Robin Eichele: WORK/ 1
boat/buck of the cock
and the hen, or
the poet takes a wife
for John & Leni Sinclair
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.
rivulets spread from the pines
to the sea
around boulders
making the movement of
the moment of
the dance
It
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