Looking at the flower at the swallowtail
At stillness and motion
At wing and leaf
Tree and forest
Shadow and light
The flower closing the sun setting
Swallowtail and flower
Petal and wing
Time and eternity
At these that eclipse the sun
And fold night
Into the fabric of aligning moons
Sang to bones
Sounded my steps
Sundered my sense
Spilled blood space
Spirited my smoke
Stung like scorpions
Struck like fangs
Scorched with cold
Suspended in stars
And surrounded me
(imitation of 12th century Arab-Sicilian)
I owned a falcon whose wings were long,
An Emir’s gift for a marriage song.
She was like the shadow of a palm leaf in flight–
And in repose, like the shadow of a slender blade.
She was like the shadow of fire on smoke,
A sunbeam surging through clouds.
Her blood-feathers opened to my caress,
Her eyes quickened the embrace of death.
O falcon, bride of hunger and light,
You have risen like the risen sea and are gone.
When a man in a hospital bed Needs a haircut and shave, The barber with his black bag Goes humbly through the wards. In shadow and in light, The barber and his patient, Seen through an open door, A…
Source: Haircut and Shave
I am reading Larry Levis
With so few motel rooms
On the road to consolation.
Thank you, poetry, for my father’s barbershop,
For the barber chairs and soap machines,
For the windows and mirrors, for it being downtown,
For the movie theater and marquee next door,
For opening nights and the Saturday matinee.
Thank you for the barbershop magazine rack,
For the hours I had to read and wait,
Mirrors sinking my thoughts into dreams.
Thank you, poetry, for the weight of scissors,
For the fragrances of Clubman hair products,
For the sounds of the razor on the strop,
For the razor on the back of the neck,
For the hot towels and sting of aftershave.
Thank you for the bus rides downtown,
For my mother helping my father close
So we could all go home together.
Thank you, poetry, for the magic
Of those mirrors, for the poetry hidden there,
For letting this quiet boy, the son of a barber,
Experience something of your presence
Among such humble things.
When a man in a hospital bed
Needs a haircut and shave,
The barber with his black bag
Goes humbly through the wards.
In shadow and in light,
The barber and his patient,
Seen through an open door,
A smile on the sick man’s face.