ALASKA POEMS, 1992

            

                        1

in my mind I sing songs

that know no endings

arias stretching into infinity

melodies without cadences

chords without resolutions

notes trembling in empty space

searching for a symphony to cling to.

looking blankly at the sky

i weave wings of sound

in my head

that I may fly

that I may fly.

                    2

i have shed long ago

the tears I would have shed now

if I were less tempered

and more naïve.

          reality, that eternal curmudgeon,

         having spared me no dagger thrusts

         i leave to the rest

         henceforth I shall live life detached

         eyes closed to the world.

                    3

sometimes in the unconsciousness of sleep

i  thrill at the sight of your face

glowing like the sun

i awake

it is dark

i am alone.

                          4

do not take for granted

what nature seems to grant in excess:

the rising and setting of the sun,

the greening of the land,

waters swirling into creek or sea,

the rocks, flowers,

the very air we breathe.

do not take for granted

a lover’s touch

or a warming smile,

or the milk that flows

from a mother’s  breast,

the song of the thrush

or the flight of a tern,

the clouds tinged pink with sunrise

or the stars peeping out

from behind the dark curtain of the sky.

what seemed to last forever

oft falls prey to man’s depravity.

the mountain that was is now a plain

a briny wasteland where nothing grows

over which a dusty wind

keens its sad lament

over and over again:

“ah, the loss! ah, the woe!”

                  5

I used to be wise

in the ways of reason

till emotions rendered useless

my skill at logic.

sure, there is no sense

in an attachment that may

dwindle into a farce

but who’s to say it makes no sense

while it lasts?

love,

fools say with passion,

is its own reason for being,

a conflagration stoked

in the depths of a

barren heart

that will find love

where it will

despite the remonstrations of a cold

despairing mind.

                        6

alaskan landscape

dark  jagged peaks

caressed by fingers

of silent snow.

ice sliding down steep ravines

fracturing , dissolving

in the frigid ocean’s maw.

a  lone eagle

shrieking down from the heights

its cry puncturing

the silence of the trees.

the wind rakes my face

with icy talons

whistling, growling,  hissing:

“walk where you will,

watch what you may

but know that I am lord

and this land belongs to me!”

                 7

the essence of love

is distilled in an alembic of tears,

an elixir

 sweeter than ambrosia,

a poison more potent

than witches’ brew.

to sip of it is to leap

from the highest cliff

believing one could fly

where many have fallen

to their deaths.

why drink of it, then?

why quaff a draught

of life and death

in equal measure?

because love intoxicates

and one forgets.

how easily

one forgets.

                          8

I tasted love and found it sweet

with a bitterness that numbed my lips

I touched your hand and found it warm

as the icy grip of an arctic storm

I stole a moment from your eyes

that hypnotized

and told me lies.

when loving fails

though love be true

the reddest sun

turns darkest blue.

                           9

written in the light of an absent face

my love for you is indefinable

like a lifting of the heart

at the sight of a sunset.

so what does this mean

this melancholy that grips me

when the sun disappears from view?

there is always the moon

weaving around itself a misty corona

and the stars filling the night sky

with their immutable brilliance.

I love them no less

than the sun.

but

as I stand here at water’s edge

I long once more for

a sight of the sun’s face

splintering and re-forming

on the crests of dancing waves.

so it is with you.

time

which blurs or brightens memory

may prove me a hapless fool

too easily dazzled by transitory light

and you, a creature

that merely crossed my field of sight,

destined to move beyond the edge of vision.

whatever befalls me

(whether love, fancy or mere delusion)

I know,

have learnt

that sunsets are better seen than touched

for the tremendous fire of the sun

will consume and destroy

the unwary and trusting heart.

10

to chet baker

in memoriam

music killed him you know,

music that soothes the breasts

of savage beasts

rendered him mad

with her intoxicating beauty.

music was his way out of  mortality,

his mistress luring him

to an embrace of death.

when he died

fallen from grace

 the notes he played in life

cradled him in his grave.

                       11

i picked a pebble from the sand

and felt its form within my hand.

perhaps it had lain there for a century

worn smooth by waves of a raging sea

its surface shone like porphyry,

its color, blue as a twilit sky.

its shape was oval, soft and sleek

                                                like a teardrop falling down a cheek.

feeling it within my hand

that pebble I had picked up from the sand

I thought of life and love and other things

of little joys and  little schemes.

of dreams I had  that came to nought.

and, in this reverie, I thought:

my heart is like a pebble, too,

worn smooth by passions strong but true.

                                                                12

                                                 to  a waterfall

Juneau, Alaska, may 1992

rage on!

rage on!

rage on like me!

give  form to existence

unshackled  from destiny.

pound the rocks with your rain-swollen hands

roar your mouthless wrath

and splash the gray sky

with drops of your icy blood.

let no mountain crag contain your fury

or granite stand in the way

of  your heedless rush

uproot the arrogant pine

from banks of bouldered streams

and splinter it to pieces.

be cruel! be cruel!

the sea will soon engulf you

and then you will be gone

so while the glaciers still feed you

rage on!

rage on!

13

the hike

Skagway , Alaska

June 1992

part one

I caught the stillness in the air

when I paused to rest

panting for breath.

the stillness moved

for in the forest

halfway to the mountaintop

nothing is really still:

birds sing

trees creak

the wind scurries and slashes

through the leaves.

through the pines

I saw the town below me

nestled amidst blankets

of greenery and bay.

it seemed so far away

as if my gasps for breath

had lifted me beyond this earth

into a realm where rocks,

cyclopean and moss-draped,

and trees, bare

to where last winter’s snow

had buried them,

stood sentinel to a world

beyond human reckoning.

the trail angled sharply

and fallen logs blocked my path.

often the trail became

a stream or was simply lost

in a cover of snow,

though I never went astray and

followed the path of those

who had gone before.

on and on I carried

my protesting limbs and heaving lungs

for, I reasoned,

having gone so far,

suspended between heaven and earth,

why waste a minute more

even thinking of retreat?

i thought of sir galahad,

he of the holy grail .

like him I was (I thought)

searching for something, if less divine,

yet no less true: a view.

part two

upper dewey lake

it wasn’t the sun that blinded me

nor the white of untrodden snow

nor the unclouded sky

itself of pure unblemished blue

nor the spired walls of windblasted rocks

that rose above this reservoir

of slow-melting ice

nor the scattered stands of dark-green pines

marching up the steep snow-blanketed ravines

nor the distant mountain ranges,

glaciers glinting on their crests.

no, it was none of these things at all.
it was you.

14

love at first is a worm

that writhes

in a mess of lust and greed

desire and need.

it flings itself and clings to

a sturdy twig

and spins itself in a frenzy

of longing and intrigue

till, spent,

it stops, sensing perhaps

that desire must cease

and give way to quiet feeling.

silently love broods there

in its cocoon

rough and gray outside

but within, silv’ry as the moon.

in the full flush of morning

as the dew melts into the sky

freed from its chrysalis

love becomes a butterfly

15

                                                  i must constantly touch the sky

or I will die

the slow death of those

for whom clouds mean nothing

or forests are for burning

or flowers are for trampling.

i must constantly sing

or I will grow numb

with the coldness of those

for whom birds trill no enchantment

bees buzz no excitement

or breezes bblow no endearments.

I must constantly touch my heart

Or it shall grow cold

as a piece ofrock

gray, dark and grim.

When the wind rises

and chills my bones

and the light grows dim,

i shall build a fire

and warm my heart

and I’ll dream on

dream on.

16

i  have no will

to change my ways

for something more

acceptable or apt.

and so I’ll live

the life I want

and never mind the rap.

manny panta

Dawn Princess

June 22, 1992

ALASKA

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