Primitive

by Phil Hall                                                                                                                                       

After horses      trees were our horses
they grew harness–collars      around holes
where limbs had been cut      or had rotted off
thanks to bark beetles      Curculionadae

trees pulled      the long furrow
of the laid–open book      & of the part to the tresses
breath      it is all breath      down into us      & our lungs
fed leaves      the wild blue oats      of an exhale

trees stood      our lives–long      balancing
as they waited for      our gee or haw      all we had to do
was say Elm      Baobab      Hawthorn      everything
likes to hear its name      spoken      as a direction

but we thought metaphor      was only metaphor
now there is only      metaphoric air

.

It won’t go the way you paid into or planned for
you can’t have the procedural dignity you think is your due
0 there will be mishaps      velvet bungles      a wrong entrance
no groundskeeper on Sunday      a slipped rope’s whisper

what do you care anymore for vaudeville or decorum
done with all imagining      you are only a stage
being taken apart      & packed away      with its gaudy costumes
these props      they always look so heavy      but never are

passive passive passive      sing the busy stage–hands      to & fro
they are insects now      but they used to be your relatives
I says the bark beetle      I rocked her cradle      till she fell asleep
I says the spider      no one was prouder of that kid than me

I says the worm      I will teach this fallen form      again
to spell      worm      backwards

My son D’Arcy is an artist      he draws zombies
one time he took me to an art show      by a friend of his
it was in a comic store      on display were SARS masks
each painted      Manga      Kabuki      Slasher

eventually      I got the drunken phone message
he thought I was shit      he was going to sue me      for writing
these little      ruthless      guilty poems      about him
no one reads      but me      & him apparently

that was 10 years ago      I want to say
He & I      must look almost the same now      immune
in our demon –masks     inherited muzzles
but that’s a bad poem right there      we always fail

if we get too smart with metaphor
we’re better off drawing zombies

. Not shy      not red      not rare      a robin
heralds      grey & green      shell & rain      egg & worm
its song      a brief soliloquy      variates      its verities
fly home      all ye      undiagnosed cancers      in Economy

to awake      in a B & B      at dawn
Grendel      naked      alone      & simply      listen
bleached sheets      white      crisp      bleached sheets
is almost      a breakthrough      into      holiness

but it is the almost     that carries      what primitive
wholeness      there can be      close to us      as hollowness
clean sheets      a cough next door      & robin–song
here is early evidence      of a Merlin factor

by every hymn–list denied      though still at weave
in the middle–grounds       on our behalf