January 16, 2007



(for regina writing her exit)


but for the death of each word

it's this white pall of the page i must bear



white pillow of the page

that leads me to [poetry?]

luxurious open space

for my eyes to rest




quiet enough to listen

to see what's listened to beyond

nothing to do with thinking




a private language written in a secret handwriting




this strained white tension of silence

for my words to blurt




but how can i not help erase myself

in the ridiculousness of

ink the embalming fluid of

words the sarcophagi of

thought the death of






what if by greeting each other

we speak poetry

what if our language upon arrival

breaks down into profound syllables of seeing

i mean seeing each other as an ecstatic first moment

and when we part

as if we'll never see each other again




inhuman and obscene

breaking the dreaminess of your morning thoughts

reading a newspaper




as seldom as i see you

your death with me is ok

i know you are always where you're supposed to be

our conversation continues

the look you give me continually guides/chides




stretched out on the beach

i am the horizon

stretched out on my bed of sand

cry of gulls rolling slamming surf

as the horizon i will also be forever



óCraig Czury


from IN MY SILENCE TO JUSTIFY, FootHills Publishing, 2003



Posted by dwaber at 01:34 PM

January 15, 2007





there is something inexorable under the surface

a word iíve never used






poetry the last language before death




of the two schools

writing what i donít know interests me most




somewhere between looking and seeing

it only appears iím not paying attention


the punishment is severe




do you still think memory

has anything to do with thinking




what else in this transparent beauty


at which moment




the distance between reading and visualizing





you already know not to open your eyes




all this talk of memory

we were both there

yet your telling and my telling




that quizzical look

takes me under language




that lost look never more found




between what i remember

and what iíve imagined




all the way from death to show me




at the brink recognizable




i donít believe in a poetry written from a singular mind


neither do I




the odds favor sea salt

blood breaking in on the blood





óCraig Czury


from IN MY SILENCE TO JUSTIFY, FootHills Publishing, 2003



Posted by dwaber at 01:30 PM

January 14, 2007


by accident
we stumbled upon the last breath
and knelt down
our one good ear tight against its lips
and rotted teeth

we could not tell
if it was night or the eclipsing sun

but from somewhere deep within its wound
we heard drums
and a circle of clapping bones closing in

again the woolly mammoth being roused
from its black slumbering dust

crude figures of men with sticks
and mud-sling barrows
illumined the cankerous mouth

óCraig Czury
from GODíS SHINY GLASS EYE, FootHills Publishing. 2005,

Posted by dwaber at 02:29 PM