James Ragan: California Poets Part 7, Five Poems
James Ragan
July 1st, 2024
California Poets: Part VII
James Ragan
Five Poems
The Bond
for a brother remembering war
All day in the Veteran’s ward,
you wonder how the lark will worry
its way to a limb. After all, you say,
even the leaves
are falling to the soft weight of flurries
in the park. Now, you speak of release,
how to free the bond between
flesh and spirit,
how they close in as one, each
to the other, promising at the very moment
when night pre-empts the day,
a profound light
will inspire the miraculous shock
of a mortal comeback, as if death
were simply a day of cancellation,
a day of begging
out from the daily task of breathing,
s’il vu plait—a day of learning back
the trust, that even truth has warts
and wants to hide
from those who confuse it with beauty.
Truth, you say, is beauty to those
who believe all calls to war
that lie within
the sheen of words are polished
to hide the doubt beneath. You laugh
through thoughts that some still think
to be astonishingly true,
as in the need for gods to be imagined,
and that doubters like soldiers burn in hell
once the mind has broken. After all, you say,
consciousness
can prove to be a brittle thing,
but conscience should never be. Now
the lark that visited during the cedar’s
rust in autumn
has returned, trapped behind
the meshed screen out in the snow.
We listen, your talk pressed
against my ear,
stethoscopic, trained to hear bones knock,
to a flutter of wings, something
in the worry of your breath,
dying to be let out.
The Old Roman Platea
The old courtyard, dozing in a riddled mist
of azaleas below the stone stair, has found
the nights in Rome a shade too dark for browsing,
and prefers the regal lit barometer of a torch,
igniting the wet silk of a Tuscan moon
into trellised strips along a rafter grate,
or a jasmine vine curling about the window ledge.
In its time it might have lured da Vinci
in a Gioconda mood, smile-shy, to the haze
and seeming laughter of tumbling ash leaves
or the etched gilding of a stain-glassed sill
flowering tall into Vatican vaults.
When it wakes, it likes to round its shoulders
into each sleeve of a garden wall,
groomed with lavender and blue wisteria,
and leap, like a loitering moon, into a photograph
or a conversation for the rest of a day or year – or century.
For a Mother at the LA Mission
You tell me
there are days
when you’re feeling
soulless,
walking the long hedge
blindly down
the raveled lay of road,
your memory
gasping for breath
to fill
your shivering mind.
And walking on,
you see,
lying in the shadows
of the moonlit pines,
the image
of a transient soul,
whose face you imagine
could possibly mirror
your own,
gazing through the fog
of rotting limbs,
groping the air
to strangle what remains
of a raging
last clear thought.
You fear
that you’re disappearing
through a random
roll of subtractions,
afraid that nothing
your memory allows
in the sundering
of your spirit,
will survive.
Always the dread
of words now rambled
by the false rhyming
of conflicting doubts,
of eyes dissembling
the lovely tryst
of images you see
as children
in the shallows,
dancing, colliding
into an embrace.
You’re holding on
to a ritual
of seeding the mind’s
flowering grave
with moments of light
for an instance
of clarity,
and always the wish
to ease your wanting
to bring a face
back to a name,
or to a place
you can’t remember,
or to a time
you recall
for one brief moment,
that begs
not to be forgotten.
Not Word Enough
for the innocent souls of Uvalde, and
all those lost to us through racist malice
All day, I’ve waited for breath
to climb onto the tongue, not easily,
some might say with a gasping stutter,
sliding down the throat’s ribbed spine
to find the word that refuses to be spoken,
its silence wrapped like shade
in the lung’s bowl of darkness.
What could I know of nuance,
its shape or sound, elusive like the scent
of hatred, neither giving nor forgiving,
how in moments of light, when love
might have gardened the heart,
a life fades amid the dying roots
of breath? I would sooner reach out
to a crow’s beak or climb a steeple
and believe as many do
in the height and point of things,
how in merciful times a syllable’s
utterance of guilt might suffice.
All day I’ve wondered what in time
is too short a time to kneel before
a flowered grave until a death is honored.
What in time is too silent a word
to ban the triggered power that breeds
contempt for a generation’s grief?
For days I’ve wandered, searching
the riddle of letters for any assemblage
of sounds I could justify for an instance
of repentance, for any gift of redemption
I could set free from the depth of world-pity.
In a word, enough is not word enough
to silence the rage sorrowed in this song.
Mowing the Lawn
while hearing news of the siege of Kiev,
I find in the weed-high yard, neighborings
of minor gods, spreaths of all-loving
creatures,
surviving my assault, my brutal loss
of reason, sonar to the brain, as I shear
the half-sheened wings off gypsy moths.
Underground,
an army ant, carrying prey to its colony
bivouac, sprints about omnisciently
in the dark, Now, the mantis, self-adoring
spawn of grass
prays tall for my shifting shears to stall.
I am genius around these parts.
I weed wings from the may-
fly’s skull.
Until the mowed bone of something
brittle rattles still as dice. Until
my Spaniel bares the shank
of his teeth
at my slightest invasion or trespass.
In his jowls the starling I have claimed
to love has been splayed
mercilessly.
By his bark he has lost faith in my ability
to transcend the limits of my nature.
It takes the devil, not genius,
to mow a lawn.
Author Bio:
Appearing in 36 anthologies and 15 languages, James Ragan is an internationally recognized author of 10 books of poetry, including The Hunger Wall and Chanter’s Reed, and 2 plays staged in the U.S, Moscow, Beijing, Athens etc. With poems in Poetry, The Nation, Los Angeles Times, World Lit Today, and readings in 34 nations, he has performed for the U.N. Carnegie Hall, CNN, NPR, PBS, BBC and 7 Heads of State including Mikhail Gorbachev in 1985 (with Bob Dylan). Honors: 2 Litt.D’s, 2 Fulbright Grants, Emerson Poetry Prize, NEA, 9 Pushcart nominations, Swan Foundation Humanitarian Award, a Poetry Society of America citation, Bucharest Film Festival’s “Contribution to the Arts” Award. Finalist: Walt Whitman Book Award, Ohio Book Award, London’s Troubadour Int. Poetry Prize, etc. He’s the subject of the Arina Films documentary, Flowers and Roots, awarded 17 Film Festival Recognitions, and Platinum Prize at Houston’s Int. Film Festival. He Directed USC’s Professional Writing Program (25 yrs) and is Dist. Professor at Prague’s Charles U. (24 summers). President Vaclav Havel honored him as “Ambassador of the Arts” at Prague’s 1994 World PEN Congress.
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