lyrics | fictions | episodes ©E. Best, 2013-2020
it never gets dark here
we have stars and streetlamps
to keep us awake
headlights on the ceiling at 3am
I rise to a hoar frost
and the ground of my being is frozen
later there will be rain
and I will listen at the window
I like to hear about your baking
your day
simple things precisely said
that mean a lot
to one
so far away
complicated things
that you know how to make
sound easy
I awoke unable to remember
how or why we write poems
or make these line breaks
alerting us to another way
of reading and seeing
now I remember
meanwhile
rainwater collecting in buckets
shines like something holy
dog on the bed
like a polar landmass in the spring
I would give anything
to be like you
yours is an empire of the skin
mine the meandering way within
an island off the compass of the world
go howl your howl
let it be heard
you sit at your table writing
while I sit at mine
I’d like to have coffee with you sometime
a glass or two of wine
discuss the price of light bulbs
or the intricacies of verse
there are subjects far worse
such as love
loss
domesticity
it would all be with the greatest civility
though I cannot remain serious
for too long
I knew a girl once made me laugh so much
I could have wept
but now she’s gone
and I am undone
so here’s to you
and whatever it is you write
so feverishly
uneasily
at your table
I am unable to stand the light
for much longer
at any price
[first posted Jan 10, 2016]
I sailed out
and not a sign of songbirds
I listened to the ocean
and its mournful sway
I have made an ark of my days
no graceful vessel
but a makeshift shelter
in which to stay
I have made a wreck of my days
and would be done with it
but an ark is a cathedral
by another name
listen to the songbirds
in the cold grey water
songbirds perch
on the endless wave
songbirds sing
in clear blue water
gentle waters
sing for day
tales were told at table
that night
and when it came to my turn
I said
why is it always my turn
and the answer came back
you’re the only one
here
so I recounted the days of my
youth
which I missed grievously
and told
of sorrows and lost loves
and worse things
wearing my heart wide open
recalling
the story of the whale mother
singing
to her stolen calf unceasingly
even
from another ocean
you said you’d show me a good time
but now it’s past time
and I’m uncertain of the days
my mother’s people came from Italy
but the limestone Auden praised
means not a thing to me
nor all the masters at top table
I’d like to name them
when I’ve had a few
they mutter sonnets in their soup again
they should be locked away
for what they did to me
we have no culture but the one we made
a gaudy hit parade
tinsel and after-shave
what is a good time anyway
you never did quite say
before you went
oh how the masters would lament
not even love is heaven sent
death was not so difficult
like falling from a plane
down through all the centuries
to learn it all again
and still I fall
fall and fall
until I learn
once and for all
to write with greater reach
write poetry in
the rhythms of common speech
I often walk
this stony beach
uncomfortable upon the feet
but conducive to the mind
though I would rather not make rhymes
but wander to a place I know
around the headland
a mile or more
a little bay
a sheltered cove
where I arrange the stones
just so
bereft of any rhyme
or reason
hard to find
in any season
not on maps
nor in guide books
I only find
when I don’t look
pale hart in the copse at dusk
under stars
that bristle on a chinless heaven
faith
I have none
these things are random
I turn up my collar on the night
knowing
she is already gone
