The Poem from the Poem: Ars Poetica II
Mountains into further mountains, where you will turn your attention soon.
In the antique words or the words for antiques.
And mountains instead of real mountains.
Stay with me here.
Into the careful edge.
And the sleeping roses.
Words into the crossing of the mountains.
Into pictures in the distance.
To lose your sobriety.
Our broken and useless bodies.
Mountains as the name for that place.
The River of Poems, or True Black.
Into an alphabet of closures.
Who could help but love the mountains.
Mountains into working these mountains.
Mountains into an affair with the wife of a former aide, into get this party started, these words
from the words when you get home into pockets of these words.
When you get to the other side, into your head like a stream on those mountains.
Three more animals.
Infinity more animals.
And what I had to say, into every page, the alphabet of mirrors.
On that bridge surrounded by pigeons.
The yellow angel fish hiding behind the yellow rock.
The speaking bridge against the words.
Was it called the name or singing the name?
And the mountains into a conversation where I’m still waiting.
Who decided on a series of questions over the speaking words, these mountains into some kind
of future where I think I’ve lost my way.
Poems we’ve named These Little People.
Poems to help you sleep.
—John Gallaher
Only Lovers & Believers, Please: Ars Poetica I
Clearing by this afternoon, and I know you just want
to have a good time. OK, I’ll try
to work with that. Out here in the field, then, with this frontier
we carry around, there’s no difficulty.
It can all be explained:
We’re here in the scrub with our broken hearts
and the insects, and we’re looking for Elvis. Saying
Here’s Elvis, or whatever . . .
Please notify us if you’ve seen him.
And we’re not at all close to completing this thought,
you know, with the bugs and other old tricks.
Rain, even. That we hope for. In the dogwoods.
With only lovers and believers, please.
Understand, we’re not under great stress.
And this is only the beginning; the movement could grow.
It’s all about capturing the subject’s personality and
energy. Over by the dogwoods, as
the sun came out, that might’ve been Elvis
there. But differently. As we’re all
different. Always.
Going around in the great surround.
—John Gallaher