ISSUE: Autumn 1989
as if marbles had mouths instead of fitting into them
as if they rolled out sounds
as if I spoke from a stone’s heart
stone orator
stone orderer
as if crossing the causeway I felt the old cobblestones tell
what they had known
of measure, although the cobblestones were not there,
the roadway cement and tar, the legions not there
who had made Europe one bell rung to their tread
as if my mouth lay, one with the roadbed, a cobbled rock
throbbing to their heels
myself earth’s rock heart under the road
a buried sweep of rock, a plate of rock
so many miles its curve held measure, not sight,
a huge, dull, rock globe burning to their heels
as if a fault line split me and I rang
yes, I have wasted my life
buried that one talent underground, cracked, dead
so it rings dull now, harsh now, won’t test true
eaten with earth and water
ordure, not order
spilt
with caring for what gave no care back
as if sea-bed and crag cracked through and I stuttered, yes
fifty ill-fitted years and fitfully worked
I’ve lost the best of it, not found what matched me,
loved, loins and loyalty, and not been loved
and my children’s sweetness meets different needs, not that.
see the ghost legion break its march on the ghost road
cement and tar over a memory net of cobbles
cloven in the bleak, shifting plates that groan
with their ghost step
this stretched globe, my mouth
although they walk through meaningless pain to their deaths,
have died, holocausts with them,
they’re breaking the march with a dice game;
odds are, that fire, joy
hope of embrace encircling me in love not hate
has just rolled down on the ghost stones in ghost dice
and the luck’s gone with their lilt, roll,
lift of the language
as if the rock plates pulsed and swelled
and the earth through that cracked hellmouth
shot streamers of fire and stone,
shot ribbons, shot looping spirals, fired the Crab
Nebula, Andromeda, Ursa Major,
as if out of that mouth
a wild galaxy of fire and rock whooped
riotously through me as I lay heaped
under its domed, ribboned net, its laced spears
and rang, yes,
whatever I have left to make the best of
is not what I should have made, and small time to do it,
(yes, sisters, for sure
I blew it)
as if the rock beneath and the dome above were one bell of fire
and swung the life away
as if I were the clapper, the small, hard tongue of that bell,
and the bell itself, and my fellow legions who lay
cowering, groaning, believing the bell cracked
when all the while it gave out its clear shout
joy and assent from a whole heart, itself and you,
yes, even for you, lover or liar, late into this vigil,
reader or sleeper, wherever you are, my ghost legion,
you, like me, broken and still free and hale
as if we could praise each other forever in this world
as if they rolled out sounds
as if I spoke from a stone’s heart
stone orator
stone orderer
as if crossing the causeway I felt the old cobblestones tell
what they had known
of measure, although the cobblestones were not there,
the roadway cement and tar, the legions not there
who had made Europe one bell rung to their tread
as if my mouth lay, one with the roadbed, a cobbled rock
throbbing to their heels
myself earth’s rock heart under the road
a buried sweep of rock, a plate of rock
so many miles its curve held measure, not sight,
a huge, dull, rock globe burning to their heels
as if a fault line split me and I rang
yes, I have wasted my life
buried that one talent underground, cracked, dead
so it rings dull now, harsh now, won’t test true
eaten with earth and water
ordure, not order
spilt
with caring for what gave no care back
as if sea-bed and crag cracked through and I stuttered, yes
fifty ill-fitted years and fitfully worked
I’ve lost the best of it, not found what matched me,
loved, loins and loyalty, and not been loved
and my children’s sweetness meets different needs, not that.
see the ghost legion break its march on the ghost road
cement and tar over a memory net of cobbles
cloven in the bleak, shifting plates that groan
with their ghost step
this stretched globe, my mouth
although they walk through meaningless pain to their deaths,
have died, holocausts with them,
they’re breaking the march with a dice game;
odds are, that fire, joy
hope of embrace encircling me in love not hate
has just rolled down on the ghost stones in ghost dice
and the luck’s gone with their lilt, roll,
lift of the language
as if the rock plates pulsed and swelled
and the earth through that cracked hellmouth
shot streamers of fire and stone,
shot ribbons, shot looping spirals, fired the Crab
Nebula, Andromeda, Ursa Major,
as if out of that mouth
a wild galaxy of fire and rock whooped
riotously through me as I lay heaped
under its domed, ribboned net, its laced spears
and rang, yes,
whatever I have left to make the best of
is not what I should have made, and small time to do it,
(yes, sisters, for sure
I blew it)
as if the rock beneath and the dome above were one bell of fire
and swung the life away
as if I were the clapper, the small, hard tongue of that bell,
and the bell itself, and my fellow legions who lay
cowering, groaning, believing the bell cracked
when all the while it gave out its clear shout
joy and assent from a whole heart, itself and you,
yes, even for you, lover or liar, late into this vigil,
reader or sleeper, wherever you are, my ghost legion,
you, like me, broken and still free and hale
as if we could praise each other forever in this world
