Robin Eichele: WORK/ 1

boat/buck of the cock

 

                          and the hen, or

the poet takes a wife

 

the flesh of poem

 

in vision back, as

 

Byblis might, moves to

total energy. how

 

 

dust got

 

in the eye & 

 

how gristle bit

 

to bone 

 

bones of poet

 

as he labors

moon among folds

 

 

moon slipping in

 

& out, with the wind,

 

a luminous eye

 

opening, socketed in

 

the rocks 

 

 

ankles and wrists of the

 

bone forest

smell of pine

needles underfoot

 

 

jaws tearing at their hinges

 

cracking, the tongue, a moon

 

in the ocean: 

 

the curl of the sea

 

receives the tongue, torn

 

from its root, searching

 

 

eye

 

socket 

 

 

sound of buck

 

through light timber

 

running 

 

 

the face a joy-

 

ous solemnity. 

 

the face the poet wears

 

wears off, becomes

 

gnarled with salt, cracks

 

with the ocean.

 

 

words crest, agogees

 

of crystal, ground

 

fine, as sand, as diamond,

 

the ground the sand is

 

that the sea moves over,

 

the ground the words are

 

and how the earth moves,

 

Mortal, in waves. 

 

 

words crest to

 

meet the Imagining 

 

 

rivulets spread from the pines

 

to the sea 

around boulders

making the movement of

the moment of

the dance

    It

 

 

holds, pushes into

 

storm, the eye

 

to the ribs, forced

 

song, lashed to mast

 

to master, darkness;

 

bouy, distance, distortion

 

risking even with the rock

 

grained granite of

 

the hand 

the word races across the rocks and sand

O Lycia! to fall, a fountain, a freshet,

from the salty limbs that loved the brother,

and pursued what the makir hastens after,

the love, loved sibling, brother, now sister,

running as the brother ran, again, fountain,

or, source, that is, cause, of such

sweet water.

the poet chases with the poem,

handful of hair, spoor of game, mortal gesture

at point, of divining rod held (just so) out,

waiting, for the dip, the slight movement in

direction, the fingers just so on each (other)

on, the words, the tendons coaxing the fragile object

in the air, holding, just so, the tool of the

man, of the dream.

 

 

water pushes from beneath

 

the brown needles, eases

 

them, away, down, to clay,

 

pushing, dusty, down from

 

the feet, then clear, from

 

the feet, reaching, away. 

words move from where we stand;

their sense is the sense of

their spring.

the buck stands,

his moist nose to the air.

the poem

 

moves to meet the buck

 

the magic

 

of signal in his

 

high head muscle

 

words move to magic this pur-

 

suit of magic

 

the joining of magical

 

energies

 

the house of the magic

 

of muscle

& bone

the cock and the hen

 

percussion &

 

detonation

 

 

in the magic

 

of love 

love, the magic

focus, the marriage

of the image of one

through   an other

a gesture of form

in the magic of love

the bow of polished antler

taught

 

we tie the magic down

 

in the act

 

our gestures and our words

 

hold us

 

the poet holds

 

          up, with words

words taken

from the woman’s hands

her lips

her eyes

words

to hold

as her hand

the fingers strong

the strength in her eyes

in her hands

in her words

held up

an offering.

 

the stresses of love are not

 

put upon

 

by the defining finger

the buck crashes through the underbrush

 

rain spreads pine needles in fingers

 

of the hand, strong,

 

at the feet

the pen moves

as mortals move

to give a sign

of love.   to show

the hold the hand

of the heart holds

of love.   to hold

the magic close of

the cock and the hen, to

magic the mortal move

to hold, to word, to love.

to love to

hold the flesh of

the poem, of the

gesture, the sweet

water of

love.

love reaches

the mortal

dance of

the image

in marriage

of the foresting

hands.

 

and

 

an old man, on his back porch,

 

looks through the trees 

and sees the poet

kiss his wife.

 

 

— Robin Eichele

 

Detroit

 

12 June 1965

Tags: Ronin Eichele