poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

Blog Archive

Friday, September 28, 2012

The title should have something to do with silence

A goose from the cattails and lupines flew away calling my name,
into the night by my window, the call
mixed with the cold air and came in,
echoed through the cathedral silence of my sleep
(herds of dreams/ with a stick I lead them/ down the road like goats)
different than the silence of libraries
in the way that the silence of the twentieth century is different
from the silence at the end of the nineteenth.
Goose honk/ goose honk/ goose honk/ Rena/ Rena/ Rena.
I got so drunk I took off my shoes at the restaurant and when I put them back on
I was wearing them the wrong way
and I couldn't figure out how to make it right. Foot pain like a goose
honking in the night. Then I noticed the silence of the forest.
Then I noticed how the lights in the church across the street
went bright all the way up, mixed with cold air and breathed into my bedroom window.
Tomorrow I'll wake up in the dark for a nineteenth century reason.

Sunday, September 23, 2012

Cutting down the magnolia tree in the front yard that my great-grandmother planted (perhaps the only magnolia tree in Queens)


The light is changing:
as the eyes of the Earth make tears for no real reason,

(sometimes you add water and sometimes you add milk.
I’m with you in the bowl, both ways,)

and the wind sweeps the sidewalk; lost tickets, dead leaves, ends
of ribbon and chewed cigarettes, the parched confetti

(genuine hair of great white George Washington.
Has anyone got a horse that they’re not using?)

of last year and last year and last year changes color: the hair
of the Earth is turning grey and white.

(The British are going, the British are coming,
taking their semantic exercise.)

How old do you want to be?
How do you imagine the world began?

(Where is our heron today? Has he found a new place to fish?
We will just have to wait for the cows to get up and wander over.)

How would you like it to end?
No, I know, but we have to talk about it now.

(When you die I’m gonna put you in my purse
and take you to the café so you can sit next to me while I write poems.)

The tree approaches, saying maybe the heron today
disguised himself as sticks. I hug the tree, he meets me with a fine place to kiss.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

Early attempts at the beginning of time


Heat in the center of the earth is trying to get out.
Imagine cobbles rolling down the bed of a stream in springtime.
Can you hear them? Can you listen for whales in the ocean?
People used to say those were mermaid songs.

Sedimentary/igneous/metamorphic.
Mudstone/sandstone/conglomerate.
If it melts it becomes an igneous rock.
Repeat after me: the world is flat.

And: the earth saves itself.
Fossils, we are patterned in the text,
under pressure these electronic pages will become a sort of molten rock,
pushing one way and then the other,
because from time to time the magnetic field reverses. Repeat after me.

Sunday, September 9, 2012

Birds at the Beach in September

In the language of the fields all day,
I mean everything, Saturday my soul.

Yes to art
by the meat.
This is the ocean.
This isn’t the ocean.

These are the (break)dancing days.
Fly down to the water-roar and I can still hear you, screaming:
North, No Matter What!
All birds know
fifty ways to fly/ and one true name.