October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
For we have touched terrible universal waterfalls that mist. We held the scorched or parched flowers that burned our name into old neighborhoods and sainthoods all evening all summer with honied moods at Speaking Mirror Lake knowing its minor key like Villa-Lobos or a Black Forest no longer very living. It is that we have sinned and are crying in the hostile wind of that hostile place we see yearly. But there are better memories, as when I formed true verses under the German portraits or wandering through the radish gardens at Cranbrook where gardeners still trowel around flagstones.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
My strawberry ancient watercolors drip under the black thunder, drip and bleed with the almonds, thorns and winesaps before the green daughters. Here is a Pard, ridden in these ancient watercolors while red wine flows from the harp with its bitter music of stoplight chemicals. Wherefore the peace flower of these poems, as young as art, blows with a witched, regal sound before the wild daughter deeply in her eye, like a hawk over a rouge storm of iridescent theory, those who whisper their dread of red Oxford whips. Observe the gemmed Pard painted there, coracle music of virgin almonds.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
She is spilling the gold dust of dreams into a night too dark. We’re wandering through a forest of stars, looking for her until night breaks. She has turned into music from a very old-fashioned love song. We are ready for the light in her. Her light spills gold breezes into Sunday kisses. She is spilling gold dust of dreams into a night too dark. She is not found crying, like a girl crying in a cherry orchard. Her hands touch casks of old, dark, rich red wine–rare, French and rose-colored, poured in sparkling star-spangled summers.
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
All women have suffered the bitter dictations of Harvard poetry in this rain, and now they stand as dismembered webs. It is not just this rain, it is the rain set thinking by musicians. The rape of a dustpan against the wall. All women in their tiredness notice the loose electrical plate. The equality of thunderbirds. Sixty centuries of exploitation is the zucchini of logical astronomy all women have suffered, and all women have suffered the bitter dictations of Harvard poetry in this rain. The macho moon in bits of light. But girls will scratch your heart with grandmother’s citrus.
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
My heart is a stopwatch shuddering and burning to death. It is a one-hundred-year-old nutcracker inspiring me with her scintillations at the Christmas table where the moon unwrinkles. Those of you who are now persecuted, what gods and what madness brand your century with the espionage of unoccupied faces under the blue sword? A crisp garden scene beds where the shadow bled from couplets to vulture in a train blackened by the sex meteors coloring my peace. Smoke knocks on the planets: hammering and woeful rust. Now we smudge out a mosquito, reddening John Barclay’s Pauline commentaries.
