Two Poems

Woodland Ghost

He walks

and does not touch the flowers

no trampling-under, no broken heads

only the slight parting

as in a thread of wind

and he moves on, and the fox looks up

but is unafraid

and the wren goes about its bobbing

and the bluebells sway and part

through, and inside of

and within his fragile hands

and he lies on his back in the flowers

so the blue goes up through his throat

through his mouth

and he drowns

then he moves on

lowers himself through a stump

and watches mushrooms blooming through his chest

stands inside the trees

and feels the soft, slow hum of their lives

contemplates their rings around him, inside him

and counts how many years are encompassed

inside the diameter of himself:

in a beech he is twenty

and in an oak, forty-five

which is as it should be

for like himself, the woods

are an imprecise keeper of time.

 

Violins

If I could,

I would paint nothing but violins:

charcoal-smudged violins

smoky violins dripping ink

violins that are all curves curves

without the violin a glass violin

pouring gold music

or the shadow of a violinist

when the cafe light throws the shape against a wall

so you can’t tell where skin turns to wood

and I would explain

precisely why the violin is the ideal form

the perfect assembly of lines and curves

better proportioned than the

Vitruvian Man in his square

more graceful than faceless Nike

and why the question of man and woman

seems very old-fashioned

when anyone can see

that all violinists are dancers

holding their partners

their shapes carved for each other.

 

Photo by Philip Myrtorp from Unsplash.