“Let me recite what history teaches. History teaches.”
Gertrude Stein
of those saints we know the listing follows
saint orm married saint rain
gave birth to saint iff and saint ave
this is the oldest family
saint iff married saint rive
gave birth to saint reat
who married saint agnes
gave birth to saint rand
saint ave married saint raits
gave birth to saint ranglehold
who did not marry
of the other families
these we mention
saint ill married saint ove
gave birth to saint and & saint rike
saint and did not marry
saint rike married saint ain
gave birth to their son
the nameless one
saint aggers wife is now forgotten
gave birth to saint ump & saint rap
gave birth to noone
dying in the fire reat had set
is nothing but a history
brief at best
an end of one thing
beginning of another
premonition of a future time or line we will be writing
one thing makes sense
one thing only
to live with people
day by day
that struggle
to carry you forward
it is the only way
a future music moves now to be written
w g r & t
its form is not apparent
it will be seen
k l m n
b r v
a hymn for saint iff
a song for his only son
the lonely one who died less lonely
& for his son
who never knew him
a song to
carry him thru to
the end
the martyrology
from The Chronicle of Knarn
i’ve looked across the stars to find your eyes
they aren’t there
where do you hide when the sun goes nova?
i think it’s over
somewhere a poem dies
inside i hide my fears like bits of broken china
mother brought from earth
milleniums ago
i don’t know where the rim ends
to look over
into the great rift
i only know i drift without you
into a blue that is not there
tangled in the memory of your hair
the city gleams in afternoon suns. the aluminum walls
of the stellar bank catch
the strange distorted faces of
the inter-galactic crowds.
i’m holding my hat in my hand
standing awkwardly at the entrance to their shrine
wishing i were near you.
were they like us? i don’t know.
how did they die & how did the legend grow?
(a long time ago i thot i knew how this poem would go, how the figures of the saints would emerge, now it’s covered over by my urge to write you what lines i can. the sun is dying, i’ve heard them say it will go nova before the year’s end. i wanted to send you this letter (this poem) but now it’s too late to say anything, too early to have anything to send.)
i wish i could scream your name & you could hear me
out there somewhere where our lives are
we have moved beyond belief
into a moon that is no longer there
i used to love you (i think)
used to believe in the things i do
now all is useless repetition
my arms ache from not holding you
the winds blow unfeelingly across your face
& the space between us
is as long as my arm is not
the language i write is no longer spoken
my hands turn the words
clumsily
the martyrology
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