tiny poems by Grant Hackett
new prints in the forest clay.
cumulus builds a sky.
whose shadow goes slipping away.
the audience calls out a name
the name dies instantly, cries to god
is made flesh, bleeds, dies
joins the audience, calls out a name
water pulls my secret
deep into its pockets.
loves the drowning i do not love.
i will know it
outside the dream
when it comes
behind the calm
because it breathes
sunset.
because i can die i am living.
everyone i love but do not know opening in the wind.
corn and clover.
where am i going...
the secret never arrives.
untied from its willows
the river dies.
stars graze on time in the desert sky.
gathered the freedom
to be an anchor
wandering among the waves.
restoring the egg to its skimpy nest :: gently closing its eye
can you sew me a pocket :: filled with answers and doves
stepped into life's water
stone without skin
felt for the first time cold winds
peace to the death
which becomes a rose
peace to the heart
which greens you
our music preserves the echo :: of stones washing the sea
the sky you awakened in the eyes of the rain :: holds the moon the night and the reason to remain
let wild seed wake before the rains grow old :: before the moon is shut out of your heart
washing my poetry i sweeten the sea :: until the green of your island is saved
moon sheds moon
opens an infinite eye
the risk of being reborn throbs through the sky
to be water that has not found a well
to die young
fallen from a cloud
if there is a gate it will be left open
if there is a border may the dead guide you over
the road follows where you go
birth was a drama that one member of the cast does not remember
soul
not substance but naked
—voice in a mirror with tiny cracks —
where the other face of night is looking
—kissed by what the poet sees —
resisting all that falls from god
—nothing else can be so still
just enough darkness to forest the world :: then light dawns in one leaf
last drops of rain in hands of a breeze stirring what others need
in the throb beneath a drop of blood :: i feel my wounds at war
in the oar i've abandoned i long for the sea
when its suffering's washed away :: what remains of clay
let's awake in the garden others can't see
naked as the moon turning dust to dream
does water remember the child in its arms bleeding his beautiful pearls of breath
there is sky in my arrow :: there is no path to my sky
can you remember the touch of your hand as it gave you the power to heal
is memory the only place the dead are given light to see