flak,
His romance was in living and
We laughed about the lonely moons,
overly eager with simpering sympathy,
laughed about the tides of silvery seas
consumptive children and mossy graves,
chuckled over “the soul”.
Humanism is for high school and we loved him.
Twice 16 now, I am taking out the trash,
enmeshed in fleshy, itchy life.
The moon takes me aback in its
huge bright reality.
I would be no more startled to see my skull
bleached and burgeoned, grinning down.
Consider the moon,
the way of it is solitary and mournful.
The of what and how far aren’t real at all.
If the moon isn’t achingly, brightly alone,
if it doesn’t float just to stir me…
If you saw that moon, you’d see.
I want to cradle it,
to tell it that I’m OK.
And just to be lit up awhile.
I think it would be grand,
to write a poem about the moon,
and have someone think about it,
when they looked at the moon.
You know, one of those things you think of
out of nowhere.
The fan blades spin large in your pupils,
imperturbable peepers as a pilot’s.
I am reflected in the corner of your eye,
feeding you, and we are just mesmerized, aren’t we?
Your thousand-yard stare to my closest attention.
As you gulp the last drops of formula,
I look down a glass telescope into your gullet.
Past the curled tongue and pink gums,
I can see you expand across your body
from a radiant of light therein.
Your vessel, something so small and still
that your warmth nearly burning through the blanket
makes me fear fever.
But this quickening in, the more startling.
All the matter of your making is here, but after
you’ve grown and cooled, who are you?
This stuff you are made of,
across what depths and orbits is it spun?
The big bang spread all things from one point,
and all there is now, forever, amen, was somehow inside.
I stare and wonder not at the vastness of space,
but at how little I can see through my lens.
The laws of your universe, they are my favorite guessing game.
I lift the bottle, and dregs of milk dot your face in constellation.