In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

Prairie Schooner 80.1 (2006) 131-133



[Access article in PDF]

Invocation, and: Tale, and: The Holy Fool

The Holy Fool

Invocation

Show us the cataclysm in daily things,
the soaped and rinsed pie plate fragmented.
A dozen filaments burning themselves down,
approaching definite ends. Show us one
insignificance after another, bath towels
rubbed thin, near-empty toothpaste tubes,
a dozen filaments burning down, hot
with the logic of on. The aching joints
of a rocking chair, a broom's straw fan.
We are interested in matter, not moral agency.
A dozen blinding filaments, bulbs infatuated
with their own cores, corridors, closet doors,
nothing capable of preference or memory.
We would like to remain a step removed
from breath. The translucent weave
of a lampshade, gnaw of the garbage disposal.
Filaments firing without foreknowledge or regret. [End Page 131]

Tale

after Larry Levis
The white wedding dress is suicidal
if the bride is lily white, is wearing a face
of pure happiness or hesitation or grief –
each to its own white: I know white
does not exist in absolutes, that a girl
now a woman is still a girl dressing
for a prince's ball. His white horse
clopping into her chambers, peeking
around partitions and maids-in-waiting –
I know the stories my daughter recites

will haunt her at an altar laced with white.
The way light cuts elaborate patterns
like paper snowflakes, how words and vows
play with our eyes, clip little black holes
in the visible world. I know that white
isn't color but a coloring, how the bride
perceives her groom as the minister
opens their love, pages of his Bible
winging over guests in wide white gestures,
shadows drifting under pews, black tie,
black shoes, black like the whitest keys –

I know how a grand piano breathes.
A man is only a man, but a woman
weaves, out and in, cotton and satin;
with the ease of a swan she sinks dreams
for inlaid diamond, for couture, exquisite cake.
Ever after, ever after, those two white lies
are almost enough to whisper at night
when stars bring their cold clear testimony:
White is a wall, white is a walled city. [End Page 132]

The Holy Fool

I tried to become unwise.
Like Ryokan, I hid in a hay bale until dawn,
knowing the children would not seek,
that they were all in bed.
I stared at the stars until I feared
they were a million-eyed god.
I gave away my possessions, even those I received
as gifts, and told my friends the truth about themselves.
Mid-afternoons, when productive citizens work,
I examined the texture of cherry blossoms, blades
of field grass, the tails of mendicant cats.
And when I tired of this, I sat down.
I practiced my best zazen
and tried to remember my mother's face
to the last detail, as she looked to me in childhood.
I considered her aging and her death.
In all of this, I wanted to seem needy and sexless,
I hoped to be mistreated.
Once I went so far as to hold up traffic;
hadn't desperate men done as much in movies?
I got on my knees and shrieked when I crawled,
as if asphalt might hold a secret hand.
Eventually, the blare of horns caused me to straighten
and scrape into the woods.
I realized: What others thought mattered nothing.
I was in my right mind the whole time, critiquing
an improvisational actor. In my quest to be simple,
I only multiplied, synapses blowing like steam whistles,
and I knew I could never let go.
Martin Cockroft's recent publications include Highway 14, Prairie Schooner, and Hanging Loose.


...

pdf

Share