THE GLASS SHIP

I saw it far out on the horizon, a blinding light. As it came closer, I realized it was a magnificent sailing ship made completely of glass—glass sails, mast, hull—a dazzling spectacle in the sun. At times, the glass ship reflected rainbow lights like a crystal. I had heard stories of this legendary ship, though no one I knew had ever seen it, but here it was, bearing down on me in my small boat.

I looked up at the now-looming ship and spotted a young man and woman on the deck, dressed completely in white. They were dancing, whirling slowly, waltzing, to be exact.  I saw one face, then another, and was astonished to recognize my own parents.  A longing arose in me, and I called out to them.  They stopped and looked down at me curiously, my father with his slicked-back hair, my mother with her black curly bob, and did not seem to recognize their daughter.  They resumed their positions, waltzing around the glass deck, a whirl of white, transfixed only by each other.

Gradually, I realized why they did not recognize me.  I had not yet been born. Here were my parents deeply in love before they were married, before the four children began to come, before the toil of creating a home.

The glass ship sailed off with my dancing parents. Its wake caused a slight rocking of my small skin boat before I was left alone on the still sea.

from The Glass Ship 

LAST POETRY READING AT CODY’S BOOKS

TELEGRAPH AVENUE

BERKELEY, JUNE 4, 2006

Dale and I are late

hurrying up Haste St.

toward Cody’s

after attending a UC Berkeley

graduation party in the Elmwood

where abundant middle eastern

food flowed

and beautiful young women

of various hues

wore red, white, and blue

slinky dresses to celebrate

Kate’s sail out

into the world

At Telegraph and Haste

Dale and I suddenly sail

into medieval times

A street couple

the woman with crazy eyes

is arranging a whole row

of belongings

on the edge of Haste

It’s almost as if

the two were evicted

from a full room

and they had their possessions

delivered to their new address—

Haste at Telegraph—

Cody’s Books

Did this dispossessed couple

read the news?

Learn Andy Ross partially

blamed his loss

of 1 million dollars

on the riff raff of Telegraph

so here they were

to prove him right?

Ready to move into

his soon-to-be-vacated store?

I sink back into

medieval Paris

The beadle is about to close

the cathedral

Lock its doors with his large key

Soon the dark figures

huddled nearby

in the twilight

will construct their lean-tos

against the stone walls

light their night fires

pull out a few foraged hunks

of bread

from their filthy cloaks

before they bed down

on a heap of rags

That was the look of it

the night of the last poetry

reading at Cody’s—

a now-growing ring of street people

surrounding “Cody’s Sidewalk”

ready to build their own empire

as Cody’s crumbled—

a legend disappearing

into dust

The book cathedral

closed

from I Dream of Circus Characters 

THE ANCESTORS DANCE

            For all the dead of

            The Great Hunger, 1845-49,

            and for two Irish bands:

            Kíla and Dead Can Dance

The shaman plays the bodhrán

and the ancestors dance.

Yes, the dead can dance.

The shaman plays the bodhrán

and the ancestors sing.

Yes, the dead can sing.

The shaman plays the bodhrán

and the famine dead

rise from their graves

and sing away their grief.

And they eat.

Yes, they eat their fill of meat

and they eat their fill of cheese

and they eat their fill of plump brown potatoes.

Yes, the dead can eat

while the shaman plays the bodhrán.

Then they dance.

Then they dance away their grief

and all the dead children

from the coffin ships

rise from the Atlantic

with seaweed in their hair

and form a chain with their hands

across the sea.

And they dance.

Yes, the dead can dance.

And they sing.

Yes, the dead can sing

away your grief.

And they can play.

And they can play

percussion on a goat skin drum

with their bones

till the whole world's

dancing with the dead.

Yes, the dead can dance

and they can sing

and what they sing is--

s, you will join us.

One day you will join us

and you'll sing

and you'll dance

to the bodhrán

of the stars

to the bodhrán

of the spheres

to the bodhrán

of the planets

and the moon

and the sun.

Yes, you'll dance

to the bodhrán of the moon

for the dead can dance

from Everything Irish 



You gave that gift to us,

and I too shall be

a book lover to the end

till I am ash,

pure ash,                                                         

Irene's ashes.

from Call Home