tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-123817312009-12-07T09:08:58.659-08:00The Voice of the TurtleE.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.comBlogger94125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1146886041913467782006-03-28T20:26:00.000-08:002006-05-05T20:29:44.216-07:00PATCHWORK MUSICWhen nothing here is certain<br />but that time is rolling on,<br />ring up your eyelids’ curtain<br />and greet rosy-fingered Dawn,<br />and ivory-footed Sarah<br />in her floor-length purple gown,<br />tapping time on polished floorboards<br />waiting till the sun goes down.<br /><br />Let’s forget the slings and arrows,<br />and we’ll rosin up the bow!<br />Call the tune and pay the piper<br />so he’ll play a song we know.<br />Pay respect and pay attention<br />when you pay a living wage<br />to the slatterns in the kitchen<br />and the yokels on the stage.<br /><br />If you’ll be my two-bar pickup,<br />I’ll play rhythm to your lead,<br />and we’ll truck across the ballroom<br />as our righteous feet take speed.<br />Cut a rug or cut a caper,<br />if you’ll just cut to the chase – <br />get your picture in the paper<br />where the footling folk embrace.<br /><br />You can cross my palm with silver,<br />since I’m easily led to gold,<br />and I’ll be your major miner<br />till the Kingdom’s keys are sold.<br />Here’s a penny for your thoughts<br />and a dollar for your day,<br />but that’s what you get for thinking<br />when you dance the night away.<br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />March 28, 2006</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2006/02/goodbye-to-pete.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right>Next >></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-114688604191346778?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1142775946450066512006-02-28T17:43:00.000-08:002006-05-05T20:28:49.976-07:00GOODBYE TO PETEThe floodlit fountain in the winter pond<br />lighting the water from underneath<br />lifts a plume of chill spray into the teeth<br />of a sleety wind across the trees to the road beyond.<br /><br />The same road, the same sleet, and the same night<br />unroll before the wheels of your decrepit car.<br />The radio is on. You’re content where you are,<br />with a hand on the wheel, at the edge of my sight.<br /><br />The lighter flicks to a cupped cigarette under<br />your face, and the smoke blows out the window vent.<br />You turn and grin. It makes me wonder<br />how you could be gone, and where the years went.<br /><br />The words will come, but words are no good.<br />You were patient and loyal and good and true.<br />The heart must go where no words could:<br />on this side of the veil is no likeness of you.<br /><br />The ground has been closed now, and there you lie,<br />breathing the sod from underneath,<br />while above you grass blades bend in the teeth<br />of a chill wind, with a few flakes flickering by.<br /><br />The ground has been closed; the world waits for the sun.<br />Some have tomorrows. Some must wake<br />and roll away the stone. It is for their sake<br />the verses continue, the song not quite done.<br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />February 28, 2006</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2005/02/song-of-determinance.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2006/03/patchwork-music.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-114277594645006651?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116783237548059642005-02-28T10:33:00.000-08:002006-03-19T05:46:51.583-08:00SONG OF DETERMINANCEThe early leaves must steal the sun;<br />the roots must drink the rain.<br />So call the tune for everyone<br />to sing the sad refrain:<br /><br />As prescience in retrospect,<br />the seasons must unfold.<br />The Word devolves to dialect;<br />the new brings forth the old.<br /><br />As footprints to your snowy boot<br />your wandering steps precede,<br />noble events along their route<br />the churlish moments lead.<br /><br />So things must be the way they are;<br />there is no other choice.<br />No use to wish upon a star.<br />No need to raise your voice. <br /><br />Decide instead to make believe<br />what freedom would provide.<br />Decide to practice to deceive.<br />Pretend you can decide.<br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />February 28, 2005</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2005/02/love-song-of-anne-hedonia.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2006/02/goodbye-to-pete.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111678323754805964?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116783458309324892005-02-23T10:36:00.000-08:002005-05-22T11:25:20.700-07:00THE LOVE SONG OF ANNE HEDONIAI vow that I will learn to love Dysphoria:<br />You surely will become my latest craze!<br />The question must be: How do I adore you?<br />It’s too much work for me to count the ways. <br /><br />So here’s to misery! I salute you,<br />A succotash of suffering to behold,<br />And pray that no morsel of joy pollute you,<br />Nor ever turn my woeful lead to gold. <br /><br />Bring on the armies of lugubriation!<br />Each gloomy foe I will embrace as friend,<br />And so await with dread anticipation<br />The melancholic dirge that knows no end. <br /><br />My head is in the sand. My ass is in a sling.<br />Discomfort, ‘tis of thee! Of thee I sing. <br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />February 23, 2005</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2004/10/temporal-jigsaws_111678486512491895.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2005/02/song-of-determinance.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111678345830932489?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116784865124918952004-10-15T10:59:00.000-07:002005-05-22T11:24:24.963-07:00TEMPORAL JIGSAWSLook back at one whose whole life lay ahead,<br />the tolerant master of unfolding time,<br />a future locutor of words unsaid<br />not yet supine in any unmade bed<br />nor revenant to uncommitted crime.<br /><br />Look back and claim a prize now judged complete.<br />See, instead of a looming <i>ouverture</i>,<br />an <i>oeuvre </i>borne by an oaf on stumbling feet<br />headlong downstairs to crash into the street,<br />a fallen egg past any hope or cure.<br /><br />Will men and horses put this puzzle right<br />here on the table? And under a chair:<br />the missing piece! A wedge of summer light<br />slips into place. Observe this gorgeous night<br />and depart, to take refreshment elsewhere.<br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />October 15, 2004</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2003/05/remembering-shelagh.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2005/02/love-song-of-anne-hedonia.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111678486512491895?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116785654546234002003-05-08T11:13:00.000-07:002005-05-22T11:23:30.706-07:00REMEMBERING SHELAGHOf the many who knew the many of you<br />there were few enough who knew you well,<br />and of the stories that are ours to tell,<br />a myriad versions, and all of them true:<br /><br />A gutsiness of life and love,<br />an eyebrow arched, a toss of the hair,<br />the level gaze and the withering stare,<br />a fist of iron in a velvet glove.<br /><br />Mother and daughter, sister and friend:<br />how shall we cope with your laughter gone?<br />Too lately begun to have reached this end,<br />a spring afternoon on a shaded lawn.<br />Accept if you will this bitter rhyme,<br />and be with us here this one last time.<br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />May 8, 2003</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2003/04/vernal-rebus.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2004/10/temporal-jigsaws_111678486512491895.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111678565454623400?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116785911727219402003-04-10T11:17:00.000-07:002005-05-22T11:20:40.220-07:00VERNAL REBUSTranslucent gold in the canopy;<br />raspberries and cream at eye level throughout the woods;<br />damp underfoot and damp overhead;<br />the necessity of a verb:<br /><br />A newly-awakened tree frog<br />balances on a flimsy branch, while below<br />the coil of a black racer unwinds<br />an iridescent rivulet across the asphalt<br />in search of the warmth from<br />a newly-emergent sun.<br /><br /> Just down the hill<br />the scattered petals of peach blossoms<br />eddy in a placid pool before draining<br />in a trickle between twin banks of new growth.<br /><br />Read it from the script; chant it; shout it;<br />celebrate in counterpoint with the wren<br />all the secret blessings of the light!<br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />April 10, 2003</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2002/11/mistakes-of-history.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2003/05/remembering-shelagh.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111678591172721940?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116889390750660232002-11-19T16:01:00.000-08:002005-05-23T16:03:10.753-07:00THE MISTAKES OF HISTORYOne-eyed now, with a stump for one leg<br />and a wide healed-over shell-crack,<br />an ochre-blotched box turtle sets out<br />across the hot asphalt in a rapid ragtime<br /><i>whish-whish-thump, whish-whish-thump. </i><br /><br />Is it just plain stupidity, belying the innumerable<br />worn annuations on the shell-scutes?<br />Or is it simply absolute determination?<br />Whatever the answer may be, the red-freckled eye<br />stares unswerving through the heat-shimmered morning<br />as he crosses that road again.<br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />November 19, 2002</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2002/11/turn-and-bow.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2003/04/vernal-rebus.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111688939075066023?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116889583549734842002-11-07T16:04:00.000-08:002005-05-23T16:06:23.550-07:00TURN AND BOWHold up a mask before the heart.<br />A comedic grin or grotesque grimace will suffice<br />to hide the raw red pump and squeeze.<br />One might glimpse the soggy mass through an eyehole<br />or the narrow gap in the picket teeth,<br />or maybe not. Still, it would remain the same.<br />Remove the mask and the blue and pink<br />of all too fleshy throb and flood of viscous life<br />are there exposed...<br /><br />To understand it, shrink down small and go inside.<br />Traverse the arteries and veins, observe the plaque,<br />dodging corpuscles on the way.<br />But remember that you ride with Heisenberg:<br />your presence matters. Watch out for vigilant leucocytes!<br />Or, impacting the vessel wall, you may cause a clot...<br /><br />Best to withdraw and replace the mask.<br />All the other parts have theirs, one for the lungs,<br />another for the feet, and all are moving in the dance.<br />Assume a stance under the flickering crystal chandelier,<br />arms poised, ready to begin the grand pavane.<br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />November 7, 2002</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2002/02/disappearing-act.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2002/11/mistakes-of-history.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111688958354973484?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116889704671584552002-02-22T16:07:00.000-08:002005-06-04T08:24:41.466-07:00DISAPPEARING ACTDrive down White Rock Road on a bright February day<br />and see the cedars suck up all the light,<br />leaving a token remnant of red wavelengths<br />in the outermost and upper fringes<br />but taking everything else, all luminance gone<br />except for the holes where sky color peeks through<br />the interweaving of tiny branches.<br /><br />Feel the wind that feathers through the trees,<br />drying up all moisture, turning skin into crackling,<br />and sniff the lack of smell: no piny tang<br />or scent of bare earth survives its desiccating chill.<br /><br />Return next week and hear sound hushed by snow.<br />Bird calls, idle chatter, flageolet and sackbut —<br />all vanish into the baroque silence.<br />Strain to detect even a thin whisper<br />in the falling flakes.<br /><br /> And so the poet,<br />now a mere shadow of his former self,<br />creates new absence. In the white page<br />black cutouts of words appear, recounting<br />once and for all, in bold and orotund detail,<br />that which is most emphatically not here.<br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />February 22, 2002</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2002/02/amplitude-of-time.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2002/11/turn-and-bow.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111688970467158455?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116889796769030912002-02-12T16:09:00.000-08:002005-05-23T16:09:56.770-07:00THE AMPLITUDE OF TIMEYear after year the tread of the tractor wheel<br />rumbles over same patch of ground,<br />imprinting in the dead vegetation<br />the same flat chevrons, just ahead of the discs<br />that that turn it all again to earth and worm,<br />and, after ordering the components,<br />convert them to the sap and flesh of spring.<br /><br />Some years the land lies fallow for the hay<br />to be taken twice if the rain is right.<br />In the winter of such a year the haloed moon<br />throws deep shadow across a tall cedar<br />down the ravine straight towards the pole star,<br />rippling over the withered corpses<br />of blackberry and honeysuckle there<br />beyond the jurisdiction of the plough.<br /><br />Next day in the field just before the snow<br />the remains of grasses, almost purple,<br />pick out the orange stubble of the broomstraw,<br />and the ever-optimistic wild onions<br />form a haze of teal among the gold of flattened stems.<br />They all combine to fling down a quilted grid<br />over the knees and ankles of the entire ridge.<br /><br />And so this intricate colored inlay<br />dogs the footpath that leads to the muddy track<br />and the gravel that empties out onto the county road,<br />following the fencerows all the way to town,<br />where the street lights flip by, passing the brick school<br />from the thirties behind a grove of bare maples,<br />a darkened classroom, and a blackboard,<br />where, year after year, a history teacher<br />writes and erases the same three words.<br /><br />After the snow, when the thaw begins, stalks and husks<br />reappear cross-hatched against a whitened base,<br />and a line of dark melt picks out the old path<br />that once ran from the spring to the first house on the ridge,<br />circling the site of the foundation<br />whose absent stones were hauled off long ago<br />to build the chimneys at the main house in the grove.<br />After the fire in sixty-five they collapsed<br />between the ancient oaks which stand there yet,<br />rusty lower leaves still clinging tenaciously<br />over luminous patterns in the snow.<br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />February 12, 2002</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2002/02/suzerainty.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2002/02/disappearing-act.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111688979676903091?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116890001102033692002-02-02T16:12:00.000-08:002005-05-23T16:18:12.060-07:00SUZERAINTYTo be a lord, to loaf again at ease<br />and guard anew one’s old ancestral tongue,<br />preserving all its might intact among<br />these ancient juvenile subjunctive pleas;<br /><br />Or owe fealty to a lady who stays<br />beside a loaf fresh-sliced, a glass half-full,<br />the one whose smile and hooded glance can pull<br />a voice from stones and set the ice ablaze:<br /><br />To this selfsame sovereign liege I kneel,<br />proffer a pommel-end with nape exposed,<br />and rise to find a path yet unforeclosed,<br />where shadowed foliage does not conceal.<br /><br />A cup inlaid with finest filigree<br />still licenses the errant eye to see.<br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />February 2, 2002</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2001/05/down-before-vontay_30.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2002/02/amplitude-of-time.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111689000110203369?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116890107589306032001-05-30T16:14:00.000-07:002005-05-23T16:15:07.590-07:00DOWN BEFORE VONTAYThe uneasy traveler, off the map after backtracking too much,<br />at the last crosses a narrow bridge over one of the Annas<br />just before sunset, just before losing all patience,<br />and enters an unexpectedly wide valley,<br />the road closed in by hedgerows,<br />the roadside ditches filled with yellow flowers.<br /><br />An antique and horizontal light<br />catches the milkweed puffs that fill the air,<br />swirling over and behind the car<br />to settle in scalloped drifts upon the pavement.<br />To stop the car is no use; everything will remain the same:<br />to smell in the air a smoky allegory,<br />to see the hay spiraled onto the wagons<br />that wait in a field of analogies<br />beneath a sky roiling with resemblances,<br />to hear in the distant pines the crows<br />croaking out their metaphors.<br /><br />This is already resident in memory,<br />all of it, as is the unpainted frame house<br />standing at a graveled crossroads in an oak grove,<br />facing a yard of moss and acorns. It is<br />a place with no surprises, where one is known.<br />There, in the pale twilight, a mnemonist<br />is methodically transcribing old stories<br />onto blank sheets of paper.<br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />May 30, 2001</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2000/08/queens-and-drones.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2002/02/suzerainty.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111689010758930603?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116938125470185842000-08-18T05:34:00.000-07:002005-05-24T05:42:26.430-07:00QUEENS AND DRONESShe wipes her hands on her apron<br />before opening the screen door<br />to greet the unexpected visitor,<br />smiling through the cool dimness of the porch<br />as if it had been years since their last encounter,<br />and perhaps it has. The loud tick<br />of the upright clock and the smell of old wood<br />follow her down the hall to the kitchen,<br />pulling up a chair at the table<br />in the midst of all the other smells,<br />each in its own place on shelf or countertop.<br />The room is cloudy from a pan of fruit<br />steaming on the stove, and she hums<br />to herself while she completes her tasks.<br /><br />The heat compels a change of venue,<br />and the old dialogue is adjourned<br />to resume on the back porch glider,<br />with the flitter and whir of grasshoppers<br />in the fierce brightness beyond the screen.<br />Throughout the long afternoon<br />the lighter-fluid fragrance of sun-heated pines<br />drifts down the slope to cover the house<br />while shadows wheel and lengthen in the yard.<br /><br />The conversation covers a wide landscape,<br />murmuring down valleys and climbing the steep slopes,<br />discovering a surprise at every crossroads.<br />Like her interlocutor, she knows<br />an obscure word for the apprehension<br />of the entire landscape in a single instant.<br /><br />At sunset, as the evening gathers,<br />casual thunderheads obtrude themselves<br />upwards into the red glow, and the wind<br />thrums through the empty clothesline.<br />There, at dusk, color returns to the chicory<br />and the blackeyed susans along the fencerow.<br /><br /><br />Recalling these things helps bring to mind<br />other matters, such as how to find the route<br />down the ravine while the sun is still in the sky,<br />remembering to turn left at the old stump,<br />and the name of her favorite flower.<br />If you see her, please ask her how small it has to be<br />before “loves me, loves me not” has no meaning.<br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />August 18, 2000</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2000/07/sharing-east_26.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2001/05/down-before-vontay_30.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111693812547018584?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116938319987766042000-07-26T05:37:00.000-07:002005-05-24T05:38:39.986-07:00SHARING THE EASTMarco Polo stood on a hill with doomed Cathay<br />spread out before him, driven there by the compelling pressure<br />of the lack of refrigeration in a vulgar Europe,<br />come to pack his saddlebags with all that turmeric and coriander.<br /><br />And o, the silk! To lounge about in one’s pajamas<br />like a nawab, fanned by eunuchs in the cool colonnades,<br />rousing oneself only to visit the seraglio...<br /><br />The fireworks were enough to require rebellion<br />against such despotism, to fill the occidental skies<br />with all the glory of that red glare.<br /><br />After properly aligning the compass,<br />let me stumble towards the sunrise<br />over red clay, through cornfields and swampland,<br />to plunge at last into the surging waves<br />rising from the grave of fabled Atlantis.<br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />July 26, 2000</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/1999/11/anniversary.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2000/08/queens-and-drones.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111693831998776604?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116938912772175461999-11-23T05:45:00.000-08:002005-05-24T05:52:52.136-07:00ANNIVERSARYHad either of us ever tried<br />to make a name in rhyme,<br />the craft thus learned might well provide<br />a way to view the time<br />from when the battery ran down<br />till when our hopes had gone to ground.<br />I’ll buy the room another round<br />for all the years between.<br /><br />The sins embraced so long ago<br />are old enough to vote,<br />and all the verse we claim to know<br />we had to learn by rote.<br />So pound the drum and count the beat,<br />by eight or ten still incomplete,<br />this four-bar lead in metric feet,<br />a tempo most serene.<br /><br />Centennial days, millenial haze,<br />perennial discontent:<br />our winter hearth supports a blaze<br />of raucous merriment.<br />Just turn the key and spin the wheels -- <br />the hounds are baying at our heels!<br />The winding road ahead conceals<br />a landscape yet unseen.<br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />November 23, 1999</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/1999/10/point-of-fork.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/2000/07/sharing-east_26.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111693891277217546?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116939296109113751999-10-22T05:54:00.000-07:002005-05-24T05:54:56.110-07:00POINT OF FORKTell me how to live in October,<br />how to ride in the pleasant air<br />with the trees ringing in my head,<br />ding-dong, red and yellow;<br />how to hear the <i>whoosh </i>of the cold wind<br />with a leaf or two coming in<br />when the door opens.<br /><br />Structure is everything.<br />Anyone can build the house,<br />but nobody builds the bluebird.<br />In the spring last year’s fledglings return,<br />making a new nest from scurf and trash<br />on top of the old one.<br /><br />Tell me how to be like a leaf in autumn,<br />how to hand over my essential juices<br />to the twig, and thence to the branches,<br />the trunk, the roots. Tell me how to know<br />the exact moment to drop, and then <i>do </i>it;<br />how to rise in a pleasant arc<br />with the wind crimping my edges,<br />flip-flop, orange and umber,<br />over the back of a steep ridge<br />into the cold twilight.<br /><br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />October 22, 1999</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/1999/08/old-roads.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/1999/11/anniversary.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111693929610911375?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116952570554800261999-08-29T09:28:00.000-07:002005-05-24T09:36:10.556-07:00OLD ROADSThe roads will end,<br />old roads that bend<br />until we brake<br />and take a turn<br />to shake a tale<br />from all we make<br />of this travail.<br /><br />My words will fail.<br />No words avail<br />me in the face<br />of grace unearned,<br />the space to tie<br />my measured lace,<br />my reasoned rhyme.<br /><br />Your moods will climb,<br />but moods sublime<br />begin as fear<br />and here return.<br />Revere this trend;<br />the line is clear:<br />with this you mend. <br /><br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />August 29, 1999</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/1999/04/pining-for-atlantis.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/1999/10/point-of-fork.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111695257055480026?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116952804414702931999-04-09T09:38:00.000-07:002005-05-24T09:40:04.416-07:00PINING FOR ATLANTISBitter nostalgia for a place that proved<br />imaginary always brings to mind<br />the temple frescoes framed by waving kelp<br />and perfect friezes choked with barnacles<br />full fathoms five, in the empire of the fish.<br /><br />The powers that be, unable to discern<br />the elsewhere or the used-to-be, consigned<br />them to the echoing depths of <i>outremer</i>.<br />To gain their cedar lanes and agoræ<br />the traveller keeps company with eels<br />and skirts the sunken wrecks and giant clams<br />that lie athwart the esplanades.<br /><br /> And o!<br />To raise that land once more into the air,<br />and bring that mucky bottom to the light!<br />But how to bear the stench of rotting fish,<br />and stranded merfolk shrivelled by the sun?<br /><br />The best thing is to leave them where they are,<br />safe in their submarine antipodes,<br />to let the fabulous hydropolis<br />become a favorite exotic spa,<br />and there occasionally to repair,<br />to hire a guide with gills, and take the waters.<br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />April 9, 1999</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/1999/03/orientation.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/1999/08/old-roads.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111695280441470293?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116952892075558491999-03-24T09:40:00.000-08:002005-05-24T09:42:02.566-07:00ORIENTATIONI remember the day so long ago,<br />one that dawned spanking clear,<br />when I stood on a sunny ridge<br />with a map of the whole universe<br />spread out before me.<br /><br />It was brightly-colored,<br />with an exhaustive index.<br />But it was too big to fold up<br />and put in a pocket.<br /><br />I looked at it, and found my way<br />to the place I wanted to be,<br />but I left that map behind.<br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />March 24, 1999</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/1999/01/minence-grise.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/1999/04/pining-for-atlantis.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111695289207555849?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116953042408100971999-01-22T09:42:00.000-08:002005-05-24T09:44:02.410-07:00ÉMINENCE GRISETo die in one’s romantic youth: that’s the ticket!<br />The coffee table is strewn with champagne glasses<br />and, yes, an empty bottle of barbiturates.<br />Across the mantel lies a single long-stemmed rose.<br /><br />At the graveside the November wind whips the raincoats<br />and umbrellas of the mourners, including<br />several women with long hair and smudged mascara.<br />There is of course a dolorous minister<br />to sprinkle soil and murmur words of regret.<br /><br />And there must be a slim volume of posthumously<br />published verse, perhaps entitled <i>Summer Pudding</i> <br />or <i>A Beggar at the Fountain.</i> One review says,<br />“Poignant”; another, “Prescient”...<br /><br /> ...or maybe not.<br />To attain to a poetic maturity,<br />to reach a grizzled and graceful understanding:<br />these are to be desired while yet desire remains.<br />And then, despite rheumatic joints and aged flesh,<br />the words will skip and sing and dance the night away.<br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />January 22, 1999</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/1999/01/ossa-lapidum.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/1999/03/orientation.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111695304240810097?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116953297315481651999-01-21T09:47:00.000-08:002005-05-24T09:48:17.316-07:00OSSA LAPIDUMOld words, old bones, old stones:<br />how quickly we forget!<br />The rising sun elicits groans;<br />the world is not up yet.<br /><br />Describe its arc for fun<br />without becoming trite.<br />A sentence with the day begun<br />is served throughout the night.<br /><br />And when you rise to speak<br />your joints refuse the call.<br />The rich grandiloquence you seek<br />is lost beyond recall.<br /><br />Roll up the hill for moss.<br />For water, roll back down.<br />A seat upon the throne of loss<br />requires a broken crown.<br /><br />Though conquered by the stones,<br />your bones defeat the word.<br />And since your Word can raise the stones,<br />how can it go unheard?<br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />January 21, 1999</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/1998/11/monkey-trap.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/1999/01/minence-grise.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111695329731548165?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116983193319546311998-11-10T18:04:00.000-08:002005-05-24T18:06:33.323-07:00MONKEY TRAPWhenever I try to describe time<br />without reference to time, I find myself<br />with my hand inside a jar, grasping<br />a large and succulent red fruit.<br />It is cool and smooth to the touch,<br />and its smell is tantalizing;<br />but the mouth of the jar is too small to permit<br />the removal of both my hand and the fruit.<br /><br />Zeno’s paradox proves only<br />that a moment is infinitely thin.<br />Slice it how you will:<br />with a blade sufficiently keen,<br />there is always another slice.<br /><br />The earth shakes with the approach<br />of a lumbering dinothere.<br />In a moment it will be upon me,<br />but I must have just one bite;<br />I can taste it already.<br />A hard enough pull will surely release it.<br />Just one more second, and I will have it...<br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />November 10, 1998</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/1998/10/sideways-stories.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/1999/01/ossa-lapidum.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111698319331954631?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116983309968419331998-10-08T18:07:00.000-07:002005-05-24T18:08:29.970-07:00SIDEWAYS STORIESCollections of moments are, by custom, sequenced temporally.<br />Before and after; cause and effect:<br />a pair of instants is deemed adjacent<br />if one immediately follows the other.<br /><br />In such a series you open a door<br />and descend two steps to a damp brick walk<br />behind an iron railing. It is October:<br />pale yellow and orange leaves spatter the brickwork.<br />As you raise an umbrella against the drizzle,<br />she emerges behind you. Holding a pair of gloves<br />in one hand, she turns to you and smiles.<br /><br />But other arrangements are possible.<br />In a story made out of whole cloth,<br />the reader normally follows the woof,<br />even though the warp is equally available.<br />By this method, neighboring threads<br />may show her arching an eyebrow and turning away,<br />or, having donned her gloves, staring grimly at her feet.<br /><br />Sometimes the back of the building opens onto a park;<br />at others, onto shaded headstones. In certain instances<br />the door is painted pale gray instead of cream.<br />At one extreme her eyes are shining,<br />and she laughs affectionately as she speaks your name.<br />At the other you stand alone and resolute.<br />Umbrella already raised, you watch the crows<br />collecting on the railing down the way<br />before you stride off in the opposite direction.<br /><br />In some versions the sidewalk is empty<br />and the rain has stopped.<br />A golden glow appears in the mist above the trees,<br />alluding to the sun, but no one is there to see it.<br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />October 8, 1998</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/1997/08/halcyon-days.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/1998/11/monkey-trap.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111698330996841933?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12381731.post-1116983570626243071997-08-16T18:11:00.000-07:002005-05-24T18:12:50.626-07:00HALCYON DAYSOf all the days that swoop low over the water<br />to pluck a morsel from beneath the surface<br />and continue in a smooth glide, rising gradually<br />to perch on a branch and lob a cry into the steaming sunlight<br />to mingle with the gurgle of the river;<br />of all these, there is only the one day<br />of sun sweltering long over the bayou,<br />the one whose morning we rise exuberantly to greet,<br />the same to whose midnight pillow<br />we relinquish our gray hairs with relief,<br />the only day when gnats tie their ravening knots<br />in the sticky air, swooping low over the pool<br />where tasty little fishes rise to greet them.<br /><br /><br /><table width=100% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><td width=55%> </td><td><br />August 16, 1997</td></tr></table><br /><center><table width=70% border=0 cellpadding=0><tr><br /><td align=left><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/1997/08/very-well-then-i-dissemble.html"><< Previous</a></td><td align=right><a href="http://voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com/1998/10/sideways-stories.html">Next >></a></td></tr></table></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/12381731-111698357062624307?l=voiceoftheturtle.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>E.S. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08522781342357484824noreply@blogger.com0