There was no overt blessing.
The wolf looked at me
With strange light eyes.
He held an embroidered fan.
It was broken, and glistened.
Like all the beautiful things I had ever seen,
A red jewel, a distant castle,
The shell whorl, the forest,
It seemed to promise some other, better, world.
There is no other world, he said.
I was terrified.
As the water rose
He put his arms around me.
The water ran through the house,
Loosening, lifting. As it coursed,
He held my crumbling body.
You see? He said. It is all right.
You have succeeded,
Beyond any dream
Or melody of a dream.
Much like an astronaut
Minus all that gear
I go up
There are words are all over the page
Like craters and streaks on her dusty surface
Looking for linkages
That unexpected worm hole
That takes you
From the written word
to another galaxy
Children are told
The thing is made up of green cheese
So I sit down
And chart my next course to the moon
with a big slice of it next to me.
- -Eric Moes
Weaving through the dark and silver hours,
Weaving, the luscious night has passed away,
and barely-light reveals the dainty work –
- a perfect web –
- my heart's too small, my hands
too few, to hold, enfold, this single perfect joy.
Harmonious, glistening, crystalline!
The orderly play of dry and sticky cords
across the garden path in dew and light.
Good morning to the light that gilds my joy,
good morning to the little shivering leaves,
good morning, Mrs. Ant and Mrs. Snail,
oh thank you, yes, I think it's lovely too.
Today I weave such garments for a bride –
- you know the little fluttery moth I mean –
Of thread, one thread, that binds all hearts together.
The uninitiate can never guess.
I boast an art of but a single thread.
It arches through the solemn redwood grove,
and straggles through the dusty basement corner;
it vibrates in the wind when all is dark,
communing each to each, engaging all.
And I can hardly wait to end my rest,
to weave again, to walk on air,
to fling with eager hands the silk adown;
where does the drift of silk alight it now?
You, Reader, Bride, this lovely thread will bind
your heart to me.
And from just such a tender
heart as yours, will I, enfolding, drink the wedding wine.
- -Deanna Hopper
Another Poem About Torture
Just us two, you and I,
Let us make a pact with each other
I will not force you to read this.
You will not strike me or yell.
I'll touch hand to paper
and only with your consent
lead your eye along
the barbed wire fence of words;
invite you gently
to this solemn walk
down the corridor of bolted doors.
The burden of knowing is heavy
but lighter if we share it.
Then come, more hands, more!
Yet because of gentleness,
no scorn shall be given
for any reason
including turning away.
- -Deanna Hopper
From tangling summer leaves, the moon
finds its way through tilted blinds
to the sofa where I lie,
and touches cautiously the small room
where mother, with her suitcases, sleeps.
Oh mother dear, what shall I do?
"Memory by memory the mind –"
erosion fills the house like sea-water.
Our traps hang from our arms
like Dickens' ghosts'.
set in the economic dream-life
of a self-proclaimed great nation
gone to bloat.
Among near-empty aisles
the neat shelves bulge with glossy goods.
the young man at the meat counter says,
"Thank you for coming by."
My gilded cage prevents action
as surely as did Hamlet's.
Oh what, what, what shall we do? Mother?
The music is dying with a dying fall,
but minus the pretty girl with the hyacinths.
erect a makeshift altar in the airport terminal.
They tape the Pope, the Queen Mother,
and Diana, Princess of Wales,
torn from magazines,
What shall we do?
- -Deanna Hopper