Photos

Obsidian’s Edge 15

3:00 pm

Old Woman
@
Dainzú

Sandpaper wind
polishing the land
erasing its identity
as barefoot
over dust and stone
the old woman
feasts her heart
on a banquet of song.

A rag-bag her body
stitched together
by memories and bone.

She shows me fear
in these grey shadows
dancing their dust
beneath carved rocks.

Abandoned now,
visited only by ghosts,
this resurrected ball park.
Buried beneath their stones
its heroes,
the men who wooed her.

I look at carved faces.

Which one captured
her flowering heart,
pierced it with an arrow,
and scarred her name
forever
letter by letter
on the face of this rock
?

Obsidian’s Edge 13

2:00 PM
In the zócalo

Three brujas:
one spins the yarn,
one measures the cloth,
one wields the black obsidian knife,
trimming each tiny thread.

Infinitesimal clockwork figures
balancing on wool,
their mouths opening
and closing, silent, like goldfish.

Wooden teeth comb each thread,
the shuttle always moving,
weaving whose fate?

Interlaced castillos,
scintillating cities,
grecas floating lighter
than this relámpago
lightening the air.

Or you can start with the glow-
worm of a match – luciérniga,
Lucifer – the bringer of light.

High flames flickering
on zopilote’s wings
bring an end to darkness.

Women at their chimeneas
breathe fire into shavings,
a red glow into charcoal,
flame into fire hungry bark.

Watch the new life kindle the clouds,
the new day walking its plank of fire.

Your shadow on the wall:
a new star rising
among star-crossed generations.

Obsidian’s Edge 12

1:15 pm
Water 2

Water seeks its final solution as it slips from cupped hands.
Does it remember when the earth was without form
and darkness was upon the face of the deep?

The waters under heaven were gathered into one place
and the firmament appeared.
Light was divided from darkness
and with the beginning of light came The Word,
and words, and the world …

… the world of water in which I was carried
until the waters broke
and the life sustaining substance drained away
throwing me from dark to light.

The valley’s parched throat longs for water,
born free, yet everywhere imprisoned:

IMG0035_1

in chains, in bottles, in tins, in jars, in frozen cubes,
its captive essence staring out with grief filled eyes.

A young boy on a tricycle bears a dozen prison cells,
each with forty captives: forty fresh clean litres of water.
“¡Peragua!” he calls. “¡Super Agua!”

He holds out his hand for money
and invites me to pay a ransom,
to set these prisoners free.

Real water yearns to be released,
to be set free from its captivity,
to trickle out of the corner of your mouth,
to drip from your chin,
to seek sanctuary in the ground.

Real water slips through your hair
and leaves you squeaky clean.
It is a mirage of palm trees upon burning sand.

It is the hot sun dragging its blood red tongue across the sky
and panting for water like a great big thirsty dog.

Water 1 (Obsidian’s Edge 11) was published in At the Edge of Obsidian (2005). Water 2 (Obsidian’s Edge 12) was re-written earlier this year for Obsidian’s Edge. Both attempts are interesting (for different reasons) and I am wondering whether to keep both versions. Obsidian’s Edge is the continuing rewrite of the earlier book. This re-write is part of the ongoing revision of The Oaxacan Trilogy.

Obsidian’s Edge 11

1:00 PM
Water 1

Cupped hands cannot embrace you.

Do you remember when the earth
was without form, and darkness lay
on the face of the deep?

You yearned then to be released,
to flow from the darkness,
to flower in the sunlight.

Images and symbols:
flags flying within my skull.
The shrunken head pond
ringed like a bath tub;
fields scorched and dry.

The land’s parched throat
longing for liquid:
water, born free,
yet everywhere in chains.

This mirage of palm trees,
green, against burning sand.
This hot sun dragging
its blood red tongue
across a powder blue sky.

Panting for water, I lick my lips
like a great big thirsty dog.

Words begin with the “Let be!” of light —
and it divides from darkness.

Then comes the world,
the inner waters in which male
and female forms are borne;
when the waters break,
the life sustaining substance drains away,
throwing us from dark to light.

The mid-day sun rides the sky
rolling its dark ball-turret cherry:
blood red wine over and under
this double-barreled thunder cloud.

Hare and Pair

Hare and Pair
With photos
by
Clare

“Hare is the Lord of all he surveys and none can dispute his right … ”

Some do, mind, in spite of hare’s propaganda, for moose, raccoon, deer, Northern Goshawks, owls, and the neighborhood dogs, though these are usually kept on a leash, all make eyes at hare as he sits there, on the edge of the lawn, seemingly unafraid.

Hare can run. He can run very fast. He thinks he is the fastest there is. So he just sits there.
“I AM the fastest,” he boasts, and none can gainsay him.

Chipmunk knows he’s not the fastest. Mind you, he’s not that slow either, over short distances. Chipmunk is fast, but he’s also very, very cautious.

“”Is the coast clear?” he asks.”I’ll just pop my head out and have a little look.”

“Coast’s clear, dear. Heave ho, and out I go.”

“No one about. Weather looks nice. I’ll just go for a little run.”

“Off I go. Won’t be long, dear.”

“I’ve found something nice, dear. Some fresh new bedding. I’ll bring it home.”

“I’m on the way, dear. Pop that kettle on. Stretching like a long dog: I’ll soon be home.”

“Oh darn it! Forgot the groceries. I’ll have to go out again.”

“Wow! Some nice little goodies stuffed in my cheeks!”

“Hello, dear. I’m back. Give us a kiss.”
“Come in then. Kettle’s boiled. We’ll have a nice cup of tea.”

It will soon be all quiet on the southern front. The chipmunks have all gone. But the hare just sits and likes to stare. So he’s still there.

If a picture tells a thousand words,
this photo essay is 12,280 words long.

Obsidian’s Edge 8

11:00 am
Mist, Mystery, and Magic
Baños de Oaxaca

The steam soaks everything.
Fundy on a foggy day is not this dark.

Fundy 2004 003.jpg

A face looms through the mist
A hand taps me on the shoulder.

The masseur points me
to the next room:
he is a brown man, totally naked …
… he takes a step back,
startled by my whiteness.

The masseur gestures.
I strip off my shorts
and lie on the marble slab.

Incense caresses my brain
with its subtle invasion.

The massage begins.
Slow karate chops:
the heartbreak
in my muscles
begins to break down.

The masseur hums as he moves.
He drives each note home
with pounding fingertips.

I am the piano.
He is the maestro,
rippling the keyboard
with manipulative fingers.

Beethoven’s storm scene
in the Pastoral Symphony
must feel like this
in the Liszt transcription.

The music accelerates.
I am swept away:
a rudderless ship
on a sea of wild sound.

My abandoned flesh
releases itself to cauterizing
currents of earth and air.

Fundy 2004 004.jpg
My spirit overflows.
Eyes closed, drowsing,
my grey sea of grief
transmutes into
a river of gold.

Obsidian’s Edge 7

Room in my Mind
10:30 am

My latest alebrije
wags his tail and flicks
forked lightning
from the forge of his mouth.

His ancient mocking spirit
slowly emerges
from the trickster wood.

Made from scrap metal
by the man down the road
who recycles old scraps,
Don Quixote sits on the reinforced
toecap of a workman’s old boot.

Two spent sparking plugs
join to form his body.
His presence lectures me
on the ages of gold and silver
long since past.

“We exist,” he says,
“in an age of recycling.”

Shadows double
themselves in the mirror:
recycled lines of shade
carve the shower’s glass.

Wary of shade and flame
I stand in a dust-
laden beam of sunlight.

Motes in my mind:
flesh and blood chessmen
play their game,
dark squares and light.

My neighbour has six cats,
two children, and a tulipán tree.

I bought her youngest daughter
chocolate, and she showed me
how to play a simple game of cards.
But the pack was different
with the three
ranking above the queen and jack.

I throw away my threes and lose the game.
She laughs at me and calls me tonto.
She is ten.

Nochebuena,
single and double petals,
crimson and cream;
cempasúchiles,
flowers of the dead,
guide their footsteps
leading my lost ones back to me.

I think of milk bottles placed on a concrete step.
When I go out in the morning, sparrows have pecked
the silver tops to get at the cream.

Memories: once open doors
now slowly close.

Keys no longer turn in the locks.
Sleep gathers in forgotten rooms,
falling like dust on silken flowers.

My mind drifts in and out
between sun and clouds.

Water Falls

I will leave the magic and mystery of Mexico for a moment in order to look at something that lies much closer to home: running water. New Brunswick is famous for its waterfalls. Here is the video poem I created after visiting Dickson Falls in Fundy National Park. Sometimes they are almost dry, but on the day these pictures were taken, the waters flowed in marvelous abundance. Don’t forget to click on the video link at the end of the poem. Clare took the pictures while I conjured up the words. Water Falls was published in Triage (2015).

Water Falls

“What is it about running water
that it explodes like long, blonde
hair over moss and rock
frothing with sunlight the diamond
sparkle, the freckling sound,
light flickering downwards,
fine threads of angel hair
tumbling from above, falling,

white, over earth’s rocky shoulders,
pillowed across soft green quilts

poured down from heaven’s skies
watering the earth’s dark throat,

sinking through the soil
emerging in rivulets and brooks
until all waters are one
and the rains join hands
to splash, rejoicing,

dryads and naiads bathing
together in deep, cool pools,
nymphs reborn, acrobats over rocks
as water falls to seek the sea.“

https://moore.lib.unb.ca/poet/VP5_Waterfall.html

Obsidian’s Edge 4

8:00 am
Up and about

Last night,
a cataract of flame
flowed down
the cathedral wall.

A black wooden bull
danced in the square,
sparks struck fire
from his horse-hide hair.

A red speck on my shirt
burned through to my skin.

Today
a heart of fire
burns in an iron barrel:
who will be chosen
for the daily sacrifice?

A sharp blue guillotine
poised between buildings:
the morning sky.

Scorched circles,
open mouths:
wide-open butterfly eyes
burn holes in the crowd’s
dark cloud of a face.

A street musician
stands in the shade
beneath the arches
playing a marimba.

The sun tip-toes
a sombre danse macabre
across bamboo keys.

IMG0009_1 3.jpg

Sunlit bubbles float
dreams across the square.

Obsidian’s Edge 3

7:00 am
Breakfast

Yesterday,
I sacrificed a chicken.

Unborn,
it lay within its calcium cocoon,
dormant,
a volcano sleeping deep beneath thick snow.

Tap, tap, tap,
the silver spoon bounced
off the hairless shell:
a sudden crack,
a spurt of orange blood.

Today,
I tap with my silver hammer
on the grateful grapefruit’s paper skull.

Silence.
No movement
within the honeyed
comb of pith and cell.

High in the church tower,
a hammer blow falls on an echoing anvil:
the cracked bell lurches into life.

Rooster crows his thick rich cocoa rico:
blackened torsos of fire-roasted beans.

Squeezed orange, racked by the inquisition,
its pale yellow robe spent and exhausted;
wasted disc of a worn-out, decadent moon.

Naturaleza muerta:
the orange expires on the table.

Still sticky its carcass,
its life blood is a sacrifice:
thick, rich, golden liquid,
as fierce and sweet as
sunshine on a branch.

Tabled motion:
my hand reaches out.
Arthritic fingers clasp,
but cannot hold
the golden glass.

The tequila’s wrinkled worm
tickles my fancy.

Grasshoppers
fried in garlic
no longer make me squirm.

Two Tigers
rage in my head.

IMG0034_1 2.jpg

They crave mescal
at this hour of the day.

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