|
|

Morning Song
I think it is her step that brushes the dew from the grass,
a step like some sort of goddess, maybe Diana opening
flowers, opening the morning sky, her presence reviving
the glow that slept all night in the lake like the moonlight's mast.
Love is what entangles the heart, breaks the soul like glass,
follows her step like some hunter-- it's not her he's stalking
but whoever sees her, whoever opens his eyes to this morning,
to this light that falls like rain turning other desires to ash.
It's her walking that shows us where to go, her words
that tell us what to say, her wayward glance that tells us
what to watch, her gestures that tell us where to touch.
It's these four things that make a myth of every dusk--
I think I have become some sort of modern Tantalus,
I think I have become lost in the sun like a nightbird.
Love's Contraries
Peace-- I can't find it, but I'm not about to wage any war--
I fear the air that fills my words with hope, I burn in their ice,
I rise like smoke and grasp at a sky wrinkled with stars,
but the cosmos is a collapsed lung -- there's nothing left to embrace.
Love is the senile jailer who neither opens nor locks the door,
who can't think of a way to torture me, or a way to cut the noose,
doesn't send assassins or come himself, but doesn't cut the bars,--
maybe he wants me displayed at market like a wild-eyed fish on ice.
I see with a stone for an eye and shout with a voice full of chaff,
I want to leap from a roof, yet Love coaxes me from his cliffs--
I hate what I've become, but love you dearly, like nobody else.
I live on pain instead of bread, and use my tears to laugh,
I despise, with equal opportunity, both death and life--
all because of you my dear, I enter this heaven, this hell.
The Hunt
Those sweet hills where I left the self that I will be and always was,
that self I left encased in a waterfall which hangs like a frozen sleeve,
those hills whose memory hunts me as I hunt it, where I grieve
and delight in this burden that has become my life's cause--
those hills, that maze, where I find myself in eternity's pause,
where every path I cross is the same path, where to love is to believe
that the beautiful yoke of these hills and self can never be relieved,
those sweet hills-- no matter how far I go the closer to them I draw.
I'm like one of those gutted deer hunted in myth or in reality,
it's all the same now, that the hunter drags from the forest in a cart,
that froze momentarily on a ridge, heard the hunter's aim, unable to flee,
and crashed wildly then through the underbrush of the heart,
arrow hanging from its side, but almost thankful for the pure bounty
it offers, tired with its pain, tired of living so long and so far apart.
The Pause
Let's stop time, Love, to see what those clouds yearn
to be, to listen to that butterfly stir the air around us,
to hear, at dusk, the stars begin like crickets, tremulous,
or feel their light begin to ripple in the lowest ferns;
let's see how skillfully the night covers this field of moons,
the way your own own look has passed the sentries of my heart,--
let's add some message twig to this nest we'd set so far apart
we only spoke with words that waited all winter in their cocoons.
Not long ago my sky was full of razors, the wind
had pried the roots of hope-- now every mountain dreams
to hold your step, every tree has begged to give you shade,--
the whole sky wakes like struck flint, a hawk reinvents the wind,
the huge valleys of the flower open their unimaginable scenes,
every clock drowns in your eyes for this world that will not fade.
§ § §
RICHARD JACKSON is the author of five books of poems, most recently Heartwall (UMass, Juniper Prize '00), Alive All Day (Cleveland State Prize, '92), a Selected Poems in Slovene, and the forthcoming Unauthorized Autobiography: New and Selected Poems (Ashland University Poetry Press, 2003).
He has also published four chapbooks adaptations from Petrarch and other Italian poets (Black Dirt Press) and a limited edition of Petrarchan poems (Aureole Press,Univ. of Toledo). His own poems have been translated into a dozen languages. He has edited two anthologies of Slovene poetry: The Fire Under the Moon (Black Dirt, '99) and Four Slovenian Poets (Aleph, '93) and edits an eastern European Chapbook series and two journals, Poetry Miscellany and mala revija. He is also the author of a book of criticism, Dismantling Time in Contemporary American Poetry (winner of the Agee Prize), and Acts of Mind: Interviews With Contemporary American Poets (winner of Choice Award).
He has been a member of the Sarajevo Committee organized by P.E.N. Int'l and has worked with various groups concerning the Balkan wars and fund raising for refugees. In 2000 he was awarded the Order of Freedom Medal for literary and humanitarian work in the Balkans by the President of Slovenia. He has received Guggenheim NEA, NEH, and 2 Witter-Bynner Fellowships, a Prairie Schooner reader's Choice Award, and the Crazyhorse prize, and is the winner of four Pushcart Prizes and appeared in Best American Poems 1997 and several other anthologies, and his poems have appeared on the internet in Poetry Daily and Verse Daily. He has been a Fulbright Exchange poet to former Yugoslavia and returns each year with groups of students. He teaches at UT-Chattanooga where he directs the Meacham Writers' Conference and at Vermont College's MFA program, winning teaching awards at both schools.
HOME
Send the URL for this work to a friend!
GO TO NEXT PAGE
|