My grandfather was a bird. Underneath his white hair he wore crayon-coloured feathers. They were of broiling gold and of burning red and of drowning blue. One was green the colour of a single blade of grass. When he walked ahead of me I could see from his stride how he flew in the branches of trees. When his hand curled in my hair I could feel him perching around me. When he worked on the end of a shovel I found how his arms spread wide in a turn. And when he stood over a bed full of flowers I saw that his eyes gathered what shone on the ground for his nest. When he was gone I remember him sitting in a tree in a garden which he had planted. And all the cries of morning were around him. ~ From The Art of Walking Upright (Steele Roberts Ltd, 1999)

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)I went out of the schoolhouse fast and through the gardens and to the woods, and spent all summer forgetting what I’d been taught— two times two, and diligence, and so forth, how to be modest and useful, and how to succeed and so forth, machines and oil and plastic and money and so forth. By fall I had healed somewhat, but was summoned back to the chalky rooms and the desk, to sit and remember the way the river kept rolling its pebbles, the way the wild wrens sang though they hadn’t a penny in the bank, the way the flowers were dressed in nothing but light. ~ from Devotions (Penguin Books 2020)

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquility; The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the sea: Listen! the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder—everlastingly. Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year, And worship’st at the Temple’s inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. ~ in the public domain

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)Remember how we used to do it— weaving through the crowd, brushing shoulders, fingers touching a sleeve, adjusting a lapel—first an old friend here, then turn to banter with a stranger, finding odd connections—“You’re from where?...You know her!”—going deeper into story there, leaning back in wonder, bending close to whisper, secrets hidden in the hubbub, as if in the middle of this melee you have found a room and lit a lamp… then the roar of the crowd comes back, someone singing out a name, another bowing with a shriek of laughter, slap on the back, bear hug void of fear? Imagine! Just imagine. ~ from Singer Come From Afar (Red Hen Press 2021)

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)Why does this written doe bound through these written woods? For a drink of written water from a spring whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle? Why does she lift her head; does she hear something? Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth, she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips. Silence - this word also rustles across the page and parts the boughs that have sprouted from the word "woods." Lying in wait, set to pounce on the blank page, are letters up to no good, clutches of clauses so subordinate they'll never let her get away. Each drop of ink contains a fair supply of hunters, equipped with squinting eyes behind their sights, prepared to swarm the sloping pen at any moment, surround the doe, and slowly aim their guns. They forget that what's here isn't life. Other laws, black on white, obtain. The twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say, and will, if I wish, divide into tiny eternities, full of bullets stopped in mid-flight. Not a thing will ever happen unless I say so. Without my blessing, not a leaf will fall, not a blade of grass will bend beneath that little hoof's full stop. Is there then a world where I rule absolutely on fate? A time I bind with chains of signs? An existence become endless at my bidding? The joy of writing. The power of preserving. Revenge of a mortal hand. ~ from Poems New and Collected (Mariner Books, 2001) Translated by S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)i often daydream about the woman i’ll be when i leave the rush of my insecure twenties and pick up self-assurance on the way i can’t wait to make my eighteen-year-old self jealous of the hell i raise roaring into my thirty and forties my soul becoming more potent with age at fifty i’ll sit with my wrinkles and silver hair laughing about the adventures we’ve had together talking about the countless more in the decades ahead what a privilege it is to grow into the finest version of myself ~ from home body (Simon & Schuster, 2020)

In this country, Jamaica is not quite as far 
as you might think. Walking through Peckham
in London, West Moss Road in Manchester, 
you pass green and yellow shops 
where tie-headwomen bargain over the price 
of dasheen. And beside Jamaica is Spain 
selling large yellow peppers, lemon to squeeze 
onto chicken. Beside Spain is Pakistan, then Egypt, 
Singapore, the world ... here, strangers build home 
together, flood the ports with curry and papayas; 
in Peckham and on Moss road, the place smells 
of more than just patty or tandoori. It smells like 
Mumbai, like Castries, like Princess Street, Jamaica. 
Sometimes in this country, the only thing far away 
is this country.

~ from Border Lines, Poems of Migration (Alfred A Knopf, 2020)In this country, Jamaica is not quite as far  as you might think. Walking through Peckham in London, West Moss Road in Manchester,  you pass green and yellow shops  where tie-headwomen bargain over the price  of dasheen. And beside Jamaica is Spain  selling large yellow peppers, lemon to squeeze  onto chicken. Beside Spain is Pakistan, then Egypt,  Singapore, the world ... here, strangers build home  together, flood the ports with curry and papayas;  in Peckham and on Moss road, the place smells  of more than just patty or tandoori. It smells like  Mumbai, like Castries, like Princess Street, Jamaica.  Sometimes in this country, the only thing far away  is this country.  ~ from Border Lines, Poems of Migration (Alfred A Knopf, 2020)

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)Rest, now. Let the weight you run from every day now draw you down. Later there will be more time to tend to everything left undone Now, rest. Fall into your own bones lying horizontal on this ground. Come into your dark corners. Come into this original nakedness under all the layers. Come where all your losses split you open. Don't rise, yet -- rest. Be drawn deeper down into the salt tide of tears. Let grief wash you, then drown you beyond the name you were first given, when you reached to touch your own mother's face for the very first time, and she smiled her light down into you. Now reach those same fingers for the face of infinity -- so that, opening your eyes, you will know the one dreaming you is pleased with you, that everything seen is your self, and that now is the time to rise wholehearted into the work aching to be animated by precisely you. ~ from Bury The Seed (Performance Integral, 2020)

Though my mother was already two years dead Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas, put hot water bottles her side of the bed and still went to renew her transport pass. You couldn't just drop in. You had to phone. He'd put you off an hour to give him time to clear away her things and look alone as though his still raw love were such a crime. He couldn't risk my blight of disbelief though sure that very soon he'd hear her key scrape in the rusted lock and end his grief. He knew she'd just popped out to get the tea. I believe life ends with death, and that is all. You haven't both gone shopping; just the same, in my new black leather phone book there's your name and the disconnected number I still call. ~ from Poems of Healing (Alfred A Knopf, Everyman’s Library, 2021)

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)He was about four, I think... it was so long ago. In a garden; he'd done some damage behind a bright screen of sweet-peas - snapped a stalk, a stake, I don't recall, but the grandmother came and saw, and asked him "Did you do that?" Now, if she'd said why did you do that, he'd never have denied it. She showed him he had a choice. I could see in his face the new sense, the possible. That word and deed need not match, that you could say the world different, to suit you. When he said "No", I swear it was as moving as the first time a baby's fist clenches on a finger, as momentous as the first taste of fruit. I could feel his eyes looking through a new window, at a world whose form and colour weren't fixed but fluid, that poured like a snake, trembled around the edges like northern lights, shape-shifted at the spell of a voice. I could sense him filling like a glass, hear the unreal sea in his ears. This is how to make songs, create men, paint pictures, tell a story. I think I made up the screen of sweet-peas. Maybe they were beans, maybe there was no screen: it just felt as if there should be, somehow. And he was my - no, I don't need to tell that. I know I made up the screen. And I recall very well what he had done ~ from The Beautiful Lie (Seren 2002)

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)If you ask me, us takes in undulations – each wave in the sea, all insides compressed – as if, from one coast, you could reach out to the next; and maybe it’s a Midlands thing but when I was young, us equally meant me, says the one, ‘Oi, you, tell us where yer from’; and the way supporters share the one fate – I, being one, am Liverpool no less – cresting the Mexican wave of we or us, a shore-like state, two places at once, God knows what’s in it; and, at opposite ends my heart’s sunk at separations of us. When it comes to us, colour me unsure. Something in me, or it, has failed the course. I’d love to think I could stretch to it – us – but the waves therein are too wide for words. I hope you get, here, where I’m coming from. I hope you’re with me on this – between love and loss – where I’d give myself away, stranded as if the universe is a matter of one stress. Us. I hope, from here on, I can say it and though far-fetched, it won’t be too far wrong. ~ from Border Lines, Poems of Migration (Alfred A Knopf, 2020)

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985) Tibetan Buddhist maxim And yet, wouldn't it be welcome at the end of each ordinary day? The audience could be small, the theater modest. Folding chairs in a church basement would do. …Just a short earnest burst of applause that you got up that morning and, one way or the other, made it through the day. You soaped up in the steaming shower, drank your Starbucks in the car, and let the guy with the Windex wipe your windshield during the long red light at Broad Street. Or maybe you were that guy, not daring to light up while you stood there because everyone's so down on smoke these days. Or you kissed your wife as she hurried out the door, even though you were pretty sure she was meeting her lover at the Flamingo Motel, even though you wanted to grab her by a hank of her sleek hair. Maybe your son's in jail. Your daughter's stopped eating. And your husband's still dead this morning, just like he was yesterday and the day before that. And yet you put on your shoes and take a walk, and when a neighbor says Good morning, you say Good morning back. Would a round of applause be amiss? Even if you weren't good. If you yelled at your kid, poisoned the ants, drank too much and said that really stupid thing you promised yourself you wouldn't say. Even if you don't deserve it. ~ from The Human Line (Copper Canyon Press, 2007)

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)Today I was awakened by strong coffee and the awareness that the earth is busy with whales even though we can’t see any unless we have embarked on a whale watch, which would be disappointing if we still couldn’t see any. I can see the steam rising from my yellow cup, the usual furniture scattered about, and even some early light filtering through the palms. Meanwhile, thousands of whales are cruising along at various speeds under the seas, crisscrossing one another, slaloming in and out of the Gulf Stream, some with their calves traveling alongside—such big blunt heads they have! So is it too much to ask that one day a year be set aside for keeping in mind while we step onto a bus, consume a ham sandwich, or stoop to pick up a coin from a sidewalk the multitude of these mammoth creatures coasting between the continents, some for the fun of it, others purposeful in their journeys, all concealed under the sea, unless somewhere one breaks the surface with an astonishing upheaval of water and all the people in yellow slickers rush to one side of the boat to pint and shout and wonder how to tell their friends about the day they saw a whale? ~ from Whale Day (Random House, 2020)

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)I visit the grocery store like the Indian woman in Peru attends the cathedral. Saying a few words over and over; butter, bread, apples, butter bread apples. I nod to the grandmothers muttering among roots. Their carts tell stories: they eat little, they live alone. Last week two women compared their cancers matter-of-factly as I compare soups. How do you reach that point of acceptance? Life and death shoved in the same basket and you with a calm face waiting at the checkout stand. We must bless ourselves with peaches. Pray to the eggplant, silent among her sisters , that the seeds will not be bitter on her tongue. Confess our fears to the flesh of tomato: we go forward only halfway ripened dreaming of the deeper red. ~ from Everything Comes Next (Greenwillow Books, 2020) ~ from @MosabAbuToha

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)We plant seeds in the ground And dreams in the sky, Hoping that, someday, the roots of one Will meet the upstretched limbs of the other. It has not happened yet. We share the sky, all of us, the whole world: Together, we are a tribe of eyes that look upward, Even as we stand on uncertain ground. The earth beneath us moves, quiet and wild, Its boundaries shifting, its muscles wavering. The dream of sky is indifferent to all this, Impervious to borders, fences, reservations. The sky is our common home, the place we all live. There we are in the world together. The dream of sky requires no passport. Blue will not be fenced. Blue will not be a crime. Look up. Stay awhile. Let your breathing slow. Know that you always have a home here. ~ from Healing the Divide, Poems of Kindness & Connection, edited by James Crews (Green Writers Press, 2019)

I want to tell you something. This morning
is bright after all the steady rain, and every iris,
peony, rose, opens its mouth, rejoicing. I want to say,
wake up, open your eyes, there’s a snow-covered road
ahead, a field of blankness, a sheet of paper, an empty screen.
Even the smallest insects are singing, vibrating their entire bodies, 
tiny violins of longing and desire. We were made for song.
I can’t tell you what prayer is, but I can take the breath 
of the meadow into my mouth, and I can release it for the leaves’ 
green need. I want to tell you your life is a blue coal, a slice
of orange in the mouth, cut hay in the nostrils. The cardinals’
red song dances in your blood. Look, every month the moon
blossoms into a peony, then shrinks to a sliver of garlic.
And then it blooms again.

~ from Healing the Divide, Poems of Kindness & Connection, edited by 
James Crews (Green Writers Press, 2019)
I want to tell you something. This morning
is bright after all the steady rain, and every iris,
peony, rose, opens its mouth, rejoicing. I want to say,
wake up, open your eyes, there’s a snow-covered road
ahead, a field of blankness, a sheet of paper, an empty screen.
Even the smallest insects are singing, vibrating their entire bodies, 
tiny violins of longing and desire. We were made for song.
I can’t tell you what prayer is, but I can take the breath 
of the meadow into my mouth, and I can release it for the leaves’ 
green need. I want to tell you your life is a blue coal, a slice
of orange in the mouth, cut hay in the nostrils. The cardinals’
red song dances in your blood. Look, every month the moon
blossoms into a peony, then shrinks to a sliver of garlic.
And then it blooms again.

~ from Healing the Divide, Poems of Kindness & Connection, edited by James Crews (Green Writers Press, 2019)

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)Wait, for now. Distrust everything if you have to. But trust the hours. Haven't they carried you everywhere, up to now? Personal events will become interesting again. Hair will become interesting. Pain will become interesting. Buds that open out of season will become interesting. Second-hand gloves will become lovely again; their memories are what give them the need for other hands. And the desolation of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness carved out of such tiny beings as we are asks to be filled; the need for the new love is faithfulness to the old. Wait. Don't go too early. You're tired. But everyone's tired. But no one is tired enough. Only wait a little and listen: music of hair, music of pain, music of looms weaving all our loves again. Be there to hear it, it will be the only time, most of all to hear the flute of your whole existence, rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion. ~ from Mortal Acts, Mortal Words (Mariner Books, 1980)

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)These are the late poems. Most poems are late of course: too late, like a letter sent by a sailor that arrives after he’s drowned. Too late to be of help, such letters, and late poems are similar. They arrive as if through water. Whatever it was has happened: the battle, the sunny day, the moonlit slipping into lust, the farewell kiss. The poem washes ashore like flotsam. Or late, as in late for supper: all the words cold or eaten. Scoundrel, plight, and vanquished, or linger, bide, awhile, forsaken, wept, forlorn. Love and joy, even: thrice-gnawed songs. Rusted spells. Worn choruses. It’s late, it’s very late; too late for dancing. Still, sing what you can. Turn up the light: sing on, sing: On. ~ from Dearly (McClelland & Stewart, 2020

I want to get up early one more morning,

before sunrise. Before the birds, even.

I want to throw cold water on my face

and be at my work table

when the sky lightens and smoke

begins to rise from the chimneys

of the other houses.

I want to see the waves break

on this rocky beach, not just hear them

break as I did all night in my sleep.

I want to see again the ships

that pass through the Strait from every

seafaring country in the world—

old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,

and the swift new cargo vessels

painted every color under the sun

that cut the water as they pass.

I want to keep an eye out for them.

And for the little boat that plies

the water between the ships

and the pilot station near the lighthouse.

I want to see them take a man off the ship

and put another up on board.

I want to spend the day watching this happen

and reach my own conclusions.

I hate to seem greedy—have so much

to be thankful for already.

But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.

Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

~ from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

(Random House, 1985)I listened to outrageous laughter there by the stone-carving shelter where children painted and listened to Alex Janvier. Year after year on the grounds of Blue Quills I shared a tent with a friend and we told stories of those lonely nights and how we preserved our broken Cree. I walked, ran, skipped swore and sang the fourteen miles from that school all the way to Saddle Lake. We were told by our guide to meditate, be silent in our walk. How could we after our voices were lost in the classrooms of that school? When I reached my home reserve the Old Ones received me and danced me on my blistered feet. Water, tea, fruit, bannock and deer stew. What food would heal this wound bundled against my back? A child still crying in those long school nights. I know of a man who still carries his suitcase, began at six, now sixty years, carrying those little treasures of home that was forever gone. ~ from Burning In This Midnight Dream (Coteau Books, 2016)

A swift, successive chain of things,
That flash, kaleidoscope-like, now in, now out,
Now straight, now eddying in wild rings,
No order, neither law, compels their moves,
But endless, constant, always swiftly roves.

~ in the Public Domain  (originally appeared in Violets and Other Tales, The Monthly Review, 1895)