poem index

Poem

Michael McClure

Linked part to part, toe to knee, eye to thumb
Motile, feral, a blockhouse of sweat
The smell of the hunt's
A stench,...my foetor.
The eye a bridegroom of torture
Colors are linked by spirit
Euglena, giraffe, frog
Creatures of grace—Rishi
Of their own right.

As I walk my legs say to me 'Run
There is joy in swiftness'
As I speak my tongue says to me 'Sing
There is joy in thought,
The size of the word
Is its own flight from crabbedness.'

And the leaf is an ache
And love an ache in the back.
The stone a creature.

A PALISADE

The inside whitewashed.


. . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . !

A pale tuft of grass.

From Of Indigo and Saffron: New and Selected Poems (University of California Press, 2011). Copyright © 2011 by Michael McClure. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.

Michael McClure

by this poet

poem

WE HAVE GONE
GONE. GONE
in the hole where
soul swells
into
nothing
leaving solid space
where profiles
of gods and fairies
are carved
and
finely
polished
by the clanking of trucks,
thunder-shaking
waves,
and the taste of

poem

I wanted to turn to electricity—I needed
a catalyst to turn to pure fire.
We lied
to each other. Promises

are lies. Work is death. Contracts are
filth—the act of keeping them
destroys the desire to hold them.

I forgive you. Free me!

poem

Clear — the senses bright — sitting in the black chair — Rocker —
the white walls reflecting the color of clouds
moving over the sun. Intimacies! The rooms

not important — but like divisions of all space
of all hideousness and beauty. I hear
the music of myself and