Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, FOUNDERED STAR, by JANE MILLER


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

FOUNDERED STAR, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Little fevered island, blued to closing
Last Line: About ourselves that aren't true.
Subject(s): Poetry & Poets; Social Problems; Writing & Writers


Little fevered island, blued to closing,
boatmen, tidemen, shademen, men of color
and of peace;

women of the cabbage, women of the carrot-house,
women of the swim;
children squealing and picnicking, doe-eyed
and able-bodied, children of clashing cymbals and chalky
dreams, of milk-lips, of bugs under glass;

come now to the tips of the roofs, come now to the lake
lip, to the entryway of the tunnels, to the counting-house;

air the eiderdown, steam the rooms of the lovers, break
the fistfights from their arguments, marry the maid -

live a little in the afternoon, asking,
- now what do I do?

because this is the way we are alive, though we force ourselves out
of a certain nostalgia, where we first made love
the condition of our lives -
a dark room there, but only because
the shades were drawn, it was really midday!, and our clothes stuck
to our bodies like hairy beasts! - we watched the light change
in our eyes, as we dug deeper, pulling out embers -

remember? But the word itself is no longer magical,
the word no longer a living thing...a weakness in one of two breakers.

Yet there remains an image, when you water the sun and moon, mouths
coupling and uncoupling, kissing along the ridge the poet
invented, coincident, temporal, carnal, all
so that others might be entertained, changed a nick or two
like a diamond. Who can say whether better or worse, but this much
I can say, I who am always writing
to you, my earthship, my
next life -
though no one is now
listening or talking (it's all the same)
though no one is now
laboring or sleeping (it's forbidden)
no one yet exploded, the globe forgives
the night sky gone yellow, the morning sea gone white
and all for a little greed, a little light on the wall,

a view of the other side - oar dipped in ink! -
where we shall never again believe things
about ourselves that aren't true.





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