• csalisbury
    Nodding a curt greeting: "Well, you've been awhile
    But now we're back together, which is what counts."
    Air in my path, you could shorten this,
    But the breeze has dropped, and silence is the last word."
  • csalisbury
    [end of poem]
  • csalisbury
    New Poem: Ode to Bill
  • csalisbury
    Some things we do take up a lot more time
    And are considered a fruitful, natural thing to do.
    I am coming out of one way to behave
    Into a plowed cornfield. On my left, gulls,
    On an inland vacation. They seem to mind the way
    I write.
  • csalisbury
    Or, to take another example: last month
    I vowed to write more. What is writing?
    Well, in my case, it's getting down on paper
    Not thoughts, exactly, but ideas, maybe:
    Ideas about thoughts. Thoughts is too grand a word.
    Ideas is better, though not precisely what I mean.
    Someday I'll explain. Not today though.
  • csalisbury
    I feel as though someone had made me a vest
    Which I was wearing out of doors into the countryside
    Out of loyalty to the person, although
    There is no one to see, except me
    With my inner vision of what I look like.
    The wearing is both a duty and a pleasure
    Because it absorbs me, absorbs me too much.
  • csalisbury
    One horse stands out irregularly against
    The land over there. And am I receiving
    This vision? Is it mine, or do I already owe it
    For other visions, unnoticed and unrecorded
    On the great, relaxed curve of time,
    All the forgotten springs, dropped pebbles,
    Songs once heard that then passed out of light
    Into everyday oblivion? He moves away slowly,
    Looks up and pumps the sky, a lingering
    Question. Him too we can sacrifice
    To the end progress, for we must, we must be moving on.
  • csalisbury
    [end of poem]
  • csalisbury
    New Poem: Lithuanian Dance Band
  • csalisbury
    Nathan the Wise is a good title it's a reintroduction
    Of heavy seeds attached by toggle switch to long loops leading
    Out of literature and life into worldly chaos in which
    We struggle two souls out of work for it's a long way back to
    The summation meanwhile we live in it "gradually getting use to"
    Everything and this overrides living and is superimposed on it
    As when a wounded jackal is tied to the waterhole the lion does come
  • csalisbury
    I write you to air these few thoughts feelings you are
    Most likely driving around the city in your little car
    Breathing in the exquisite air of the city and the exhaust fumes dust and other
    Which make it up only hold on awhile there will be time
    For other decisions but now I want to concentrate on this
    Image of you secure and projected how I imagine you
    Because you are this way where are you you are in my thoughts
  • csalisbury
    Something in me was damaged I don't know how or by what
    Today is suddenly broad and a whole era of uncertainties is ending
    Like World War I or the twenties it keeps ending this is the beginning
    Of music afterward and refreshments all kinds of simple delicacies
    That toast the heart and create a rival ambiance of cordiality
    To the formal one we are keeping up in our hears the same
  • csalisbury
    What with skyscrapers and dirigibles and balloons the sky seems pretty crowded
    And a nice place to live at least I think so do you
    And the songs strike up there are chorales everywhere so pretty it's lovely
    And everywhere the truth rushes in to fill the gaps left by
    Its sudden demise so that a fairly accurate record of its activity is possible
    If there were sex in friendship this would be the place to have it right here on this floor
    With bells ringing and the loud music pealing
  • csalisbury
    Perhaps another day one will want to review all this
    For today it looks compressed like lines packed together
    In one of those pictures you reflect with a polished tube
    To get the full effect and this is possible
    I feel it in the lean reaches of the weather and the wind
    That sweeps articulately down these drab streets
    Bringing everything to a high gloss
  • csalisbury
    Yet we are alone too and that's sad isn't it
    Yet you are meant to be alone at least part of the time
    You must be in order to work and yet it always seems so unnatural
    As though seeing people were intrinsic to life which it just might be
    And then somehow the loneliness is more real and more human
    You know not just the scarecrow but the whole landscape
    And the crows peacefully pecking where the harrow has passed
  • csalisbury
    [end of poem]
  • csalisbury
    New Poem : Sand Pail
  • csalisbury
    of a red stripe through much whiplash
    of environmental sweepstakes misinterprets
    slabs as they come forward. A
    directs traffic in the center
    of flat crocus plaza as the storm
    incurves on this new situation. Why
    are there developments?
    A transparent shovel paves, "they" say,
    residual elastic fetters
    pictures of moments
    brought under the sand.
  • csalisbury
    [end of poem]
  • csalisbury
    New Poem: No Way of Knowing
  • csalisbury
    And then? Colors and names of colors.
    The knowledge of you a certain color had?
    The whole song bag, the eternal oom-pah refrain?
    Street scenes? A blur of pavement
    After the cyclists passed, calling to each other,
    Calling each other strange, funny-sounding names?
    Yes, probably, but in the meantime, waking up
    In the middle of a dream with one's mouth full
    Of unknown words takes in all of these:
    It is both the surface and the accidents
    Scarring that surface, yet it too only contains
    As a book on Sweden only contains the pages of that book.
    The dank no-places and the insubstantial pinnacles -
    Both get carried away on the surface of a flood
    That doesn't care about anything,
    Not even about minding its own business.
    There were holidays past we used to
    Match up, and yep, they fitted together
    All right, but the days in between grown rank,
    Consume their substance, orphan, disinherit
    But the air stands in curtains, reigns
    Like a centennial. No one can get in or out.
    These are parts of the same body:
    One could possibly live without some
    Such as a finger or elbow, but the head is
    Necessary, and what is in doubt here. This
    Morning it was off taking French lessons.
    Now it is resting and cannot be disturbed
  • csalisbury
    Yes, but - there are no "yes, but"s.
    The body is what this is all about and it disperses
    In sheeted fragments, all somewhere around
    But difficult to read correctly since there is
    No common vantage point, not point of view
    Like the "I" in a novel. And in truth
    No one never saw the point of any. This stubble-field
    Of witnessings and silent lowering of the lids
    On angry screen-door moment rushing back
    To the edge of woods was always alive with its own
    Rigid binary system of inducing truths
    From starved knowledge of them. It has worked
    And will go on working. All attempts to influence
    The working are parallelism, undulating, writhing
    Sometimes but kept to the domain of metaphor.
    There is no way of knowing whether these are
    Our neighbors or friendly savages trapped in the distance
    By the red tape of a mirage. The fact that
    We drawled "hallo" to them just lazily enough this morning
    Doesn't mean that a style was inaugurated. Anyway evening
    Kind of changes things. Not the color,
    The quality of a handshake, the edge on someone's breath,
    So much as a general anxiety to get everything all added up,
    Flowers arranged and out of sight. The vehicular madness
    Goes on, crashing, thrashing away, but
    For many this is near enough to the end: one may
    Draw up a chair close to the balcony railing.
    The sunset is just starting to light up.
  • csalisbury
    As when the songs start to go
    Not much can be done about it. Waiting
    In vanilla corridors for an austere
    Young nurse to appear, an opaque glass vase of snapdragons
    On one arm, the dangerously slender heroine
    Backbending over the other, won't save the denouement
    Already drenched in the perfume of fatality. The passengers
    Reappear. The cut driver pushes them to heaven.
    (Waterford explodes over the flagstones.)
    At the same time that we are trying to spell out
    This very simple word, put one note
    After the other, push back the dead chaos
    Insinuating itself in the background like mists
    Of happy autumn fields - your money is dead.
    I like the spirit of the songs, though,
    The camaraderies that is the last thing to peel off,
    Visible even now on the woven pattern of branches
    And twilight. Why must you go? Why can't you
    Spend the night, here in my bed, with my arms wrapped tightly
    Around you?
    Surely that would solve everything by supplying
    A theory of knowledge on a scale with the gigantic
    Bits and pieces of knowledge we have reatained:
    An LP record of all your favorite friendships,
    Of letters from the front? Too
    Fantastic to make sense? But it made the chimes ring.
    If you listen you can hear them ringing still:
    A mood, a Stimmung, adding up to a sense of what they really were,
    All along, through the chain of lengthening days.
  • csalisbury
    [end of poem]
  • csalisbury
    New Poem: Suite
  • csalisbury
    The inert lifeless mass calls out into space:
    Seven long years and the wall hasn't been built yet
    The crust thickens, the back of everything...
    Clustered carillons and the pink dew of afterthoughts
    Support it.
  • csalisbury
    This was to be forgotten, eliminated
    From history. But time is a garden wherein
    Memories thrive monstrously until
    They become the vagrant flowering of something else
    Like stopping near the fence with your raincoat.
  • csalisbury
    At night, orange mists.
    The sun has killed a trillion of 'em
    And it keeps stretching back, impossible planets.
    How do I know? I'm lost. It says its name.
    The blue-black message at the end of the garden
    Is garbled. Meanwhile we're supposed to be here
    Among pine trees and nice breaths of fresh air.
  • csalisbury
    Snow was the last thing he'd expected.
    Sun, and the kiss of far, unfamiliar lands,
    Harsh accents though strangely kind
    And now from the unbuttoned corner moving out,
    Coming out, the postponed play of the day.
    Astonishing. It really tells you about yourself,
    The day made whole, the eye and the report together, silent.
  • csalisbury
    [end of poem]
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