Monday, January 01, 2007
from a favorite poet friend at Texfiles, Kate Greenstreet * :
Leaving the Old Neighborhood
In the dream I slept all night and you were a saint,
your shirt stained yellow near the heart, spontaneously, blue
under the arms.
It turns out to be music, our prayers--
we went out to tell our mother in her bulb-lit grotto.
a little, but she still looks great,
her arms outstretches and her veil,
refuge of sinners, cause
of our joy.
Wisdom had built herself a house in the dream, I was twins,
I was looking for something.
How can the poet be called unlucky
who rides on the back of the colt?
Galka (little bird)
Sometimes you sleep well,
sometimes not at all
dabchick, the little grebe,
the pie-billed grebe
Grief. More filings.
A hill in snow, a valuable
ring. People gathered
we were trying to join.
I should have been a lonely
scientist, she told me then.
People expect more from an artist.
What's missing in books of poetry?
A regular greeting,
a couple of maps,
a good-looking equation.
* Kate Greenstreet, Learning the Language (San Francisco: Etherdome, 2005)