Sunday, November 25, 2012

George Kalamaras [Part Two]

BUT I NEVER WOULD


When we got Asian dogs, we expanded to a king-sized bed.
This is what the percolator slurped, grinding its sloshy morning grit.

The most beautiful love is alive, lifetime to lifetime.
I heard this, just as I woke to the fierce strutting of crows.

I know you don’t believe everything I write, how many times I’ve died.
How the belly plankton becomes you. How our bodies in heat both crave salt.

I respect your blindness as I might the mail carrier’s slumped shoulder.
I greet her each morning so that she knows she carries something alive.

I could kill a summer swan, carve one layer of tender yellow fat as a delicacy, and
      contemplate its swimming and its flight.
But I never could—nor would—because the swan is sacred throughout India.

Please, if you receive this message, pet the dog, expand your hand, replace the bird in
      your chest one worm at a time, date this message forward three cat lifetimes from
      now.
Consider this. What year that would be—whether you’ll be born again screaming or
      weeping, weeping or just simply alive.



George Kalamaras is the author of thirteen books of poetry, including Symposium on the Body’s Left Side, Your Own Ox-Head Mask as Proof, The Recumbent Galaxy (co-authored with Alvaro Cardona-Hine), and Kingdom of Throat-Stuck Luck, winner of the Elixir Press Poetry Contest. His most recent is Mining Camps of the Mouth, winner of the New Michigan Press/DIAGRAM Chapbook Contest. He is Professor of English at Indiana University-Purdue University Fort Wayne, where he has taught since 1990.

Sunday, November 18, 2012

George Kalamaras

CORYMBS


Of the various favorable tendencies, none is more important than sound.
We will make another crying life, tongue by electrical tongue.


We will everyday. We will poetry and its source.

Who will evening-mouth our burning school and all that hair?


Who will cattle-train the entire cliff-face with the foreknowledge of a bun?

We climbed the skeletal structure of a breeding bird.


We did not hear our own story, nor its resilient shy.

We were convinced we could never requiem our ash.


One kilometer away, a ruined tornado spiked three pours of quite milky silt.

It has now been several days, but the first set of linen somehow muslined my
mouth.

This judgment, I confess, cannot account for the rough sound of a scream.

That, too, is music, and the ordinariness of replacing a cook with remnants of
aloe 
      suggests how many scars I had to solve.



George Kalamaras is the author of thirteen books of poetry, including Symposium on the Body’s Left Side, Your Own Ox-Head Mask as Proof, The Recumbent Galaxy (co-authored with Alvaro Cardona-Hine), and Kingdom of Throat-Stuck Luck, winner of the Elixir Press Poetry Contest. His most recent is Mining Camps of the Mouth, winner of the New Michigan Press/DIAGRAM Chapbook Contest. He is Professor of English at Indiana University-Purdue University Fort Wayne, where he has taught since 1990.