I.

Sidereal seafarers, celestial sojourners

Weaving through waves, whistling alongside

Birds breaking above, our bravery wavering

But eagerly Eastward, like eagles we flew

The stars were still with us, stalwart and trustworthy

Tracing their trails, we traversed through the night

Rising and reaching, roaming the heavens those

Pinpricks made pathways, pointing our way

A rosebloom of radiance, writing our destinies

Knowing their names, we knew where to sail

For Pur find Polaris, then Pleiades follow

It setting in solitude, somberly vanishing

As stars astride heaven, asterisms we followed

Their rising realigning, our rafts and canoes

We held up our hands, the horizon beyond them

And followed our fingers, forging ahead

But as seasons slip by, stars change their habits

As rains ravage Meliel, rightly old Antares

Ambles with Aquilae, away from Polaris

And fools follow blindly, falling from true

So listen and learn from me, lest you sail stray

Remember their meanings, messages from heaven

Allow them to lead you to lands of new birth

II.

Following stars with fictional stories

Romantic ideas of roaming ancestors

Pity the Polynesians, puffed with importance

Wanting a past, without much proof

Oral traditions can omit additions

Weakening stories of wonderful stargazing

A lack of cartography, lessening testimony

Why ought we believe what we cannot perceive

No memorization nor triangulation

Are kept in the senses of keen island sailors

As much as they might be moved to make claim

A voyage needs tables to venture for atolls

No cloudy reflections or rippling currents

Flying seabirds or fish strangely swimming

Nothing but science is noble for sailors

Finally, Spaniards far reaching sailed

Gifts then were given, granting new pathways

No matter how much they mutter and mumble:

Save for a sextant the sailors were stranded

Tools of geographers, taken ungraciously

Turned to the heavens, transcending heathenry

Civilization the subject of nations

Marked by the method of assessing the azimuth

Come, sit.

Warm your hands around the fire

Which was lit thousands of years ago

As people stared up into the stars.

I have kept the flames burning for you

When you are older

You will tend to it

Let me show you how

Let us discover its secrets together.

To learn about the fire inside our circle

You must watch the fire that burns outside of it

Lightning strikes.

Eureka.

We sit in an empty hearth

There are ashes drifting through the air

There was fire here, once, but it is gone

Why don’t we follow it?

Where is it now?

No, they say.

You cannot follow.

You would be burned

For your hands are fragile

First you must learn to play among the ashes.

They do not realize

That ashes are nothing like fire.

Space is an infinite series

A journey of uncountable steps

So said a wise man in Elea

Who had never heard of a Planck length

A thousand thousand careful steps

But we can never reach our goal.

Impossible, said the wise man of Elea

Motion cannot exist.

From A to B is an impossible dream

The wise man said

From Elea to Elba

Or Earth to the moon

The distance is the same

Impossible

The wise man said this

And many believed him

For he was, all agreed, very wise

And the mathematicians had yet to catch on

He was right about one thing

This wise man of Elea

Space is an infinite series

But he was wrong about the rest

We are sojourners of the infinite

All movement is mastery over the infinitesimal

To take a step is to complete a series

The act of motion an impossible convergence

Physics does not belong in poems

Too needy

Too codependent

Too intolerant to ambiguity

Poetry, like love, runs opposite to Newton’s laws

A relationship in motion remains in motion until suddenly

It doesn’t

Every action has a completely disproportionate reaction

And we attract those very much identical to ourselves

When we first discovered binary star systems

The poets must have spiraled madly into metaphor

Two suns, dancing their slow and weighty dance

Falling towards each other but unable to close the distance

Divine contradiction made manifest

The wisdoms of love and poetry say that absence makes the heart grow fonder

But the laws of gravity say that force is inversely proportional to the square of the distance

There was a time when I thought poetry knew best

But a year apart has taught me that gravity 

Might be a more powerful force than love

Scant days ago I strayed across a book

Among the surplus wreckage of a life

‘Twas full of poems, sonnets by their look

Of love, of pain, of happiness and strife

But one strong chord was sounded by them all

Which rang a less melodious sort of tune

Their author seemed possessed of spite withal

Denied of comfort he believed his due

A fragile sort of pining, ill portrayed

That made me fear for my own prating pen

And for some moments then I was dismayed

To be as fed by anguish as these men

I hope by this to prove for all to see

That loving need not so possessive be

A bard once penned some verse to woman woo

That ev’ry fair from fair sometime declined

He spoke of beauty then, not fairness true

Which in the gnarl-most lady one might find

I careful tread here, not to be mistook

And seem to call a beauty fairness-missed

When in mine eye a perfect grace you look

Your eyes do sparkle diamonds, heaven-kissed

Instead I aim to praise a higher star

From which you watch the spinning world below

That you so well-possessed of virtue are

Your fairness only stays, and cannot go

And so, my dear, be most assured of this

That time can only bring you better bliss

I do confess that I have thought some time

On which of all the words sounds worst to hear

I say that ‘soon’ to me is least sublime

When from your lips it falls upon my ear

Some men might say that never sadder be

But then at least I send you from my thoughts

And steel my mind from any hope of thee

Content with my bereaved, unhappy lot

But should you speak that melancholy word

That promises reward for patient love

I swear I never crueler torture heard

Though all the flaming devils came above

My love, you twist my heart the hardest way

Until the time your soon becomes today

He pulled you out to sled the snowy hills

And melt the ground with warm, unfettered joy

You feared that you would likely catch a chill

But were persuaded by your eager boy

You with a smile did relent at last

While moon shone o’erhead with palest light

As ‘neath it half a well-spent hour passed

The stars they sparked, a thousand diamonds bright

But evenings are not simple as they seem

When lovers bold defy their earthly bound

New plans may come from what were once just dreams

And far from simple yes his question found

My friends, you most of all have found true love

More pure than sapphire sky so far above

To speak of absent friends confounds the wit

My tongue lies heavy-choked by selfish tears

I cruely wish her not possessed of grit

To run home quickly cowed by foolish fears

So while I may be sad to watch her go

To stay betrays her eager quickling mind

Indeed, I love her more for leaving so

Despite the darlings dear she leaves behind

And so when chance did knock upon my door

To send a short, but heart-invested rhyme

Which, if luck hold, should land upon her shore

To tell how I, impatient, count the time

Her voice inside my conscience loudly laughed

And chided as I sent her my first draft.

At the end, be careful when you go. Tiptoe quietly past the watching moon and draw closed the shutters. Sweep back the messy orange sunlight from the crack beneath the door. Name each star in its lullaby as you put the sky to bed. There will be no noise to muffle your footsteps, no cacophony of living things. You have left the wind behind you. The air. The touch of rain on your cheek. Move no longer in seeming, only in being. There is no boat on a winding river, no mountain to climb to paradise. Stay here, for a moment. Feel what it is to think no thoughts, to feel no feelings. 

A woman whose hands tremble as she washes dishes in the sink

The water went cold hours ago, but she couldn’t bring herself to get up while it was still hot

A man whose voice sounds like the bottom of a coal mine and smells like cheap beer

It’s his daughter’s birthday and he won’t make it home in time

We are pulled towards brokenness

With all the undeniable gravity of a collapsing star

We open the door on quiet hinges and peek inside

Trying to catch a glimpse before we’re noticed

A child who sits in the classroom long after the others have gone outside to play

There is an argument echoing in their mind that they weren’t supposed to overhear

An old man who doesn’t won’t answer the door or go outside

Because his wife’s coat is still hanging in the closet and it smells like her perfume

We hold onto broken pieces as though we can work miracles with superglue

But the world spins towards brokenness

And the smallest shards always slip through our fingers

But Oh! How they sparkle as they fall.

Breathe in. Make life in each breath. Exhale the world from your body, then take it in again, new. Spin, spin, child under stars. Dizzy, falling, the stars are brighter from your eyes. Snow crunch in blanket-quiet. Remember. Dancing to Tchaikovsky, your favourite. You fall, laughing. Head resting in lap, fingers through hair. Savage beasts, we are not. But soothed, and soothing. Midnight rings in, rings out. Silent bells we place upon the world. A body is heavier when it is sleeping. Breathing in, breathing out. Mark this time, count it. One hundred, two hundred, a hundred hundred. Start over. Lose count. Swallow this moment and it will run down your throat and sit warm in your stomach. Devour. Be greedy, hoard memories like pieces of gold. Be dragon-mad with contentment. It aches, to be so happy. Heavies the limbs and sets them full of sand and fairy dust. In your dreams, may you be always this way. In your life, may you be this way enough. 

There was something calming about the darkness. It was a beautiful absence. Of light, of sound, of the frantic in and out of day.The stars asked nothing from him but silence. The sun asked for talking, and thinking, and sometimes it became too much. Stars were kinder. They did not have expectations. A shred of song floated to the front of his mind, and he suppressed the impulse to whistle. It would be unkind to tread on the quiet so deftly laid here. He stuffed the song back into his head for another time and moved on. 

The smell of gasoline is sweet and strong

So strong you can see it in the air

Twisting and coiling like spun glass

In its rainbow of refraction

The parking lot is a moonlit moor

The rising heat and stubborn smell

Voicing the happenings of the day

Hear the screech from a streak of rubber,

The wailing of a siren in a dented streetlamp,

Sobs of heartbreak in the brand-new sign:

“School Zone. Please Drive Slow.”

There are two kinds of poems and both of them tell you that you are wrong. There are heart-pounding, lyrical, achingly true poems that tell you you are beautiful. That stomp on the words of your father or your preacher, your childhood bully or your third grade teacher. Poems that tell you that you can do anything. Shake the dust, stand tall, wear your heart on your sleeve. You are enough. Wake up, stand up. Good morning starshine, the earth says hello. Glade-dwelling, linen-wearing, deep breathing poems that have your best interest at heart and tell you that the words in your heart aren't always in your best interest. Replace them with better ones. Sweeter ones. Don't believe that just because the truth can be cruel, anything cruel is the truth. You've been lied to so long and so quietly that you have stopped noticing. Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself. These poems are water and honey and they think you are better than you are and most importantly they are right. And then there are the other kind. The brutalizing, bruise-making, beat you black and blue kind of poem that looks at your heart and doesn't even bother to stomp on it. You aren't worth the trouble. The beautiful, lung-crushing, spine shatteringly true poems that look at you and see the pile of garbage that you are sweeping under the rug until you can't bury it anymore and you scream at your mother over the phone and cry yourself to sleep. The poems that tell you that it was all for nothing. You don't deserve the nice words that the hero gets at the end of the story. You bend your neck for a medal and get a kick in the teeth and you earned it. You're the dragon, you're the monster. You're the problem, the one to blame for all your loose ends and lost friends and everyone you love is just pretending. There are two kinds of poems, and both of them know you better than you know yourself. You are wrong and they know it. You're the villain. You are destined for greatness. You're the hero and the witch and the woman in the lake with a sword in your outstretched hand and if you wake up tomorrow and decide to be a dragon then you will breathe fire and burn everyone you love. So listen to the poets, because they know you. But they don't know what you're going to do tomorrow. Be a dragon, be a hero, be a saint or a sinner but be something, damn it, because the only word worse than boring is interesting. Mean something, be specific. Be a person if you have to, but if you can, be something better. Sing in the rain or throw a tantrum in the frozen food aisle but make noise with your body, with your voice, with your heart. Shake the world with your presence until you decide what shape you want to make it and whose lines you want to read for because no one ever got the part of you by making small choices.

I hear him before I see him. It’s a half hour to midnight and the traffic has calmed, leaving a hollow silence in the empty concrete arteries of the city. The occasional thrum of a car passing by only serves to accentuate the quiet, as muted street lights cast their amber blooms down to the sidewalk. Behind me, a low wall holds back the banked earth from spilling its undergrowth onto the path, bricks of yet more concrete that rise just too high to sit on comfortably. When I first hear the music, I expect to see a car pull into view, someone taking advantage of the late hour to enjoy a drive with the windows down and their music blaring. No car appears, but the music gets louder. More audible now, I realize that it’s someone singing. No accompaniment to be heard, just a lone voice belting out in a key that can’t quite settle. It feels almost rude to look, but curiosity bends my neck in the direction of the sound and I see him. Not on the sidewalk, where I expected. No, he walks along the wall between earth and concrete, one foot being set carefully in front of the other. He doesn’t seem to notice me, too intent on his footwork. As I watch, he attempts a spin, still keeping to the narrow line of bricks. I hold my breath for a moment, but his balance remains intact. I don’t recognize the song, but I can tell it’s old. Sounds like Sinatra, or maybe some other crooner.

Most of his body is in shadow and hidden in the starless dark of the city night. Only his feet are dusted by the orange light of the lamps above, so I watch them, curious. What business does he have out at such an hour? We’re hardly in a residential area, after all. A commuter, maybe, heading home from a late shift. It’s hard to square that image with the dancing, carefree figure before me. He’s stopped some distance away, which I feel oddly relieved about. Not out of any fear of danger, but… There is no blueprint for the small talk you make when you are waiting for the bus with someone who is singing a goopy love song at a half hour until midnight. Speaking would change them. Make them human, instead of something more than that. And so I watch and listen as he runs through an eclectic discography before the bus arrives and carries us both to our destinations.

The moorish hounds that cribble through the smyres are heelish at your heft. Pat-pat, pat-pat, three paws apace and slavering as they gain. Ahead, with spiring toptip, gloams the wythe. When last you wimmered ‘long this windsome way, the doors demanded treble truth to sway. Ker-snack! The toothsome teeth close close behind. A veer to left, avert from poltish plans, for none can overhaste the hunting hounds. Skip-skop, your feet escape the smucky smyre, and clamber onto solid rock once more. 

All gloaming thick the green-grey fronds which spring in sudden starts up through the grass. The wind wisp-whistles through their leaves and shakes the red-ripe fruit which hang below. Well hid beneath the over-reaching leaves, the jewelled ruby flesh a tempting prize for any daring darter up above. At night, the moonglow shines to change the scene, each dot of red lycanthed to pearly white. But! Nose too near and see the troubled truth that lies within. Ascatterscance beneath the reaching fronds lie bones all bleached with time and rot and ruin. Look up to see the hanging fruit above and double dread the newly sickening scene. The trophy teeth from many curious mouths hang warning in the pale and moonlit night.