Give thanks for all things
On the plucked lute, and likewise
The harp of ten strings.
Have the lifted horn
Greatly blare, and pronounce it
Good to have been born.
Lend the breath of life
To the stops of the sweet flute.
Or capering fife,
And tell the deep drum
To make at the right juncture,
Pandemonium.
Then, in grave relief,
Praise too our sorrows on the
Cello of shared grief.
because their patients cannot tell them
what’s wrong they say veterinarians
are the noblest doctors they say
that when he died St. Augustine
was the only person in the town
who owned any books they say Freud said
mental health is the capacity to love
and to work they say a chimpanzee
named Washoe learned sign language in the 60s
they say Augustine went to visit the Bishop of Milan
and the bishop would read without speaking
the words out loud they say he sensed the meaning
with his heart but that his tongue was still they
say this was the invention of reading silently
they say one of Washoe’s caretakers was pregnant
and missed work for several weeks after miscarrying
Washoe greeted her coldly when she finally came back
the caretaker told Washoe what happened
and signed MY BABY DIED
Washoe looked down and touched the corner
of her own eye and drew her finger down
her cheek they say chimpanzees can’t
shed tears but can recognize the path they take
There is no cherry tree.
There is mud and blood and winter.
There are letters and orders to his farm manager
written by candle light detailing chores to do.
There are letters written to his British broker
complaining about low prices for his corn.
There is nothing lofty written about democracy
but there is something about the country
he surveyed beyond the mountains.
There is nothing about democracy yet
but he is tired of being told what
he can and cannot do.
Tired. Of a King.
Of being told what he can
and cannot do in his country.
There is a letter in which he orders
a uniform he designed himself.
It does not fit very well
because he does not know his size.
He wears it anyway.
Democracy.
Design and redesign and self-design.
Democracy.
Something lofty was written
in mud and blood and winters.
Democracy.
Translated by Coleman Barks with John Moyne
If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,
Like this.
When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the night sky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,
Like this.
If anyone wants to know what "spirit" is,
or what "God’s fragrance" means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.
Like this.
When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.
Like this.
If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.
Like this.
When someone asks what it means
to "die for love,
Point here.
If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.
This tall.
The soul sometimes leaves the body, then returns.
When someone doesn’t believe that,
walk back into my house.
Like this.
When lovers moan,
they’re telling our story.
Like this.
I am a sky where spirits live.
Stare into this deepening blue,
while the breeze says a secret.
Like this.
When someone asks what there is to do,
light the candle in his hand.
Like this.
How did Joseph’s scent come to Jacob?
Huuuuu.
How did Jacob’s sight return?
Huuuu.
A little wind cleans the eyes.
Like this.
When Shams comes back from Tabriz,
he’ll put just his head around the edge
of the door to surprise us
Like this.
(Huuuuu means breath out)
Over my desk Georgia O’Keeffe says
I have no theories to offer and then
takes refuge in the disembodied
third person singular: One works
I suppose because it is the most
interesting thing one knows to do.
O Georgia! Sashaying between
first base and shortstop as it were
drawing up a list of all the things
one imagines one has to do…
You get the garden planted. You
take the dog to the vet. You
certainly have to do the shopping.
Syntax, like sex is intimate.
One doesn’t lightly leap from person
to person. The painting, you said,
is like a thread that runes
through all the reasons for all the other
things that make one’s life.
O awkward invisible third person.
come out, stand up, be heard!
Poetry is like farming. It’s
a calling, it needs constancy,
the deep woods drumming of the grouse,
and long life, like Georgia’s who
is talking to one, talking to me,
talking to you.
