Michael Stone, IL

 

 

Free Verse   The New Pond   ducks, geese and rushes, a swan parceled up head wrapped in wing ducks root in mud, and geese splash-land on the water. on a post, a duck sits like a effigy watching the goose squadrons swim in regatta. willows’ long leaf-hair combs the shining surface and green algae scum reflects the shopping centre wall. in Sinai’s wilderness millennial marks record an ancient nomad’s passing. Norway’s virgin forest, first and pines and snow, is primal, untouched, pathless. but here by the new pond trees are planted, rushes trained upright, paths swept, grass mowed, edges neatly clipped, fallen leaves daily blown away, and never crackle under food. North Carolina, 2006 Previously published in Avocet winter 2010     A Notebook   The famous paperless office isn’t, and stationery shops have become mini computer stores with a few school notebooks and crayons. Apologies for what they once were.   I wanted a good notebook to write in with my fountain pen, without the ink bleeding through and ghosting on the other side or staining paper veins around letters. Not for ballpoint or roller ball, or gel or felt or any other such, but for a pen, ink and gold nib. One of writing’s pleasures, a once modern replacement for an iron nib and an inkwell. I found a foolscap, graph-ruled, black-boarded note book. The only one with polished paper for writing, for writing over and under and polishing. for crossing out, writing above and correcting. It had black covers and a spiral, not bound. But that’s a small concession to make for paper and pen and nib, and ink that does not bleed, through one side of life to another. Previously published in Speed Poets April 2010     Green Stones   Riding in an old dark forest, On a deer-path scarcely seen, Where vines like mossy ropes, Brush the young man's head. Circles cut into great trees Mark out his way within, To a shadowed, hidden place, On a path now seen, now hidden. Guided by damp green stones By runes cut in ages past, Piercing the forest's heart, Beyond where men's paths lead. Quiet respite flows forth, The rider senses its stream, No birds call out in there, The heart is silent, serene.     i do not know about God   i do not know about God, i cannot say "you" to Him as One I address directly. such providential realism is not mine. liturgy, though, has its own rhythm. familiar service, words soothe the soul. suddenly, meaning strikes home, pierces the heart! let the pattern of words then, known, loved, carry us and, if we are lucky, every now and then focus in a different way, sharp, impelling, shock. 30 April, 2010     Whiskers   Shaving, whiskers growing with grey, look carefully at face, do not nick. When else do we stop, look at our face, our hands, ourselves, for eyes are windows of the soul. Is the soul mottled like my whiskers? When the kids were little I scratched them with my whiskers, black they were then. Soap and brush and lather, lathered with sweat, heave, heavy, heave-ho, up goes the topsail. the drunken sailor. After all why shave with a safety blade, or a straightedge stropped on leather when the electric is so easy? But you don’t need a mirror. shaving, wood shavings from planing Canadian pine curl up in tight pine-scented rolls drop to the floor arm, shoulder, torso move the plane over the wood. Smooth, fluid movement shaving whiskers, old ways, up the topsail, planing pine by hand, shaven and showered. Previously published in Speed Poets.     from Selected Poems   Locked Gates   Still, chill air in the street empty early morning bare high walls, closed gates flash and unlock so key-holders may enter into the palaces. door-keepers guardians keys passwords, open and permit ascent upwards inwards through door within doors to the palace within palaces that eye rejoices which alone can read the key to place in the lock the word, the pass code to open locked gates in the palaces' heart the throne room flashes fiery rivers and crystal. He is there and not there and not just there for ever now.     Birds of Paradise*   The parchment lampshade glows warmly, adorned with a peacock that preens proudly between two fruit trees, like in the Garden. Its angles'-eye tail curves down, Paradise bird, immortality's symbnol. Cherubs' wings are full of eyes, God's eyes range all the earth. The vine meanders through the mosaic, tracing medallions, embracing birds in its grape-weighed branches, with pomegranates--Eden's fruit. At the vine's stock a bird in a cage, its wings flutter in the body's prison, two peacock tails frame its base, eying the blind soul's struggle. Will the soul bird learn it's caged: Will the soul bird break free? soar, wing up through the spheres and byond the heavens? *Inspired by the Bird Mosaic in Jerusalem     Prayer   How does an unbeliever pray? Yet I do. Some know God in halogen-bright blinding white light with black, black shadows. But I see grey. 'Glory to God for dappled things', for unclarities ambiguities complexities all, for greys. He will be one with His name: God's wholeness then. But ours?     About Michael Stone, IL   Read Helen Bar-Lev's interview with Michael Stone, IL. This is Michael Stone's first appearance in Sketchbook.