Quincy Troupe

SIGHTING BIRDS AT THE BEACH

1. FLYING FISHERBIRDS

joined together behind the asshole nexus of a leader
two v-shaped lines of pelicans cruise overhead
in la Jolla, winged fisherbirds headed out
into the boiling gray mist of a fog
foaming in from the pacific
on the downside of a
late but early
autumn
afternoon in
september, their cookie-
cutter bodies punching out irregular
black holes & shapes up there in space on a day
gray as sadness, these anglers gliding by like fighter planes
riding currents of wind & light, turning as they fly by in formation
their necks craning upward, straining outward-like wings slightly bent at
the tip-& downward (like cockpit cabins of concorde jets raising
lickety-split, hell-bent for europe) they rise up scanning
the rolling roiling waves, looking down heady-eyed
avengers scooping up fish from waving
water there pelicans following
their spearheaded leader-
fisherbirds
tracking new skies
over boundless salt seas rancid
with the death-flesh odor of countless
entombed there but a table of food stretching out
in front of a pelican's keen visionwings spread wide to
catch a ride on sweet breaths of looping breezes there, totipalmates
webbed feet tucked underneath, like airplane wheels right after takeoff
their distensible pouch hills empty which drives them to dip
& glide ever alert eyes zeroing into curling waves for possible
kills, like heat-seeking radar one leaves the i -- shaped
formation-knife blade plunging toward
the sea's heart-0 pelican diving
o pelican--deep sea
fisherbird

II. GRACEFUL SCAVENGERS

on the ground, seagulls wobble around beaches
like drunken, beady -eyed judges
without their black robes on, stepping stiff legged across
sands dirty as the colors of their feathers
snatching food from the mouths of bawling toddlers
with their long, rapier-like beaks, they peck at beer cans,
styrofoam cups-anything they see, really-leaving webbed
hirdprtnts tracking through sand, they look sideways out of mean
red eyes, wobbling about on toothpick legs, they wobble top-heavy
fat bodies around like black church deacons
or plump s all street executives, shuffling herky-jerky
side-to-side, their demeanor that of solemn funeral home directors
heads up, eyes alert for scraps of anything thought to he edible
their beaks jackhammering the earth as they strut by, gray-white
pilfering birds, so wretched down here on the ground
but lawd so beautiful cruising up there in space-
like anything the imagination thought as graceful or sleek-
easing in & out of wind currents, they bank & glide, float
& climb like a great idea spotlighted in prime time

WHENEVER EYE WALK BY

whenever eye walk by now
sometimes men & women jump
startled out their skins
whenever
they hear the sound
of my new knee
brace squeaking-unoiled
steel rubbing up against steel
beneath foam
rubber--

perhaps they're
thinking,
whenever they hear that
squeaking sound

there's a beady-eyed
mouse, in the house,

somewhere

STYLE IS

style is bebop, cool jazz slick strolling
words phrased through space in a blue span
of time, is hip-hop, rap, & attitude cruising
a deep way of thinking rooted in a stance, is a man,
or a woman, dressed to fashion plate perfection,
their clothes hung just so,
"clean" as a miles davis muted solo,
they strut their sweet stuff blooming cologne
perfume behind them, are wrapped inside a bearing,
good taste trailing like fresh waterfalls, their voices
cascades of honeyed syllables sing like morning
birds, or breezes licking silver tongues,
kissed through shivering wind chimes

JEREZ DE LA FRONTERA
for Peter

I.

in the deep black hours of jerez, after midnight, margaret is a mummy
wrapped in a white sheet where she sleeps, in the dead of night, she lies
in the center of our bed, stiff as demeanors of some european aristocrats, peter,
your house quiet as church mice sniffing gold leaf pages of a hook of sacrament,
a cool breeze licking in over white walls & slanted roofs from the east filters
heat, announces morning light is not far oft, wedded, as it is, to daybreak, soon
the white bridal gown of first light will spread out its hem, lift its white lace
veil, while a lengthening train of clues breaks the dark into spreading
blues, which are current everywhere, common as the lyrics of muddy waters,
john lee hooker, lightnin' hopkins, somewhere deep inside
a snoring voice of lament breaks through the last vestiges of quiet hours,
at the center of a slippery moment full of dreaming, a motorbike zips through,
leaning around corners, it escalates the language of its speed as it shoots, veers,
clues itself into somewhere it is due, gearing down toward silence as it blows
past shite walls & roofs collaged in hold relief against a spangled black sky,
they look like still lifes from my second-floor window over the garden,
while margaret's sweet fragrance rises like seduction from where she sleeps,
her body a stand-in for a mummy wrapped in white linen, her face sweet,
is turned toward the window as if to kiss first light when it comes

II.

now a sliver of moon smiles through our room above the tiny chimneys,
they seem to wear small hats cocked ace-duce, like the icon of tio pepe sherry,
peter has told us of the burning hot wind of dust & fire called la vente,
which brings grief from the east, when the weather vane's arrow head points
in the direction of seville, granada's alhambra, lorca's moorish part of andalusia,
its craggy mountain peaks sharp as alligator teeth, their skin the color of chalk
brown mixed with ochre, greens, reds, white villages & towns-
& one the shape of one of miró's floating birds-sweep across this heat-
stricken landscape of late august, up & down rolling, warbled landscapes,
rendered mysterious by el greco's surreal, strangely beautiful canvases,
they seem to be rising up from some moonscape, somber dream,

but today the weather vane arrows north, toward madrid & morning
breaks through smells of coffee, footsteps that crack hard as castanets, or skulls
being popped open when smashed against old cobblestone streets, spilled brandy
that stained tiled squares checkerboarding the walkway of the plaza plateros
last night, is being washed clean, right before daylight breaks apart my dreams,
eye hear in the center of my imagination the roar of a bullring, erupting
cheers in the arena roll up & down, a cadence of emotive conundrum,
& in the middle of it all eye feel the matador slaying the bull,
in the center of the arena, see its blood flowing bright as the matador's red suit,
emblazoned with golden epaulets, hear in my mind's ear clapping castanets,
cracking sounds of flamenco dancers shoes slapping the floor staccato,
in a rhythm reminding me of popping sounds of conga drums, miles' lamenting
trumpet on Sketches of Spain, now that the sun is high in the blue eye follow
the curve of his mournful lament, fully awake now, walk down
to your walled-in courtyard peter, bright with green, yellow chumbera cactus
buds, bright birds of paradise shoot out blooming tongues that burst into heads,
geraniums fragrant as the sparkling water fountain is lyrical, tantalize
the senses, you want to sit here forever amongst these red & yellow lobster
claws, scarlet red begonias laddering, emblazoning these old walls,
want to sit & write poems of hope & serenity, but today, back in the states,
president Clinton is being deposed in front of a grand jury, people screaming
his head be axed off, thrown into a bucket like fish, or snakes

but you wring out words of joy, peter, they roll off your tongue lyrical
as a happy mantra, relieved the weather vane's arrowhead still points north,
the breeze tongue cool as springs of water high in mountains of italy,
you are relieved the day is not scorching hot with la vente,
though we hear words circling the american congress like declarations of war,
on that day we would go down to the beach between cádiz & rota,
where the waves washing in rough & warm were beautiful, the sun setting low,
in the west, just before evening wrapped itself around us like the arms
of a favorite relative, my spirit reaching out across the straits of gibraltar felt
the tip of africa, so close, so far away, the promontory of cádiz pointing
like a finger full of white buildings toward the dark continent,
when the light grew dark as the sun dropped like a ripe orange into the sea,
where ships crawled into port like giant bugs, sea gulls glided over & through
the sweet, cool air, like toy planes banking over waves thick as molasses,
the air here thick with andalusian spanish, syllables cracking rapid fire,
machine-gun staccato, the laughter sudden as terrorist explosions,
spontaneous as great music is always, everywhere it is played

III.

night has come again to this place of caballos, noble horses & brave fighting
bulls with curved horns trying to kill a matador with a red cape,
toro, toro, toro, bravo, toro, the cheers rise as the bloody black bull charges,
toro, toro, toro, a man & a red cape & a horse, the spectacle beyond what
eye feel is beauty, though eye see there in movement the sheer power,
choreography of war, the grace of man & beast during a moment
at the edge of death, locked into a mode of survival, is as far as my heart can go
in the service of destruction for beauty, who am eye to say what is or isn't glory,
the lance poised in the air like a scorpion's tail before the strike is art for so many,
murder to others, in this land of the inquisition & franco's execution of lorca,
what is there to know but your own heartbeat pulsing love, peter,
the blood of friendship pure as your smile or hug, these bodegas of wine you have shared
peter, full of the finest sherry, meals scarfed down & laughter shattering moments
like gunfire, these are the things you remember, castanets & flamenco dancers,
the chimneys cocked ace-duce like icons of tio pepe in the cool evenings,
your gracious, spontaneous smile, my friend, your friendship brought us here,
for me to see margaret's body wrapped like a mummy in lacy white linen,
asleep in the center of our bed, the shades open, in the dead of fragrant nights,
her face sweet, always turned toward the open window, as if to kiss
the first morning light when it comes, is a blessing & a gift,
eye tell you now, peter, it is a blessing & a rare, poetic gift

© 1999-2005 by Quincy Troupe