tiny poems by Grant Hackett
for love of the ocean floor :: eyes turn to the open sea
who plays the flute that shapes my bones
if i am not certain
of the love of the earth
is it safe to take my life from your hands
the compass turns to a lone, dry wasp
in the silence of the alarms
all voices burn
what is thirst will find its way
when no one is looking
modest beatings
beneath a sky that may or may not answer
i bring out my heart
i begin to read
beneath my hands the axe splits open
on which side of death
is rest
because there was this inside them
the tea cup cracked
the face ceased
when they are the last
and left behind
will the living waters speak
winter
in a stranger's tongue
no doubt the house
has honest blood
thus i was made
vein laid upon vein
no trace of yes in water
or blood
no name and no
odor of wound
life leaves its artist’s mark
small, red—
then weeps that i live, bled
wind is not the death of light :: darkness does not quicken withered leaves
upon the death of the mortal vine :: shall my veins grow new wine
(reposted/revised from January 2021)
umbrella, old, unclaimed :: endured the attic of my rain
in the perfect darkness of what is to become :: who cradles the mother of dawn
escape is the timeless lie :: my path never strays from its crow
With a piece of chalk, I drew on the blackboard the moon's golden eyebrow.
Yannis Ritsos
playing in the clouds :: my soul smells of earth
the shipwrecked surely shall learn to sing those songs that built the sea
With a bird for a pillow, I lie awake every night.
wind, carry us into my house :: the moon won't open for hours
fisherman gather me in :: fall back to your place in the sea
winter sharpened
mortal sky
blood-tipped locust
thorn, at
the point of joy
i hear sighs and silence
dormant forest
dark in the east, my city
laid to rest
stone saint
an engine
idles
the sky
longs to be known
(or)
stone saint, an engine idles :: sky longs to be known
there’s never enough earth
to drink our tears
love
it takes years
white bone
on the beach
where i wanted to walk alone
life death
put flame
in an iron box
who feeds
that flame
can never stop
music of the lake when it is ice
rapturous crackings
before and after
the first and last of life
some forget to breathe and dream :: ways of seeing fall like leaves
journey begins ::
bell to wind
storm clouds but no storm
three journeys
in last night's dreams
rain brings back
the mist, the bridge
the desire to remain in my body