|
Coyote
Before he got up and danced
he’d watched the sun rise
over the desert valley
then he got up and twirled
like a wounded hawk
he knew in the deepest
part of him his religion
was the beauty in front of him
so he danced on that cold dawn
hill because the desert was deep
inside of him
He said a prayer to the land
then walked down the hill
passing barrel cactus yuccas
outcroppings of rock
he crossed a wash, walked into
a field of Joshua trees, mammoth boulders
he reached camp, hugged a woman
who’d also been on that hill
at sunrise and had the desert deep inside her
she did not speak to him just then
she was deep with the Mojave’s silence
she hugged him back
like you’d hug the wind
warmed by sun and turned
into a brother who has the landscape
shining in his eyes . . . cholla cactus creosote
junipers cats paws and rocks climbed over
to reach nowhere
Because in the desert there’s nowhere to go
two hawks cry to each other flying north
coyotes bark at dawn
a plane drones high above
it’s precisely because there’s nowhere
to get to that you walk
with a destination in mind
it could be a piece of quartz in early afternoon light
or red dusk sun whitening granite soil
or a deep feeling that takes you
by surprise hugs you dances with you
rises like the moon in your night
and in the turning of your body
on the starry floor of solitude
He was the coyote yapping outside camp
the lone dog howling to its brothers
the hunter revered by campers
who called him poet when he came for food
After twirling
he fell to earth
and kissed a rock.
The Best Place to Be
I’ve been there --
It’s where my hands are just hands
and my neck is made of quartz
and my feet are tongues
and rocks are gleaming teeth
and my voice is my walk
booted, sure-footed over uncertain terrain.
I do not fear losing balance
for my footfall is a prayer.
And my sunbaked skin is a costume
for nerves in awe of my skeleton
playing its part in this drama of flesh
and minerals and more sky than sand.
Did you expect some arbitrary conflict,
a wittier metaphor, a foreshadowing of death,
a bleakness or ecstasy to give a thrill of art,
tragedy or shocking juxtaposition to provoke?
Are you waiting for some denouement, or
a greater noise to excite the contentment
of this quiet bliss broken
only by the sound of bootsoles crushing earth?
Walking is its own excitement, I tell you,
and contentment its own climax.
There’s no art like the simplicity of simply being.
No path, no journey, like the touch of awareness
putting you in touch with that placeless place
where hands exist less than praise,
breath is less than the exultant heartbeat,
and to be touched, to be felt by earth’s pulse,
is the beauty, the bliss, death itself
could not make finer, nor negate.
I want to go back there.
I want to return to taste that soil;
it is a good place to die.
I want to feel again the intimacy of that vastness,
to warm my blood in its acceptance
of my nothingness, the absence of a need
to be this or that, the gentleness of my manhood.
I want to walk once more with that wind.
Canyon at Picacho
O glorious! the ancients said
when words failed them
when description seemed beside the point
when the natural world was almost too much.
Not just too much to behold
but too much to hold, to embrace
for the arms of a mortal man
though his spirit seemed equal to it
and was for which reason he uttered
a single word from his heart: Hallelujah!
or Glorious! or simply, Ah!
Here in the deep desert it is painted rock,
eagle, lizard, jackrabbit, fierce-eyed owl.
They fly off, scamper, before the binoculars
can get to my eyes. Is it my footsteps
that has rustled them up or were they about
to go that way anyway? Both, I imagine.
And too they are gracious hosts, making
way for the afternoon visitor . . .
the owl just vacated the roofless cave
at canyon’s end where I’ve stopped awhile:
a polite but unnecessary gesture since
there’s plenty of room for both of us.
I know this is your land, your home,
feathered or four legged friend of my spirit.
I the guest here, yet call it my home as well
when I hear the red cliffs cry out, Brother!
when I walk the arroyo heart full of color
when I crouch in awe over a mauve wild flower
when I drop backpack to climb a crumbling mound
or doff clothes, including boots, to bare my love
to return a few moments as born to the elements
without dying and to leave an offering
from my sensual body erotic under the hot sun.
Yes, this is my land, it is made of me.
It is my lover and shall receive my manhood.
It has my spirit written all over it.
It is my inheritance, my song, my womb.
It is my death and life combined.
It is my gift both to myself and to others.
If I share my soul I share this terrain.
I am home (though in a day or two I leave)
a home I cannot dwell in like the eagle
the coyote, the wild burro, the laughing quail --
but home nonetheless if heart’s refuge be home.
I will be quiet now, let the ancients speak
from the red walls of this canyon.
It is truly glorious, they say.
Speak for us, they tell me,
so someone will know what we meant.
Nightlines
Night black night everywhere
you are the same
in Puerto Vallarta or Palm Springs
when you come you speak one language
I will not liken you to death
that comparison is too obvious
it is the comfort of your equalizing
that gets in the bones
and if that’s true of death so be it
but night you breathe though without sound
you cast the stones of day into the dark
cave of my mouth and I speak like a grave
I say strange things of life
such as come to mind without thinking
to breathe or curl my tongue around the ocean
but it happens all the same night
because you have stolen my eyes
you are without remorse
like a bird’s feather bending in wind
a voice that hollows out my desire
Give Back the Fire
Why decry this numbness of heart
that has kept me silent so long?
True, the dead are in me with a shout,
but for months the sun has spoken louder.
Enough about natural wonders, fragrances.
In this soporific heat I’ve returned to idleness
filled with a single crow’s watery yawp
as it flies into blue, an extinguished flame.
There are no answers for unasked questions --
as if fate were a riddle to those not seeking one.
I have plenty of time yet to turn my back
on the cholla that would snag me for a wren.
Why build a nest where the sand blows away
what you’ve acquired?? In the wash lies a bit
of fool’s gold, maybe a rotting branch of wisdom.
I’m no bird, I’ll hike up the canyon’s mouth,
there listen to the voices death deposits in me
like minerals in a land whose rocks make you glad.
No crematory this desert but a light-drenched concert
that returns to the fire its original cry
Randolph Maxted has lived in California almost half his life. He is a dual citizen (Canada and U.S.) and lives in Palm Springs. He studied
theatre and English literature at Montreal's McGill University. He has been writing poetry for 30 years, and was involved in the literary scenes in Vancouver, British Columbia, and Santa Barbara, CA,
where he lived before moving to Palm Springs in '99. In Palm Springs, Randolph has been involved in art as well as literature. He is currently working on his novella, "Dark is the Light," as
well as a memoir and book of poems which he plans to publish in the near future. He is publisher of "The Intriguist," a grassroots literary journal that he edits with Lee Balan.
|
