Monday, February 20, 2012

John Wieners, "A poem for early risers"

I’m infused with the day                               even tho the day may destroy me
I’m out in it.                                                       Placating it. Saving myself

from the demons
who sit in blue
coats, carping
at us across the
tables. Oh they
go out the doors.
I am done with
them. I am
done with faces
I have seen before.

For me now the new.
The unturned tricks
of the trade: the Place
of the heart where man
is afraid to go.

It is not doors. It is
the ground of my soul
where dinosaurs left
their marks. Their tracks
are upon me. They
walk flatfooted.
Leave heavy heels
and turn sour the green
fields where I eat with
ease. It is good to
throw them up. Good
to have my stomach growl.
After all, I am possessed
by wild animals and
long haired men and
women who gallop
breaking over my beloved
places. Oh pull down
thy vanity man the
old man told us under
the tent. You are over-
run with ants.


Man lines up for his
breakfast in the dawn
unaware of the jungle
he has left behind
in his sleep. Where
the fields flourished
with cacti, cauliflower,
all the uneatable foods
that the morning man
perishes, if he remembered.


And yet, we must remember.
The old forest, the wild
screams in the backyard
or cries in the bedroom.
It is ours to nourish.
The nature to nurture.
Dark places where the
woman holds, hands
us, herself handles an
orange ball. Throwing it
up for spring. Like
the clot my grandfather
vomited / months before he
died of cancer. And
spoke of later in terror.


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