YOKEL ( 28 ) ~

Peaceable Kingdom

1

We went to the town fair

For the first time in our lives

To watch the work horses and

The work horses were there,

Somehow they never disappoint you

Led out from trailers in wraps

Of leather harness, some gilded

And special for the day —

The horses could teach anyone how

To stand, how to wait

Their heads turned the other way

From a stone sled loaded by six

Men and one more on a tractor

Who are having a difficult

Enough time managing each

Block weight onto the sled,

One after the other until

What is expected to pull

Gains to 3500 pounds and

Later double that

Three-man teams talked

Amongst themselves soon

Showing they had trouble

Of their own making

A horse pair obey —

Names Frank, Chris, Josey

Revealed an intimacy from

These tough men with bloody

Elbows dragged by reins

Along the stone sled down

A twelve foot course hollering

Hold up there! and watching

Their feet and legs aren’t

Crushed by this plowing

Entertainment drive

How does a trophy and 

One hundred fifty dollars

Grab you — awarded to the

Winner — the horse teams

Feel none of this, it is

Another day blinking

Flies and hasty sun,

Horse paired up to

Horse because they

Work best together

The least we could do

Would be to hope a little

More grain and hay came

Pitched down for them

That night, a rightful

Pat on the hind quarters,

And any of us can walk

Over to where horses

Huddle and with

No celebration or

Much of a sound,

Wait until one

Lifts his head and

Large eyes brighten

We meet

Manure

Has a way

When you’re not sure

Of having you place

That finger to your nose

Makes No Difference

Work horses

Stand in the rain

The sun, more rain

Bright leaves and snow

2

At the fair

This cow who

Knows this farmer

Won’t go easily

To the strange

Water tub tugged

By rope and hind

Legs holding back

The pinkest nostrils

Breathing ahead of

All its body along

A porcelain edge and

Always how massive

But somehow terrified

The great animal

3 

Head down grazing

Goose thumps into

Fence post

4

Out in the open midway

Of flea market sellers

Unwrapping their tables

Look to the sky

Wondering with a

Neighbor hawker if it

Will rain — and who

Knows, none of us —

But one old-timer

Under a canopy

Slowly unpacking his

Nest of goods took no

Mind to the rain that

Seemed to be falling

All of a sudden as he

Stepped out of the

Tent and dusted off

His hat announcing

To no one it was

Only fizzling

(to be continued next week)

______________

Bob Arnold

Yokel

Longhouse

2011

THE DIAMOND SUTRA ( RED PINE ) ~

R E A D       M E

HOBO COMPOSER ( HARRY PARTCH ) ~

University of Rochester Press

U.K.

2015

MIROSLAV HOLUB ~

Whale Songs


At two o'clock in the morning

I hear my mitral valve

from the depth of the dim, blood-filled tunnel

which is me. Cellular receptors

fit with a metallic click

into the locks

and the cells are me and the locks are me.

From some symphonic distance

there sounds the song of the whales,

and it contains me.



In some black castle

Sleeping Beauty has pricked herself on a thorn,

which is me. The clock has stopped

— in our house clocks stop at any moment

because she will prick herself at any moment,

on a tiny crock shard,

on a word,

on a milk tooth,

on a toy that has fallen into the gutter —

and so there's a still life, nature morte,

with me in the genetic background.



A paper kite stiffens in the air,

and yet, Einstein says, Time is always going, but never gone,

and yet, my mother says, ten years after her death,

Oh yes, oh yes,

and a clock starts again,

the Invisible passes through the room like a ball of lightning,

Sleeping Beauty lays eggs full of little spiders,

the whales re-enter the tunnel



and I start again

being the machine

for the production

of myself.



__________________

Miroslav Holub
The Rampage
translated from the Czech by David Young, 
Dana Habova, Rebekah Bloyd and the author
Faber 1997

TSERING WANGMO DHOMPA ~

from  a geography of belonging




Time, pinker than the dots

on her blue shirt. A name

wasn't decided because

the lama was travelling

in a foreign country. We

were careless with our

affections. Tiny clouds

were stitched on the baby's

cap. Would she need

happiness or money?

Clouds are for the sky,

says the elder. Breasts

are for milk. Would

we have walked across

the mountains if we

listened to our feet?





~





First came pictures of animals

not found in our zoo.

Then apparatus assembled

for our benefit because

we had no money in the bank.

Even in the old country

grass was boiled for dinner.

We learn from our elders

so when they said we were

poor, we knew our job

as children. The eldest

gave up school so the youngest

could be polished for reward.

How does this translate in

your language? How can

it be that the rich are thin and

the poor are fat where you live

wrote a little boy from far away.






______________________
Tsering Wangmo Dhompa
In the Absent Everyday
Apogee Press
2002




Tsering was raised in India and Nepal

KEITH WILSON ~

SCOTT NEARING ~

Back Road Chalkie

Smack in the middle of

Lockdown

April

2020

YOKEL ( 27 ) ~

G O ~ A L O N G

Y O K E L

Against the charitable gesture

there is no defence

SAMUEL BECKETT

Milking

Morning sunlight offers

Long shadows, a place of coolness

Hand size grape leaves cling to fence rails

A drop of warm light on the tips

Birds in the woods soon fly into the pasture

Sing and disappear all day

The sun lifts off the metal silo roof

Shatters into the pond

Between the barn and house

An aisle of light

                                                                    for Bill & Mary

Pals

I bought old

Tools from a

Friend since

We used the tools

Together on jobs

For years and

With him gone

I plan to work

Like we always

Have together

The Moral

You know an era

is over with the

morning you

see the local

outlaw junkyard

flatbed wrecker

with its owner’s

company name

barely scratched

onto the side doors

going by aboard

a real-deal junk-

yard flatbed hauler

on its way to town

to be sold as scrap

______________

Bob Arnold

Yokel

Longhouse

2011

THE PEREGRINE ( J.A. BAKER ) ~

R E A D     M E

BRUCE BAILLIE ~

B R U C E     B A I L L I E

INGER CHRISTENSEN ~

integrities





1

as sand vanishing

to nothing in wind

have any save none

lived for so long


I ran to meet you

dying on







2  

as light that can never

see itself

as none can lie still

falling free



I see your eyes

see







3

as water that bears

itself to death

you give what is yours

time that goes



semen

tears







4

as the grass growing

into your body

the body withering

into its mind



mind spreading out

over skin







5

as warmth as a summer

remembered to emptiness

we dream of joy

unknown unguessed



and into us looked

something else than ourselves







6

as paper at rest

while a word passes

sorrow gone white

joy in its blackness



I want to know nothing

you walk by my side







7  

as snow in its purity

white and alone

only a few days

only a few



and ever

the earth returns







8

as the bed opening

and closing open

darkness and light

I am cold I am hot



the body preserves

the world








___________________

Inger Christensen
It
translated by Susanna Nied
New Directions
2006

ARVIND KRISHNA MEHROTRA ~

A Hindu Panegyrist Remembers
Sultan Mahmud


The wasting disease was bad enough,

Then he started losing his mind.

Visiting the treasury the week he died,

His jewels on display, he broke down

And wept like a child. Newcomers

Won't believe it, but Ghazna used to be

A miserable little place, known only for

The sweetness of its melons, before he

Changed its face, gave it a skyline

To match Baghdad's. He also changed our lives.

Each year before the onset of winter

He'd set off on his Indian campaign,

And four months later, when he returned

In the spring, the camel trains carrying

The spoils of war took a day and a night

To go past my door. We sang his praises,

He didn't stint on the reward; gold mostly,

But sometimes a string of pearls

Or a silk robe, like the one I'm wearing.






Ear-Cleaning Man


Unlike the carder

And the caner,

The ear-cleaning man

Has no street cry.

To find him you

Only have to look

And he'll be there,

Sitting beside you

On upright crate

Or low wall, probing

Your waxy ear,

First one, then the other,

For you to hear

Your inner voice

The better with,

Before vanishing

As suddenly

As he'd appeared,

The hands free,

A small bag tucked

Under his arm,

And two needles

In his headband,

Like a pair of feelers.






Worker Ant


The few things it needs lie within

Walking distance: an insect wing,

A grain of sugar. Sometimes it takes

A Grand Tour of roadside litter,

Or goes hiking alone in shingle

Mountains, past thumbnail lakes.

Its happiest moments are at a jungle

Boot camp, crawling on twigs,

Struggling in a bog-hole under

The garden tap, pushing a grass blade

Ten times its size towards a towering

Clod of earth in the flowerbed.

I saw the grass move before I saw

Its mover, hiding in plain sight.

________________________
Arvind Krishna Mehrotra
New York Review Books
2020

ARVIND KRISHNA MEHROTRA (2) ~

R E A D      M O R E

CLIFFORD BURKE ~

28 March




And the March wind's gonna blow

(and what's gonna blow away these blues?)

Here it is: I saw

in the wan grey light of a quick storm,

the very color of the ground and air,

mere shadows in a fragile den

of storm grey mountain mahogany,

low-slung juniper,

a hollow in the shady ridge:



Two roadrunners, Ma and Pa

(thought they were all alone),

lovemaking, in their hasty bower.

A quickie; Pa takes off;

Ma looks smug, puffed out and warm.



I'm indoors, wearing two coats,

huddled up and watching

all the beauty that there is

right here, right now.



____________________

Clifford Burke
Talking With Raven
Grey Spider Press
1999

AT HOME W/ STEVE EARLE ~