Pete Smith


moss is 
	
.  .  .  a m  .  .  .  .  .  . i s
m e .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .
.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  i s
.  .  .  a  .  . r  .  .  .  s  .  .
.  e t .  .  .  .  .  h o s  .  .
.  e  .  .  .  .  r .  . o .  .  s
.  .  .  a m o r .  .  .  .  .  .
.  .  .  a m o r .  .  .  s  .  .
.  .  .  a  .  .  r  .  .  .  .  . s
m e t a  .  .  .  p h .  .  .  .
.  .  .  .  .   o r .  .  .  .  .  .
.  .  .  .  m  .  .  .  .  o s . s
.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  i  s



from Zeros: Day Book


13.

A little pax-
il:  a lot
of peace.
               Sylvia’s
mother says
resurrection’s
a pure chem-
ical fact.



53.The last sin-eater in Shropshire Richard Munslow  d. 1906 

You mun slow down up ahead there
Dick-Richard
                 yon malachite’s nobbut pawned souls
                                                            and calcified angel wings



74. An Ars of Their Poetica.

abacus of gilt-edged intention 
               promissory notes of self-interest 
                              from which to stitch a winding sheet 
wax & wane 
               ego’s last flicker. 



99.

Skreek of varied thrush
fluid song of robin
stitch a dawn
               out of night’s nothingness
it-a-come
               through notes’ light gravity
it all-a-come



126.  Francois’ Shrift  (Celan)

Both doors of the world
stand open:
opened by you.
in the nightgloom.
We hear them bang there and bang there
and bear the unknowable
and bear the green shoot into your Alwaysing.


		*	*	*	*	*	*
	

Sans Titre.

The butterfly whose banking whirl
and dive for pollen
dominoed the storm that blew

Chernobyl ash over Europe's crops,
it's true, is mounted on the wall
of the son of a Nazi escapee

in Chile; but look with care,
reader, the whorl at your finger's tip
is woven into the pattern on his wing.



Waxwings
"In winter these same birds become sociable nomads": Audubon web-site.

i.

An irruption of passerines
at rest now on the Black Locust
until their scout tweets
BERRIES 
                    & they tear away
twisting & wheeling 
to another neighbourhood - 
waxwings waning to a distant blur.
		
ii.

Bohemians as far from
Bohemia as my Pomeranian cross
from old Pomerania
                              & me, ha!,
unsociable nomad Englishman
homing on unceded 
Secwépemc land
rootless & cheeky-chirping.



from Xeros - Fig.

At the heart of the Paradise gardens
grows a fig-tree.
Zeus comes by each morning to feel its fruit for ripe-
ness, his jaws
chatter helplessly, a kitten
seeing its first bird. Apollo also comes
to it, reciting coital songs,
picks one fig and penetrates
it with his lance, oils his torso
with its juice, smears it on, 
swears by it before going down
to earth 
to slum and slam (Thank you, ma’am) 
a while.
		Xeros drops by,
finds the tree withered, remnant figs
little dried-up nuts.
"Jesus," says he,
"So soon!”



Unsettled Weather

Don’t know if what I love most
               is the rain 
                              that comes after high wind
               or the brightening in the west 
                              after rains’ short burst 
	
but what I really love most
               is the after



Pomegranate Seeds

Chung Tzu’s non-
existent fish 
swam the language-
river centuries
before Che Qianzi 
landed some
in his red-blooded 
scroll-boat.
Downwater
new breeds spawn
& practice 
their script—
a gill 
on the upstroke
fins curving 
the cursive
word- 
               wards.

		(March 4 2010)



A Little Splash For Rodefer.
		
At ksw September 1999
Rodefer, sporting Creeley patch 
over Joycean eye, launched 
wave after wave of words,
angled & carved, 
                                             geared up
like a refugee from Endless Summer.
Glittering minutes rose & dipped & crested,
and the tanned word
                                             smeared & dazzled —
a poem that doesn't splash a little, that
doesn't now hide now reveal setting
or rising sun, that doesn't both grovel
& preen, isn't worth its weight in poly-
sporin or that rubefacient, mustard.



Thpring

The letter clouds me
paper magpies	no wind
always the old willow
          with joined jade 
          leaves
          mind 	still
I lazily scratch your letter	so
the wall can hear the flute

The Poetess Ch’ao Li-houa and Ch’in Kuan conjoined
by an accidental fold of pp 43-4 in Flower Wreath Hill
Later Poems by Kenneth Rexroth.  July 18 2018



from Confessions
Into The Night.

It was the most fun I'd had
pretending to be human:
going out into the licking night
with a kiss on my lips
for the cheek of a man
flame-lit & shadowed 
in cross-light.

Pete Smith was born in English Midlands, moved to British Columbia’s southern interior in 1974. Bindings with Discords (Shearsman Books 2015) collects 6 long sequences, poems also published in 13 chapbooks & sundry magazines; essays & reviews in Agenda, The Gig, Crayon, Capilano Review, The Salt Companion to John James, Jacket (first series) & elsewhere.

 
 

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