Poems After the Rig-Veda

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Poems After the Rig-Veda
 
for Rachel McDavid

Star differs from star in glory.
-          Saint Paul

A Song of Sarasvatī.
 
In this wine, take delight,
my bright baby faced sun.
 
Fire fills the furrows
floods broad and long,
soft radiance rises
to pierce the brightening high.
 
Your path is lined in holy fire
Your step leaves only carbon behind you
Your wine longs to warm you,
it hastens to your hands, seeking relief
from its bulging udder.
           
Bloodshot man, get right with this large world.
 
 
*
 
 
Roll softly
through today and tomorrow
well treasured world.
Light goes before us
and a strong wind
urges onward
through this crowded moment.
The years burn around us.
The last breath escapes the field
onboard the last time
they said our name.
 
 
*
 
 
The giant ledger’s methodical hunger
compels modest goals; work don’t bend too much,
even though time itself is culled from miracles.
Labor ploughs its furrow across
years weirdly enriched by its limitations.
Engineering the language, wringing perception
from lines, visceral rhapsodic fervors
seeking a piston driven epiphany;
the radical awe
pulsing the instincts
of my funny head habit.
 
May these
high piles of fruit greet and gladden you
and waken your intelligence.
 
The shore’s
swaying branches call you back
to where the darkness had fully fallen,
and fish broke the surface, fireflies
swelled yellow and dimmed
above the crickety lawn.
 
 
*
 
 
Praise brings opulence to everyone.
Worship the messenger who bears the gift.
 
Inflamed, he issues
the new year’s fields, new piping corridors,
                        pleasures and pains whose ways are ever true
and yet his pin ever punctures these inflated repetitions.
 
The narrowest music leads on. His mouth is a ladle.
He strews the grass with tears and radiance.
 
Our fathers
were barbers and surgeons and cops and others
twisting in history. They lived cautiously
in this wild exotic form that always lapses into obscurity.
 
The terror at the end of the path,
 narrows as the ground nears.
The transfixing calm reels in our steady tread.
 
 
 
                                    *
 
 
Indra drink the soma!
A throbbing radiation from a pain
as elegant as the beauty it buries,
promises that distant silence
bright with flames will warm you.
Nebulous tatters adrift in a rust red October day
run just ahead of my grip at a glimpse.
Running hunger urges the drops drop within,
and settle there under a message,
under red leaves in the field,
a shard of light
afloat in the dark energy
remembered
as that last missing part
of the radiant ordinary.
 
 
*
 
 
Bay steeds bright as suns bring Indra.
 
A dry sun drinks up his misty morning          
            and eats his roasted day.
Muggy afternoons swallow
all the day breaking Mondays
from Alpha till the end of August.
Sky high, the blue-black night is on the rise.
Manhattan’s talling towers reflect
the dying day’s riotous fire
roils wild across the world.
Those miles and miles gift wrap the ordinary
rewards of being still.
Keep taking me here.
 
 
                                    *
 
 
Fresh from the sea or the sky
an eye
comes up from sleep.
 
Hands aloft,
raising light before dawn,
            shining steps from sunrise to sunset,
the ends of the earth,
footprints on the air.
 
Waves,    crashing tales of the other shore.
 
The broad sure sky, the roofless shelter.
 
The day’s snapping whip drips
sleep’s honey.
 
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