Steve Dalachinsky
CONSTELLATION (a collage for Joseph Cornell )
Poet/collagist Steve Dalachinsky was born in Brooklyn after the last big war and has managed to survive lots of little wars. His book The Final Nite (Ugly Duckling Presse) won the PEN Oakland National Book Award. His most recent books are Fools Gold (2014 feral press), a superintendent's eyes (revised and expanded 2013 - unbearable/ autonomedia) and flying home, a collaboration with German visual artist Sig Bang Schmidt (Paris Lit Up Press 2015). His latest cd is The Fallout of Dreams with Dave Liebman and Richie Beirach (Roguart 2014). His poem “Particle Fever” was nominated for a 2015 Pushcart Prize. Forthcoming from Overpass Press The Invisible Ray, with artwork by Shalom Neuman.
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CONSTELLATION (a collage for Joseph Cornell )
1.
sew me
as you would
corn husk into morning
i,
flower rawchop dogstar capillary scorpion
shot
by angel
storm present with fire in my loins
listen with ear of corn maiden’s dress born & spun
stitched executed
2.
deliver the cash to the people
they will wave their chapeaus in approval
each,
the white meat chosen
warm breast
i,
no leg to stand on
3.
oh child,
lift us, hats waving in salute,
we crowd trapped like riot inside a podium
as age grabs you
blow on the wings of butterflies less & make more phone calls to strangers.
4.
my spoon eye
in glass of
skin
i see thru stomach
dissolved hairline
capt. mix the drink well
5.
utopia parkway crow
a stain spread over the threatening sky
fly, dark
bird
or fingers’ silhouette
unmasked emerging
blending
stoic unbubbling kettle on its way
cathartic to
columned utopia
facade
6.
a pyramid of #’s
on flat car of freight train
i sit the perfect lady
(shadow)
direction of wing in heaven of beak
in heart.
7.
wake me in the morning, bold cock,
with your singing,
i am your maiden now
i will continue to float beside you
like a fish of gold leaf, i will rise
& sew holes into your long johns
8.
ride little saint
oh serious viceroy
while the wind hugs your chest
with your scarf
hold high your banner of clouds high on this carousel.
9.
i play my lute only birds & bricks to listen
10.
the dancers got on their knees
& held it up
but as the days dropped like rags
so too, finally,
the giant red star
plummeted into the depths of the earth
became tomato in plain red can
11.
she braids her hair
in a golden mirror
this quiet autumnal
as baskets of birds call for worms
on the moon’s pale surface
12.
owl,
i know you
i gave you this bouquet
squeeze me tie me into a pile of knots
i am old string / i sag
& untangle easily
13.
sting me again bee i’m lost in the tall grasses ----- discarded fruit.
14. how many miles to baylon?
take me to your garden.
i’ll play for you.
dog to dog resting.
deer to deer reclining.
nurse me my childhood nurse
i’ve lost all the pictures of my youth
only pain & discomfort remain
tell me,
how many miles to babylon ?
she barks
& lies on my fan to keep cool
you are too battered & hidden to undress
even your face (tho i see only your eyes)
play for me
use your fan as a bow
your bouquet as strings
in my backyard one lost carousel horse dislodged dismounted
we are a doll with its dress half torn.
15.
love in the trenches among tall grasses
i am a laborer of hours
a miner of coal
& sound
take this hummingbird i have here beneath my coat
i’ve worked below the savage highroads
all my long short life
my lungs fill with dark love & dust
undo my loose knit pale blue scarf
&
suck in your breath.
16.
it is night on the street
lamplight illuminates the newly replaced cobblestones
we walk cautiously in the wet it casts
you look at him then look away toward me
i fly back to the top of the mt. where these cobbles were first born
your image in stone & light awaits me.
17.
beside the china blue vase
you stand
with a bouquet
child waiting
to become
a phone call
an angel
a pigeon on a wet street
a star
a constellation
a perfect song to irritate my nerves
a clear day
a ghost to inhabit sea shells
a breath of air escaped from the now opened box -
my present to you this old year.
addendum:
lizardsnailwinglute - daring young man
Poet/collagist Steve Dalachinsky was born in Brooklyn after the last big war and has managed to survive lots of little wars. His book The Final Nite (Ugly Duckling Presse) won the PEN Oakland National Book Award. His most recent books are Fools Gold (2014 feral press), a superintendent's eyes (revised and expanded 2013 - unbearable/ autonomedia) and flying home, a collaboration with German visual artist Sig Bang Schmidt (Paris Lit Up Press 2015). His latest cd is The Fallout of Dreams with Dave Liebman and Richie Beirach (Roguart 2014). His poem “Particle Fever” was nominated for a 2015 Pushcart Prize. Forthcoming from Overpass Press The Invisible Ray, with artwork by Shalom Neuman.
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