Al Young

IMPROVISATION

There's something or maybe even
nothing about an old session
existing in snarls of tape alone
that sets the ears on fire & the heart
fluttering tall & alluvial, loosening
that barely grounded undertow of quick
sand: Man: the measure of all fullness.
Think of God, think slowly of God
holding all of Creation in the most durable
yet delicate of suspensions, letting go
with constellations of bliss, hard-packed
smatterings of the marvelous it.might take
aeons to understand or unravel, much less
experience, & to think that in each moment
we're experiencing the whole of eternity
piece meal, as though you were to scoop
a handful of water from the ocean.
There in your imperfect vessel of a hand,
slipping thru your fingers, is the ocean
in miniature; a drop in the bucket of love.

COASTAL MOON

Moon of moon & quintessential moonness,
I wonder who you are up there, quiescent,
snug & cozy in a holding pattern
vaguely reminiscent of the calm
& calming sea. And like staring
at the ocean or at fire, the wave
& flame of what I am is what I see.

I see you winking, moon, nestled
over the ocean at just about where
2 o'clock would be if the heavens
had clock hands,
struggled in a furry triangle of clouds;
smiling as if to whisper: "Crisper
nights have swept thru Dubrovnik."

But it's the palm-rustling wind
& softening rain that's blowing me
away & away, so completely away
I shudder to think how far
I'd have to walk if thoughts didn't have wings.

0 fly me back into the light that beams
from the center of the heart of darkness.
Peel me away, moon, layer after layer;
let me shed all artifice like an artichoke
does petals until there's nothing left
except the indivisible & invisible essence:
the wondrous, disappearing joy you are to me tonight
while we play hide & seek beyond the evening.
No London bookmaker would dare lay odds
on when or where you're apt to pop up next.
And not even a seasoned Dubliner could toast
or host you righteously.
All the same, au claire de la rune
(if you'll excuse my French),
in the clear & present safety of your light,

I make my wayhome by sullen taxi
from the wharf of rain & sea-washed stone
& stray cats with their kittens
advancing into Sunday-kept moments that grow
newer & brighter by the minute.

Undress me to my soul, resort town moon,
& gently lay me down to sleep like you
on a bed of shiny, dark water with gypsy clouds
for cover. Laku nor, bonne nuit, guten nacht,
buona, goodnight-goodnight-wherever-you-are!

BIG OCEAN-WAVING, WOMAN-PULLING MOON

Big ocean-waving, woman-pulling moon,
I checked you out when rchecked
into this grand hotel, for you were
hurrying October along, my month
of months. And there wassomething
about the way you took Dubrovnik
that made me want to curl up
in the midst of all this 6th Century splendor
on a bed in a single room with balcony
hanging over the endless,waywardsea
& cling to the formlesssource of mypower,
cling to God from which all beauty flows.

You've seen it all, moon, haven't you?
But have you ever shivered in your rounds
to see how perfectly magnetic loveliness
born of flowing love can be? I have.
r have reason to believe that even
bumps on the head unhinged in a dream
can be gifts or sudden messages
delivered in blood when, from across
an uncrowded room, enchantment looms.

Here in the heart of coastal Yugoslavia
where German is germane to commerce
& English second-guessed, I drink
warm toasts to you, my wine butter-colored
& chilled in sea air. Una dasMeer
istblau, so blau, una dasMeer ist blau.
The sea so blue, the wavelength of jeweled
turquoise,
rings like a bell, like bone, like
familiarity itself, the common,
sacred feeling of having once known
such sumptuousness of nature -
spirit captured in sea, stone & hill
or in the green, heated light of seaside
resourcefulness.

Overhanging, overwhelming, overcoming moon,
the birds I hear singing at 2 a.m.
in the dog-bark lushness of sweet,
chic Dubrovnik is raindrop to the cheek
to my Mediterranean soul.The palms ,.,
bf my hands may be sweating from the stomachcurdling
mussels I must be allergic to
in Old Town, Stari Grad, but you comfort me
& make possible this speedy recovery
that's tugged me from the throes of throwing up
my hands
at the heaven nestled all around me now.

IT IS GOD THAT MOVES IN YOUR HEART

You turn on your pillow
in the Chinese new year
& breathe the hour into my face
your dream eyes fluttering
in the gas heat
of our clock room
with its stuffed bed
& its loneliness.
Beyond these walls
trees are stretching
& shaking themselves
in the automatic drizzle
of yesterday continuing.
Refusing to rise
& bathe & meditate
I groan on my boney side
like an unreflecting animal
planted like vegetable
& lazy as mineral
watching you smile out
from secret film shadows
backstage of some paradise
I would gladly invade

©2000-2007 by Al Young