Out of the Woods
Little spider, stick to your web.
Or else abandon your sorrows for the way.
—from discover the Buddha
In the story there are always two children.
Lost in the woods.
Brother and sister
rooted in forgetfulness
as if we are all in a dream with them
wandering,
coming upon: a stream
a rickety cottage
our family history of neglect.
*
So, what do we know
besides the way is unclear?
This, our first lesson in life
and what we continue to tell ourselves,
slaves to our desires.
Some kind of test to reveal something,
to prove someone more powerful than us or
to prove we have hidden power:
climbing a beanstalk
outsmarting the wolf
fitting the right slipper in time.
What we can’t accept
is the truth—spider web of sorrows,
of our own making—and what
we can’t let go of.
*
If we sit still long enough,
not searching for the just-right bed
or following bread crumbs, if
we listen for the still, small voice, if
we stop painting walls new colors
trying to make a difference,
the way finds us,
our mind stream poised for another
body to breathe in,
“I” disappeared,
no self in any life
no web, no magic word,
no spell to cast.
What Could Be Known
the idea of empire—
of winnowing chaff from grain—
heresy as in
early maps of the human body
in the era of God—
their makers’ sinful pride in opening up
bodies needed for an era of Man,
still, I recall this idea
of an empire between us, or
rather,
what could be known—
your heart?
us falling off the edge of the earth, or
rather,
joss sticks waving scent—
blessings at sunrise, sunset,
bone cage, linen, raven, feldspar;
a field in breathy October;
an abstract painting of two lovers;
what the artist almost captured:
beyond language there is meaning,
how they sit on the porch of the palace
and have forgotten the palace
embrace sounds the same in any language—
ahead a phantom clearing—
I no longer remember:
that youthful cause, who joined me in it,
our duty to love;
memory caves in upon itself—a mine collapse;
what is left:
*
a nest of hornets, ash buds, the unsayable,
or is it that which I refuse to say?
this or that always ahead—
either demon twin could ruin me,
if, in fact, there’s anything
to be ruined
like the lost worship in your eyes
I have forgotten too
the stone walls of Vieux Quebec,
narrow cobbled streets;
you hidden
in shadows of fleur-de-lis,
unfindable
a ghost ship indeed a way to almost
appear,
with nowhere to go, you can’t go astray
In Nova Scotia’s maritime museum
I found God;
not a form of God not what I’d known,
no not known—
*for knowing about light
does not dispel dark*
but experienced, always,
before;
arm in arm, long streets down to the harbor
whispers in doorways
silver moth/mouth—the elemental
puddles of regret skipped over
black stone/white stone
a child’s riddle, peach pit, dust mites
history, myth—a flute’s spent reed
Sanctuaries
Ripe field in August—dew drops on corn silk
Under a large willow in a sudden rainstorm
The fabulist’s tale embellished with each telling
The canyons of Giant City—gaping mouths
Church on Rue Sainte Pierre, Quebec City
The catty post mortem of a family get-together
A conservatory’s moist, names posted in Latin
Thicket in the woods found in childhood
House of memory: even the misremembered
Giggling beneath a sheet pulled over our heads
Calm paradise in my mind—safe place for therapy.
Treehouse with wooden steps and makeshift floor
A teenager’s poster-filled bedroom
Musty attic filled with the past buried within us
Quiet bookstore—a cat rubbing my calf
Old movies with comforting, cliched characters
In bed, your arm over my side wanting nothing
The blue hour’s remaining light—hold still
Natura Morta (Still Life)
We want to see flowers arranged to seem random—
Van Gogh’s vase with fifteen (count them) sunflowers.
Braque’s monochromatic violin and candlestick,
Cezanne’s jug, curtain, and fruit bowl.
Our urge to catch the apple before it falls.
Chardin’s ray of light upon dark, a live cat lurking hints
at movement, as shocking then as the spoiled fruits
of Caravaggio. Claesz’s glass ball reflects
him painting—self portrait amid still life.
1960’s pop art versions: television, beer bottles, red chairs.
All to convince us we can stop life, knowing we can’t.
What is Next?
—italicized line from Rilke
You must change your life
I say nearly every day
as I crumble like the Colossus
O to be a solid Trojan horse no one sees coming!
No telling what threatening beings
would hop out of me
to wreak havoc for no sound reason
as in any war
You must change your life
I hear before sleep—
And when dreams mine my unconscious
I sense how true this is
This shouldn’t prove difficult
I’ve kept everyone including myself guessing
I’ve never had one life
Always almost who I was meant to become
Marc Frazier has published poetry in over a hundred journals both online and in print. A recipient of an Illinois Arts Council Award for poetry, he has also been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and two “Best of the Nets.” He’s published poetry, essays, flash fiction, fiction, photographs, book reviews, and memoir. His four books are available online. His latest poetry book If It Comes To That recently won Silver in the Florida Writers Association best published anthology. Marc, an LGBTQ author, can be found on his Marc Frazier Author page on Facebook and website www.marcfrazierwrites.com. X @marcfrazier45, Insta mcfj45.
