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Bernard and Kathleen Henrie

This poem draws most of its allusions
from Bernard Henrie's poetry and prose.

I'd like to make a poem of Bernie's
wordings almost gone to powder,
or perhaps more like the Diamond
Disc spins off at eighty-per,
sentiments of sound estate
while tracing out a poem for Bernie--
I'll strain along like Edison
biting wood for sound conduction
(mastoid bone to drum deaf ears).
Pardon, please, but I digressed.
Allow me to begin again?
In a chair, set with a book,
and a cat in curl, is Bernie--
called to stir
a Christmas pudding made for him
by one as loved as the old song
phonographing her of keeps,
"I'll take you home again Kathleen"

30 Dec 05

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 — aforbing

thanks, aforbing.
bernie is a fine, well-loved poet found most often at the Criical Poet.
you are a fine, well-loved poet found here at Poetry Critical.
 — netskyIam

has been retouched.
any crits? thanks very much if you do.
thanks for even looking.
 — netskyIam

here's a poem of his,
h ttp://www.criticalpoet.com/forum/viewtopic.php?t=8294
relatively related to the -topicality- of mine,
though his is a new poem,
and aside from centering on Kathleen,
draws from different thoughts and images.
 — netskyIam

Ah, Mojave is a wonderful poet and unflinching with his edits. Folr him, poetry is more than a lifestyle-- it's what he does. And as a critique-dispenser, he finds the nugget of everyone's poems.

Bernard Henrie is amazing.
Check out his poem Iroquois in The Poetic Ax at SplashHall.
 — banditfemme

This was written and  revised by Mojave (Bernard Henrie) on April 8, 2007.

Iroquois (Revised)

I awake in white sky and clouds like an Iroquois.

Windy and in need of speaking. Meanings underneath.
The constant reminder of the special order of things.
The lack of consummation, sentences without verbs
in the confessional box.

Starlings in the new spring lift in a single flight from trees,
thin from the wet winter, one eye open staring sideways,
grub stained.

My wife makes love in her Republican dress, one strap
off the shoulder, her sex cleft rouged and secret, scented
like a basin of sea water.

My wife does not remember helping General Pinochet
pull fingernails with pliers that grasp like the beak of birds;
no memory in the dark of the dark Lamumba.

In the snow she does not remember the white Moussadeq.
Her amnesia when we make love is final, a blanket thrown
by a mother over a drowsy child.  

I face into the storm of my work clear headed and strong;
the cold on my cheek like a razor. I stride past women
in kerchiefs selling tomatoes, my coveralls fresh with soap;
My goggles on a studio bench, I burn in Argon green gas.
I weld steel to steel delicate as cochlea bone.

An artist in my own mind, safe in the margin of a 35th year
of an 87 year life.

I bring fresh tomatoes in a brown bag. My wife chops them
into our dinner. In her hands red pulp turns ruby and divine.

My wife retreats to her bath; I sit thinking what I am.

A climber released from the climbing rope to fall outward
from K2, or Kilimanjaro to ride briefly with mounted Iroquois,
our blankets become ballooning wings; the gravitational pull
deposits me on a doorstep, drops me at my wife’s bath,
her breasts glossy in the suds, her fur lock blurred below;
a flare on a silk lake.

She must think I come in the grace of matrimonial mystery,
but I cannot speak and sit crying and I cannot stop.

Enough dope in the trunk of my car for three life sentences.
 — banditfemme

i vomited when reading the title
 — unknown

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