“Santrofi Anoma may be translated as ‘the dilemma bird of Akan mythology.’ Endowed with mysterious treasures of the mind and voice, Santrofi is both a blessing and a curse. Santrofi is a blessing for the clarity of its vision and for the transforming beauty and power of its gift of song. But Santrofi is also a curse for its irritating and irrepressible urge to expose the unsavory side of society…Society is blind without Santrofi’s visionary guidance, but it stands forever condemned by Santrofi’s persistent accusations of improper conduct.” Kofi Anyidoho
Filed under: Poetry
The Bell Maker
Fill the form with sand and bury the shape in it—
Cover the copper sea with hiss and douse the flames’ fall—
Who rings this stinging bass—
Who makes this evening-song’s rice,
Cold with a drop of oil—
It’s the bell maker,
It’s the bell maker,
It’s the bell maker.
He who pulls the bird through a loop of wire—
Can hold his tongue the longest—
And he who shapes the wedded wheel—
Can Rope the bull the strongest—
But he who calms the sleeping hair—
And he whose hands the widows sail,
It’s the bell maker,
It’s the bell maker.
It’s the bell maker.
When the town is sleeping—
When the straw toads reap their dream of dreaming—
The nocturne shadow crawls the alley dusking—
Begging tallow to burn the bell’s dark husk.
And the first strike’s struck—
And the second’s a serpent’s call—
The third’s a devil darkening the quick wet sky.
It’s the bell maker.
It’s the bell maker.
It’s the bell maker.
Filed under: Poetry
The Ballad of the Widows of Vrindavan
If you ask my name, I say ghost
And wander the temples
And ashrams of Vrindavan
Bent like a cane left under a tree.
Lord Krishna, I beg you:
return the pyres of my mother.
She did not endure these aimless days,
enshrouded like a silent clock.
I eat my cup of rice cold,
I spy on the insects in the street,
For who could ever look upon
the bad fortune that life replaced with death?
I dream of my last sight,
I dream of a circle unlocked,
I dream of the bracelets of my daughters,
jangling as they make afternoon chai.
Filed under: Poetry
Couplet
The way he curls about his drink
like a hibernating animal protecting its prey, a mink
perhaps. Their wet brown eyes
identical, drawing comfort that soon, everything dies.
So why not enjoy the breakable flesh in glory?
The minutes beating–why the worry?
Cinquain I
You’d never
take the thermos
back, though it was a gift.
I have poisoned such pleasures now.
It sits.
Cinquain II
I threw
the dirt atop
his coffin. Handed the
shovel to the rabbi.
Cinquain III
Down the
mountain crisp with
frost. Held onto a dying
tree for balance. Your hand was dry.
Love ends.
Cento
from: Ted Kooser, Louise Gluck, Stanley Koonitz, May Swenson, Robert Pinsky, Robert Lowell, Robert Hass, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Richard Wilbur
When was I silenced, when did it first seem
pointless to describe that sound
She is saying it’s time that the swinging were done with,
if I stepped out of my body I would break.
This is the force of faith. Nobody gets
what they want.
My hand draws back.
Into blossom.
This is the aftermath
a hero, dying,
Gives off stillness to the air.
Enlightenment, shade of grief.
It is always a matter, my darling–
I cannot say what loves have come and gone.
Canzone
I prefer to
forget the remembered things.
There were no dewdrops
lashing my back
as you shook the drenched ketsora.
They did
not spatter across me, curled
around the curb.
The moon hated you.
And I did too.
Calligram
in the
lit o
rose-
cursed
waters we
rowed the boat
as far as the edge of
night. she used the north
star and marlin-wake to steer.
we left the drowned to the mermaid
kiss and the seaweed to the collectors’ tin.
dawn broke as an egg over the unstoppable hull. faster.
Blues Poem
Whoever has the key to the white oared boat by the dock
Should give the key to me.
Whoever knows how to rudder the white oared boat by the dock,
Should come along with me,
Down to the strange beach and the strange blue bobbing hats,
And we’ll see what we can see.
The phosphorescence is out tonight,
Trailing yellow strands of light in the murky water
And the floating tangles are out tonight
They will catch my hair in the inked water
I can still see my whiteness, fleeting
As bait set for the fish to scatter.
No one has plans to sleep
That would be a sin.
To stop, to slumber, to kiss sleep
Would certainly be a sin.
It is best to hold the faintly buzzing time,
Begging for another gin.
Blank Verse
A midnight stroll onto the jargish pier,
under the haze-blocked night, not
cooler for a huffy breeze.
I’d wished for a palm to stroke
or a thigh to stick to mine own.
And lick the cool stars brighter.
I wish I had you
begin my memory of love.
We could have swum frozen
in the winter sea.
I tried that once, alone
though diving through
the flecked brown ice, past
the balooning plastic
bags was empty grace.
Unnecessary heart—
I beat you to see
if you still tick.
