From: DIVINE MADNESS
The idea is to throw out a net of words
to catch the poem
a net such as Vulcan makes
at the ocean's depths
in a fiery cave
a net of fire in water
forged by one
cast out
cuckold of Venus
lame joke of the gods
whose hairy blacksmith hands
can make a net such as Neptune wields
to hold the waves
a net of words
arching back on itself
to contain the exploded universe
a net of light cast into a galactic sea
of dancing stars
a choreography of answers
in a dark chamber
where the soul
is revealed
as a net of questions
in a net of breath
—Paul Pines
HOMENAJE AL NERUDA
The interior
is an Arucanian tree
roots pushing into earth
in search of that
sorrow
which is also
the source of desire.
There are no politics
apart from this.
What blossoms from it
turns us into lovers
with the hearts
of tigers
(even in old clothes
even with gray hair
even in the uncertainty
that moves us forward
into uncertainty)
there is only this left
after everything else
falls away
she who waits
apart from ourselves
that part of
ourselves
we have missed
without realizing it
she who has searched for us
where we can’t
be found
and finding us
wraps us in her shawl
and sings
with the voice of our voice
a lullabye
in which a fledgling
rawness beats its wings
—Paul Pines
BLUES FOR DICK AND JANE
All things are on fire
even the moon. See
how it puckers
around every
orifice?
We burn at different rates.
Most poets go mad
of discover
others fixing dinner
who will share
what they
have
made
the conversion of matter into energy
our hearts strive for
at a ratio of 2:1
but its
never as easy as
Dick & Jane
or anyone
loves
someone...
it was Spot
they watched run
who ran away
and set them both
in motion
—Paul Pines
THE DEATH OF TED BERRIGAN
He died
on Independence Day
1983
of a heart attack
carrying too much weight
and cigarette
ashes
in his beard
At his Memorial
in St. Mark’s
Sanders likened him
to Blackburn
O’Hara
and Millay
while Padgett
couldn’t find words
to describe his friend
of twenty-four years
After Hollo
expressed surprise
Ted beat him to the grave
everyone
paraded
outside
behind
Schneeman’s
painting of the poet
naked
in a chair
which moved
a wino
to leap from
the Ottendorfer Library steps
screaming,
Praise Him!
Praise the Lord!
—Paul Pines
BLACKBURN
I hear
your voice again
as light
trapped in ale
at the lips of old men
a net
spread
for words in
the low grass of my throat...
Pablo, see
they're
playing Kung Fu
on the roof below
two Newyorikan kids in black giis
and a blond Ukranian girl in toe-shoes
the boys
are showing her
how to kick like a grasshopper
how to move her arms like a praying mantis
September sun
is flooding the western sky
and wind
is cool
E-N/E
slipping down
my comprehension
like a ghost I thought had abandoned
its old routes between my sleep and the outer air
—Paul Pines
READING CAVAFY
What I like most about Cavafy
is that he can't stop moralizing.
Growing old he sees he also grows
warmer to the barbarian in himself,
the Persian among Greeks,
the would-be voluptuary.
He spends days in cafes
by the sea,
drinking ouzel and wondering
if the whole world is destined to
become as small and seedy
as Alexandria.
The bodies of young men excite him.
He watches them from
his Garden of Missed Opportunities
until it resembles Gesthsemene
where he turns part Christian,
almost anti-Hellene
while the Greek in him
continues to weep
at the tomb of Patroklos,
insisting there is a grace in us
more magnificent than the god
it reflects.
—Paul Pines
BOHDAN ANTONYCH
You want to be Orpheus,
make trees dance, grass sing,
water a sustaining melody:
you refer to yourself
in the third person, saying
"Antonych moves" or "Antonych breathes";
you give the moon animal reflexes,
the sun a grace, like your own,
that looks for its intelligence
in everything it lights upon,
wants to grasp it where
it grows invisibly
from seed.
I see you in Lviv
holding your ears as almonds burst
or late at night Mercury rains
marine concerti
on stones
that will rise and weep
at Judgment,
when all things confess
they'd been distracted,
couldn't keep their meanings clear.
At 28, nearing the end,
you rush to keep pace
with your ghostly dictation:
in my mind
you're all ears,
listening to silverfish
eat your books
like a whole band of Carpathian tubas.
—Paul Pines
ARS POETICA
Herbert, my friend, I hear you've taken out the fiddle
again.
What can I say?
I once knew a man who shaved his head and went to live
with Cajuns
because they fiddle in bogs.
I fiddle also,
with myself.
My fantasies hang like Spanish moss
outside my window and are always in my light.
My dreams swim like alligators
around my home,
reptile minds
diencephalons
of merciless clarity.
I look out my doorway
squared against the impeccable mitre of
'things-as-they-are'
and am moved to say,
"I lie."
I do.
I fondle my prick
and slobber over the lady in my mind
bending to my anger and my need,
wringing her hands,
salt air whipping her thighs.
I tell her:
"Take me!
Make an honest man of me!"
I look for her everywhere.
In bars. In banks.
And everything I think is cheap,
is worthless
without her, if she isn't there, with her naked eyes.
—Paul Pines
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From: SONGS FROM THE PAGE OF SWORDS