body

The Poet, II

My body was once a beautiful house of marble,
Kissed to pale rose by the passionate heat of the sun,
Wherein through cunning channels flowed forever
Health-giving crimson blood in steady tides.

My eyes were then quick to see and to welcome beauty,
My lips smiled often with gratified desire,
My hands shook not, but were fit for caress or grapple,
My arms rose and my body moved in strength.

Then not a single line of any poem
Had my hands raped from my brain, but untouched and pure
They abode in the land of distant visions where no man
Heard my voice calling for them at eventide.

My blood lies in great black lakes now, sluggish and frozen,
Or fumes in like some boiling, stinging, poison brew
Till it suddenly stops in a lassitude unspoken,
Or bursts through my pores and covers me with red dew:

My eyes are bleared now and dull with sleepless midnights,
My lips are shrunken purses—their gold is spent,
My hands unsteadily clutch and paw and tremble,
My arms are as strings of macaroni bent.

And as for my chest, ’tis like a leaky air-box
Fixed to some cheap melodeon out of tune,
The bellows creak, the loose and brown keys rattle,
And the music that comes is like a dog’s sick moan.

But in my brain there seethes an adulterous hotchpotch
Of poems clean and disgusting, mad and sage;
And pain, like a dry fire, keeps them ever a-boiling
Till they splash over and blacken some wasted page.

Yes, I am a poet now to be mocked and applauded,
A turnspit that turns and must never taste the meat:
Behold how great I am, but I wait for a greater,
Even Death, who will silence the march of these crippled feet.

—John Gould Fletcher (1886–1950), “The Poet, II,” Fire and Wine, 1913

XXXI

My stiff-spread arms
Break into sudden gesture;
My feet seize upon the rhythm;
My hands drag it upwards:
Thus I create the dance.

I drink of the red bowl of the sunlight:
I swim through seas of rain:
I dig my toes into earth:
I taste the smack of the wind:
I am myself:
I live.

The temples of the gods are forgotten or in ruins:
Professors are still arguing about the past and the future:
I am sick of reading marginal notes on life,
I am weary of following false banners:
I desire nothing more intensely or completely than this present;
There is nothing about me you are more likely to notice than my being:
Let me therefore rejoice silently,
A golden butterfly glancing against an unflecked wall.

—John Gould Fletcher (1886–1950), Irradiations, 1915

March Night

I shook off the house like a hooded cape,
And came out, free, into the March-blown street…
At a lash of the gale, at a sight of the cloud-tattered skies,
As a coat discarded,
I shook off civilization
And became wild,
And my naked soul raced the clouds,
And the flavor of the Earth was fresh and primitive…

—James Oppenheim (1882–1932), War and Laughter, 1916

Veggie soup

peeling this sweet potato
i can smell the earth
i close my eyes and smile
then cry —

when did i get so removed
from the soil, the land
from simplicity —
the family garden
in grade school
my bare feet on warm dirt
i was so happy
there were carrots
and worms
and life
was carefree —

i finish making soup
do the chores
the day was busy
i am tired —
the nights
when there is time
enough leftover
to snuggle into bed
a little early & read
and i can keep
my eyes open
long enough for it —
this is heaven
simple, free, happy
heaven

—Terri Guillemets

Enclosed

Our bodies are meant
for the sun, the rain
the gusty winds
starlight and moon baths
fresh air and seasons —
so why do we trap ourselves
      in indoor cages?

If we can’t hear birds sing
or feel invigorating breezes —
how are we to be refreshed
to heal, to know the world
beyond the borders
      of our bodies?

—Terri Guillemets

Fantastic shores

in bed at night his mind had a ferocious imagination
reality and unreality haunted his turbulent brain
the years ticked, an infinite clock of destiny

searching moonlight for the promise of a future
his reveries of heart were coasting on a fairy’s wing
as the world and universe drifted by fantastic shores

but the sea, work, and women — physical outlets —
were his anchor — something old, hard, and soft

—Terri Guillemets

scrambled blackout poetry created from F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, 1925

Midlife midriff

Eating a lot of garbage and dessert-obsessive
for several months, I put on a few pounds
      — and more.

Waddling is hell, and fat is a problem for the heart
      — I’m hungry & in pain.

Waist weight is a cruel joke, and age is no help.

—Terri Guillemets

scrambled blackout poetry created from David Sedaris, Me Talk Pretty One Day, 2000

Shut—your—mouth

      “Having devoted the greater part of my life to visiting and studying the various Native Races of North and South America, and observing the healthy condition and physical perfection of those peoples in their primitive state, I believe I have discovered the cause of numerous health problems that exist in our civilized communities. I believe, and feel authorized to assert, that a great proportion of the diseases prematurely fatal to human life, as well as mental and physical deformities, and destruction of the teeth, are caused by abuse of the lungs, in the Mal-respiration of Sleep.

      “Quiet and natural sleep is the great physician and restorer of mankind; but the habit of sleeping with the mouth open is destructive to the human constitution. Man’s cares and fatigues of the day become a daily disease, for which quiet sleep is the cure; and the All-wise Creator has so constructed him that his breathing lungs support him through that sleep, like a perfect machine, regulating the digestion of the stomach and the circulation of the blood, and carrying repose and rest to the utmost extremity of every limb; and for the protection and healthy working of this machine through the hours of repose, He has formed him with nostrils intended for measuring and tempering the air that feeds this moving principle and fountain of life; and as the quieting and restoring influence of the lungs in natural repose is carried to every limb and every organ, so in unnatural and abused repose, do they send their complaints to the extremities of the system, in various diseases; and under continued abuse, fall to pieces themselves.

      “There is no animal in nature, excepting Man, that sleeps with the mouth open; and with mankind, I believe the habit, which is not natural, is generally confined to civilized communities, where he is nurtured and raised amidst enervating luxuries and unnatural warmth, where the habit is easily contracted, and in sudden changes of temperature, even in his own house. Through the enjoyment of his artificial comforts and pleasures, he is destroying his teeth, his good looks, and often his life, in the thoughtless departure from natural simplicities and instincts. Man, who suffers under many ills in life, should take care that his lungs and teeth, however much abused during the day, should at least be treated with kindness during the night. Breathing should be done as Nature designed it, through the nose.

      “There is no perfect sleep for man or brute, with the mouth open. When you close your eyes to sleep, close your mouth too, only to be opened after your eyes and ears in the morning. Though the majority of civilized people are more or less addicted to the habit of sleeping with the mouth open, few will admit that they are subject to it. They go to sleep and awake, with their mouths shut, not knowing that the insidious enemy, like the deadly Vampire that imperceptibly sucks the blood, gently steals upon them in their sleep and does its work of death whilst they are unconscious of the evil. Every physician should advise his patients, and every school its pupils, and every hospital, regiment, nursery, and mother should attempt to stop this unnatural and dangerous habit.

      “If I were to endeavour to bequeath to posterity the most important Motto which human language can convey, it should be in three words:  Shut—your—mouth.”

—George Catlin, The Breath of Life and Shut Your Mouth, 1860s, abridged

Life is eternal — not ours but its

I am diseased
with civilization —
I rot, ripped
apart from the land —

The lightning in my soul
and thunder in my veins
will never be enough
if I can’t be rocked
by a real rumble so fierce
it realigns me to the core
actual flashes so bright
that I become the night —

I am a speck of dust
invented by the earth
and skies —
born of the stars
but living
because of the soil —

If we run from the
truth of our existence
we become a lie —
our lives so covered
with the hard plastic
shell of fakeness
that the realness
suffocates —
we cannot breathe
our lungs are dying
without the trees —

Our souls are dying —
our flesh needs
to feel the world
on our knees
with our naked feet
face first in the dirt —
wade and splash
and submerge
ourselves in water
that is alive
not sterilized, not sanitized
not dead of being nothing —

Forests and sunbeams
true breaths of silence
long to envelop us
but we run into the
nearest retail store —
an anesthetic, expensive
layer of hell
we pay dearly for —

Run! run across
the fields
for no reason
but that you
feel like running —
hear the birds
not [f*@%¡ng] airplanes —
our dollar bills are
so much less valuable
than leaves, no matter
how high we count —

The fire in our hearts
the fireplace that warms us
the wildfire that burns —
necessary flames —
the extinguished
world is naught —
sparks are how
we survive —

We all have a story — or several
but the once upon a time
the happily ever after
and everything in between
is food, water, shelter, freedom
it’s the only plot there is —
gourmet coffee, magazines
knick-knacks, cars, tv
all just disposable words —

Anger is nothing — just air
hunger’s a hole in the plot
ideas are space —
the birds that fly
over us are smarter
than every single one of us —
the waters that are deep
and the streams and the rills
all have a different story of life
but all turn to rain in the end
they give green to the hills
and blue to the sky
and red to our beating hearts
and the yellow sun glistens
each ripple and wave —

To read a book
in the sun
is glorious
but to read
ourselves and the sky
in a sunset is
the fiery light
of life itself —

The ocean at night
waves pounding
against our hearts
sounding ancient beats
spraying the meaning
of life against our shores —
the universal dream
of all our sleep —

Seagulls fly
past my heart
squawking the passage
of time in harsh tones
with smooth soaring wings —

If Time is trying
not to be found
he is excellent
and terrible at it —
the days hide him so well —
in our faces he is buried
but not concealed
he marks his territory
as any wolf would —
barking his orders
obedient not even to death —

Birds peck out snacks
from patches of crystalline snow —
the music of pure white clouds
fills the sky with sun-lined notes
drifting into beauty so vast
the blue never ends —

Snow-capped mountains
have something to say
melting ice to water —
a trickling story
of patience and life —

We stand atop
mother earth
raise our arms
in victory
at every breath
at every beat —
we are alive
in all our being
but just for now
with not a thought
of next or last
before or after —
we barely know
anything else —

Storms on storms
surging, raging
electricity, thunder
primal, essential
unstoppable
fierce! calling
all our cells
to attention —
roaring, wailing
unabashedly smashing —
the first ingredient
of calm —

Life is about trying
not to get hurt
and it’s risking
ourselves to hurt —
we need a measure of pain —

Wildfire and deluge
kill and be killed
eat and be eaten —
blink and it’s over too soon —

Water cuts rock and
nature makes glass —
but the earth
it does not shatter —

Some lives are
roaring river
deep blue ocean
bubbling streams —
and some fade
into a dry patch
of nothing —

We scream
with our voices
or our pain
our bodies scream
in disease
our emotions scream
in tears, in fists, in love —
and if we don’t scream
we explode —
scalding steam
needs a vent —

Fangs and bites
we bleed
snapping jowls
fierce sharp howls —
guilt, pain, anger, fear —
tears flow
like blood
emotions tear
like flesh —

The sweetness of life
the bitter —
we taste it on birth
on death
we taste it in
every breath —
one can live not
without the other —
the taste of life
is wild
like freedom
spicy and raw
honey and sting
it tastes of fresh air
of danger and time —
I breathe it into my lungs
with each meandering breeze —

Wild horses run
for nothing but freedom
striking beauty
with every hoof
across the golden plains —
the simple beauty of
flowing manes
undulating with motion —
the dance of movement
wilding and free
is no mystery
to any breed —
but you and I
cannot run like that
or, maybe we just don’t —

We must go
into the wild
to discover
our own wilderness —

Yes, we are all
just hitching a ride
on the wind —
but when we grip
we fall apart
we hold on to
everything too tight —
say no, say yes
flow, run, dance
close your eyes
let go and fly —

Fallen, dropped
wounded, healed —
we fall into the raging
river of life
and are swept away
or survive —

Sooner or later
later comes too soon —
we gray out
colors fade
the great adventure
is ending
but many little ones
live on —
it’s bumps and
sliding from here
with loose rocks
dust and bruised butts
hoping to land gently
in the abyss —

—Terri Guillemets