Monthly Archives: September 2011

Sonnet VII

Dear darling. It’s John.
I’ve been paying attention to the sky again.
A rain’s falling. I have the sea opening in my hands
Sometimes through lost evenings
my soul disentangles itself to cross the sea,
like those heavy vessels,
to anchor itself in your kisses
of gold and turquoise and celestial stones.
Hello. I dreamed you were laughing,
tormenting the structure of my silence.
I am every inch in the margins,
in the space of a comma      I know it must
be written to know it exists             Teach me
how to sing something          lovely

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Sonnet VI

Dear darling. It’s John. I’m saving
a space for you in the margins     Right now,
at this moment, it’s 4:33 p.m. EST,
September 28th 2011. The world looks
all green and gray.
A rain’s falling. Hello. This is
the voice I speak to you in.
Tell me something that’s lovely.
I know how I sound, teach me how to sing
with the fluid moon of your voice.
Dear darling. I’ve been paying attention
to the sky again. It’s dispersing already.

Dear darling. It’s 5:47 p.m.
I’m throwing my poems, myself, at you

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Sonnet V

A rain’s falling. A phone rings. This is
the voice I speak to myself in.
I know how I sound,
teach me how to sing    tell me something
that’s lovely    tell me something that lasts this time
I want to look at something
other than myself—if that’s possible.
I think it was Whitman saying I cannot

distract myself from myself. It’s true, I think too much.
There’s only so much that can fall
and not collapse. I can’t say
what breaks feeling or say it won’t
break    (in the space of a comma)
I am saving a space for you in the margins

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Sonnet Sequence

I

I throw myself   my poems   at you
if that’s possible.

I have saved a place for you
along the margins,
in the space of a comma
what doesn’t get between the letters

what’s left unsaid   I want to find
the feeling before the utterance
I want to make it seem whole   over
a short period,   with what we end with,

there is nothing left out there
I can’t stop thinking it is not
something seen but something
that can be felt

II

even when I dream
you   it is not
something that can be felt
but something that can be seen.

I dreamed you were laughing.
It was summer.
I’m crossing the line as
I throw myself, my poems, at you

(the line is there for a reason) in each moment
is where everything happens
along the margins,
in the space of a comma

I have saved a place for you
with what we end with. A short period

III

I want to find the feeling before the utterance
in the space of a comma
I know it must be written to know
it exists like the wind

it is not something seen
but something that can be felt
even when I dream you
it’s dispersing already   I have seen

the blue night recede through lost evenings
of my soul. I can’t stop thinking in each moment
is where everything happens
in gold and turquoise. I have saved,

a short period,
a place for you

IV

I have saved a short period for you
I cannot give up the fluid moon
of your voice    along the margins.
I’m wrestling with shadow

in the space of a comma    I want to find
where I left it, if that’s possible,
the feeling before the utterance
the iambs of loneliness.

The line is there
for a reason.
A phone rings. This is
the voice I speak to myself in.

I know how I sound,
teach me how to sing.

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This is a sonnet

This is a sonnet. It’s hard to write a sonnet
with its emphasis on the ending
and stanzas filled with the fear (as I see it)
of losing,        or loving,            or something

which indicates           an absence
in the present here I am tracing the iambs
of loneliness in its occurrence
as it occurs I am anticipating the end—I am

not sure I wanted these things     here
I should be comparing things to a summer’s day
though (if I could) I’d tell Shakespeare
“A woman is not a day

—it’s no longer summer
it’s fall. Falling towards winter.

 

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