Exiting the archive

We were in a crowded place.

No, we were on a boat
hearing the slap of water.

No, we were in the jungle
on a B-movie set.

There is no we
in the archive.

There is only I
with the husk
of the world

of the

sunrise, sunset, no pillow and stone,
no moving stars of earthly time,
just saltaway hope and who knows what
lavender rose and jacaranda
wine too bitter for the glass.

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The bench and the lantern

high above the pueblo we walk
awaiting the late night rain

scrub oak and cactus sprawl
three musicians appear

on a bench on a tiny plaza
we dance, we part, we hear

a door closing a market stall
while far far below

in the halo mist of the pueblo
a figure stops to light

a lantern that flashes red and gold
and brings us back to touch

one more time
as the first
drops fall

(alternate title: As the first drops fall)

Any votes for original (“The bench and the lanterns”) vs. alternate (“As the first drops fall”) title?

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Ex machina

fullness of heart
at first sight
sweet
.     calm
.          jagged
.               flowing
velvety as wine cream
.     sweet
.          calm
.               restless
the simplest of pleasures
a knit of human connection
a banquet of fruit and chocolate
deep and dark and bittersweet
and floating in the room
the candle now still
a time to depart
ex machina

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The rains and the temple

Shiva’s giant trident
at Pasupatinath still wet,
a monkey, with child clinging
fast and dry to the belly,
eyes the pilgrim’s steps,
starts, reconsiders, decides
quickly for which tree
she is to run.

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Shortlisted for the Faulkner-Wisdom Poetry Prize

 

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Hero and Leander (the lamp and the water)

I still walk to that lake, the surface now still,
absence of geometry, ache of tranquility,

a voice but a whisper
soothing, sad, a silver
thorn in the side of love.

What love creates, need destroys.

We put flowers on the table
at the changing of the season.

Then the rains came. We watched
through the kitchen window.
You turned out the lamp.

“I love you more than I need you,” I said.
“Now I know what that means.”
But need, the ache, the silver thorn,
will have its bloody day.

Time passes. Seasons change.

When I walk to the lake I stir the surface,
the glitter of sun, a dangerous swell,
my hand beginning to move
into place a geometry
of memories.

Poem by Gary Gautier
Painting by Cheryl Gautier

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Faster to the close we went

the earth stopped turning
and we all went flying
off toward the stars

sparkling, burning, dying,
our stupid awe holding
only to the beauty

hazy memories, moss
and moon, drifting
floating petals

someone on the tiny plaza
just outside my window

flying still toward the stars
faster, faster, stupid awe
holding tight to savage
light and bitter ash

eyes aflame, dreams
and memories void of pain

sparkling, burning, dying, laughing
stupidly good, colder now, yet
faster, faster, to the close
faster to the close
we went

  

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