Talking
To Rilke
I
see you know loneliness, wanting not just words,
but
for verse to sprinkle mystery on the breeze
and
feed the page, as if every moment of existence
is
observed and respected for its holiness.
And
it is unique not just because of itself,
but
because of its unity with you,
transcending
either in its wholeness.
Then
there is the sound life makes,
as
if its shadow passed,
it
mourns every loss to rejoice every birth.
For
in the land where shadows go it must be dark
inasmuch
as they mingle.
A
phantom flashes on the wall, and startles—
is
something crawling? Just the wind.
Don’t
get killed when you’re in love.
Because
you didn’t when you were alone.
Loneliness
is always waiting.
Waiting
for touches, tones, arrivals.
Waiting
for worlds to fill the page.
Waiting
at the dusky outskirts,
like
a lion crouched in patient approach,
with
a stare so intense it burns your back.
And
loneliness waits as it does for existence,
to
become what it must when nothing is left.
Don’t
run. You have no choice but be one with it,
recognize
it as yourself with nowhere else to go.
A
theme begins to unfold, exposed.
Still,
so as not to be noticed.
Keep
your back turned till the end.
No
lion can bear the face of a poet.
Even
the cover photo romances.
Reminds
me how we all crave fire.
I
laugh, and cover your face with this page,
words
now a hundred times their size, reverse
our
void with verses, no longer waiting.
Magus
I
would be one of the wanderers,
with
heaven watching.
Observe,
you reflections, I glance away.
Notice
wonder spring forth its ancientness,
steep
the spell held in spices, hypnotized.
In
dreams I descend twenty steps at a time,
am
afraid how I’ll land if I fly too high.
I
try not to say I, and claim myself,
a
sign of consciousness uncovering.
Who
calls me, from such transience?
We
will ourselves into vastness,
like
children at graves,
a
wind with just one chance to blow,
both
toward and away from itself in surprise,
or
life is waste.
There
are shooting stars, then that which lingers,
even
hovers like a hawk, a halo.
None
can bear looking straight toward the sun.
We
see it reflect off the ocean by day, the moon at night.
Imagine
someone’s sun fly away.
What
must it search for, in its burning?
Galaxies
witness it bursting through silence.
May
it glow to the end in spite of where it finds itself.
Let
innocence cling to the universe, swirling,
get
high and go hungry, distill our minds
till
we can’t control what pours from inside,
and
at heart remain addicts, ever humble.
Aphrodite
For
a good group of words, take the night,
and
let it unfold into such a very simple thing
as
is impossible to hear,
like
rain at a distance, or shore from a cliff.
I’ve
forgotten how I feel,
as
if run through by light,
I
find no further truths.
Attune
to air, where sound dwells a moment,
its
waves boiled down to an instant, anointed in me.
For
days now I have pictured silence
as
something meaningful, a story in and of itself.
There,
in the loneliness, should be a song,
and
here, right here, could go murmurs
or
whispers of footsteps forever.
I
walk by the ocean where no flowers grow,
because
they couldn’t bear the beauty.
I
find a white stone that was a mountain when I was a star.
It
reminds me we’ll all be sand one day, so I let go,
but
we are moved.
Then
this woman wades in the tide.
She
is part of the sunset, the clouds, the ocean.
The
whole horizon wraps around her,
sending
me telepathic thoughts of wonder and hope,
till
I can’t help but listen for God.
John
FitzGerald
John FitzGerald is a poet and attorney
for the disabled. His poetry collections include Favorite Bedtime Stories,
finalist for the Julie Suk Book Award, and The Mind, semifinalist for the Alice
James Book Award. Other works include Primate, a novel & screenplay, and
the non-fiction For All I Know. He is
widely published in literary journals and anthologies, notably The Warwick
Review, World Literature Today, The Taos Journal of Poetry and Art, December,
From the Fishouse, The American Journal of Poetry, Plume, Human and Inhuman
Monstrous Poems, From the Four-Chambered Heart: In Tribute to Anais Nin, and
Poetry: Reading it, Writing it, Publishing it. John FitzGerald’s four books
include Favorite Bedtime Stories and The Mind, semifinalist for the Alice James
Book Award. Other works include The Essence of Life, Primate, and the
non-fiction For All I Know. He is widely anthologized.