MOUNTAIN

MOUNTAIN

new worlds
lost kingdoms

gold bearing rock
rich seams beneath us

and those cities
urban projects, experiments,
shanties and
great architecture

think
Moscow, Beijing, Sparta,
Delhi, Athens,
Rome, Medina,
Persepolis, Baghdad
                          New York

not forgetting
       Dublin, how could
anyone
forget Dublin

Senator William Butler
Yeats years sailing
             gong-tormented
seas all the way
to Istanbul when it
was still
named Byzantium

and mythic master and
compatriot, who else
but Joyce
    his very self

navigating the streets of the
Irish capital, dredging up the
truth of
a tragic history
    in future decades about
to explode

religion and modernity
fighting hidden
pitched
battles for his soul

somehow the conceit of
sustained Homeric
parallels
   happening to
liberate him

chatting over coffee
in Zurich, maybe Paris
with
    fascist, bolshevik and
anarchist

profound their differences but
all of it, better or
worse, still
unrealized dream

cities with ports, cities
with rivers, city
with a mountain  with
its peak sliced off
(beneath which
every idea I had
was first
   seeded and
cultivated)

cities with mountains
(to climb) I must
imagine
      few and
far between

city of flashpoint
marked
    out for

perhaps
    singularity headed, abyss
on the horizon

moment, watershed of
exquisite transcendence
wretched
     ultimate abyss

LOUD AND CLEAR

LOUD AND CLEAR
   “I do not think they
will sing for me.”

Yeats on steroids
Yeats on steroids

that’s what he called me
avatar of that man

whose every
photograph suggests
crusty, prickly

whose every word to me
so generous,
    illuminating, out
of left field

such a rooted traditionalist
yet swing door open
to extreme
     innovation

to speak soothing words to
the loneliness of the soul

and me
    like your Prufrock, like
that aging Irish senator
propped up
on a stick
      talking to school children

them wondering
what that
old fool
    was talking about
(as kids
   will always do)

and you
I laughingly told you
that your
    Wasteland was a
(how did I put
it my
    memory failing me
Oh yes
I have it!)

ghost tapestry,
tapestry of ghosts
tissue
     of allusion

which is rich
coming from me, standing
before you, metaphorically
speaking
   (could not be
more metaphorically speaking)

alluding to you
your poetry

my sense of your presence

how it was back then
some lunatic giving us
a slice
  of What the Thunder Said

for, of all things, our (my)
fucking matriculation
English
   examination

who is that one who
walks beside you

that ghostly
desert voice you cannot hear

but is
   the poem, your poem

my great beloved poet and poem
possum, Mr, Professor TS, Tom

I hear you
loud and clear

do not need
my steroids
to hear you loud and clear