Poems

in the pursuit of

in the pursuit of perfection

i have become

a golden cup

with nothing in it

in the pursuit of love

i have become

a long blade

with blood upon it

in the pursuit of wealth

i have become

a vast house

with no one in it

in the pursuit of pain

i have become

a broken horse

with no one on it

in the pursuit of sorrow

i have become

a swollen river

with no fish in it

in the pursuit of you

i have become

a single lily

with sun upon it.

what the day refuses to damn

the names we would

call ourselves

the people we're obliged

to meet

the loss of our angels

feather by

feather

behind the curtain

doves still flutter

clear pools

smooth stones

drop through

shatter

the calm

ripple by

ripple

in the belfry

in the garden

in the deep good

windowlight

things return

light of the father

passing in the vein

stuck there; fundamental,

naming you by day.

awake in the unknown world

where doors and chevys

groan in the night

and i think of you

to keep my heart alive

if anything were easy

the asters all would die

if everything were true

no gun would speak

something simple

it would be easy i think

to begin the world again

from something simple

a stone

something hard

to shape it all like that

and whirl it up out of one breath

something was always sour inside of this

maybe the cards were always marked

maybe the gun was always loaded

but some mornings

when the sun fills up the kitchen

and i walk in to see it lighting up the leaves

of the plants in the window

and making all the dust float like snowflakes

well then i feel like i could just twist

out of this like a weak headlock

that i could tuck up my arms and fold into stone

that i could be calm and beautiful

and pray through all this murder anyway

and then i think it would be easy

to begin the world again

from something simple

like a son.

this night

i eat this night

like a bread of silence

i take the moon

in my hand

in this night,

men struggle;

women struggle;

young and old.

some

do not go on.

in this night,

with this silence

i share some of it.

tomorrow

those left

and me

will rise

will move through time,

forgetting the past

forgetting each other.

walk through the dance

one. two. three.

dig and look and kill

for love,

keep hands

around the fire.

but tonight,

this night,

i eat this night

like a bread of silence.

i drink this prayer

like the blood of angels.

tomorrow

is all ladders,

is all grapple and bone.

so for tonight

i eat this bread

alone.

after awhile

things get easier

the dials of saddness

of native grief

can be turned low

the ache

the great ache

the fire with no center

becomes a quiet throb

like a drum under cotton

below the bone

inside the teeth

a little softer

every

day.

untitled (scar)

there is a pale scar upon the day

written in its veins

like the blood of a king.

go back to before i knew you

or felt any of the insects you planted

below my skin.

go back to my original sweetness

of a little boy reaching out into total darkness

for the blue dress of his mother,

and reaching back with a hand full of ashes.

large fish go by, and swim deep in this sea.

i have tangled a million lives together into mine.

with one breath I drink them in,

in another they are gone.

who am I then,

i am the one who says amen.

i am the young boy with the scar
who goes out to hunt the great eagle

who must climb up to the sun on a ladder of arrows

who becomes something wholly new entirely

who slides back down on a rope of braided horse hairs

to find the beautiful daughter of the greatest warrior

to put a seashell in her hair.

I wish ...

I wish my poems

were white horses

the texture of twilight

that i could ride

into tomorrow

I wish my poems

were queenly swans

extending their long necks

through your window

while you're sleeping

to read your dreams

i wish my poems

were good swords

the length of morning

and when i took them

in my hands

i could level fields

full of my enemies

i wish my poems

were brave kisses

tracing up your spine

like red balloons floating

up a spiral staircase.

I wish my poems

were hard drinks

and after a good pull

your eyes would mist over

and you'd step out into

the night to smoke

and reconsider

eternity.

i wish my poems

were aisle lights

that showed you your steps

through endless dark hallways.

i wish my poems

were acts of God

occurring on mountains

and in marketplaces

to heal lepers

and raise corpses

I believe

mostly my poems

are small ships

on huge oceans

sailing toward

a dark continent

with one eye

on a compass

and one hand on a wheel

with one eye on jerusalem

and one breath

in the sail.

move on

whoever you are

you will come to a point

where no advice you've ever gotten

will prepare you

for what you face

you will come to a point

where the trail breaks.

When this happens

be afraid.

and then

when you are weak and quivering

and can feel the sky crumbling

grab for the center.

i know it will be dark,

but reach

for the middle.

amazing

how the sun will shine then

how your skim will feel

how your heart will grow trumpets.

if you are waiting for a flood

move on

if you are waiting for some antichrist

to bristle his jaw

move on

if you are waiting for a messiah

grab for the center

when there is silence

listen for song

when there is darkness

swim towards dawn.

There is the answer

if you were waiting

move on.

A wind story

before a cock will crow

or a virgin trim her wick through the night

before a king can grow a beard

or a boxer throw a fight

before there is time to dust under anything

or give any of your better things away

it will be over

and a man in uniform will move softly down the aisle

to punch your ticket

departing

a school of bright fish

scatter and jolt before you like a shock from a socket

returning

many birds drop into a bare tree in a grey field,

hang like wicked black leaves

alive against the wind.

is there time even to reattach the ear?

swords in the air men, swords in the air.

this is no age for surgeons

on a clear day even the pettiest fool

pulls bones from the air.

i have gone now i have gone

and to there you cannot go

i have gone now i have gone

and to there you cannot go

where thieves have attacked me

and stolen my robes

i have fashioned two bluebirds

one iron one gold

they are dressed in the ribbons

that the wind won't wear

and they can sing all the stories

that the wind won't dare.

The things that make me beautiful

are not my fears

or my jealousies,

my tired hatreds

my whining in the dark

it's not the size

or shape or color of me

What makes me beautiful

is the pureness of my dreams

that float through me

like a feather through a needle's eye

they rest inside me

like a lady's hand

in a bowl of wine

they shoot out before me

into the day

like strange silk arrows

i always search for

and hope to recover

the sound they make against my ribs

is like a string of pearls

rolling down a staircase

and on my skin

and through my eyes

it's a clear fog

that i look through

for miles.

There are scorched seasons

in which the heart cannot speak

in which your brain, your balls,

your dumb ambitions

blot out every sun.

You get in dirty vans

and drive endlessly,

scanning the windows

for visions

you've already had .

You glug and glug

till the ice cubes rattle

like bones.

in a thousand empty glasses,

a thousand frosted tombs.

you read read read

looking secretly for yourself

in the margins.

You consult the moon,

consult the moonlit eyes of women

you do not love,

but your voice echoes back

unanswered,

like you whispered into a deep well.

you feel around your neck

and in your pockets

for the charms you carried

the tiny capsules of grace.

but they are useless now

like bees that bring

no honey.

where is your love,

where is the tender voice

that called when you could not hear.

she tends her seven wounds

alone, wiping her tears

on her unfinished loom.

but a deeper voice reaches

from behind your eyes,

with words like southern winds.

it tell's you with it's lions tongue

that the womb of your mind can bear

many seasons,

that death is the cheat and beggar

you always suspected, that life

indeed, is very long,

and that love, once wounded,

can still go on.

half of all

our time

is spent hoping

that something

will anoint our lives

with meaning,

that someone

will set the green laurel

in our hair.

it is a quiet dream

with many faces,

and the snow still falls

in spite of everything.

i try to pass my time well.

i look most people

in the eye

i smile when i can,

i feel alive when i'm alone.

i walk in the morning

with little things

on my mind.

once, on a train

drinking hot coffee

i realized

how really alone

we all are.

It isn't always hard

to suffer

and after it's over

there is always

the glowing.

murky beneath our daily flesh

like a silver fish

in a fountain.

In a mouth where hungry

children count teeth

and pluck the harps

that will soothe the beast

there are digging hands

in the middle of a blink

that spend the coins

you try to keep

but it's all salt water

when you need a drink

I am an animal of wind

i am a puppet

carved from wind

i want nothing

but to blow and blow

hot and cold

and in the morning

to come home.

The age of saints

is never over

we still need someone

to glow in the dark

to light our candles

to hear our birds sing

how could we ever be beautiful

without the sad things

clinging to our coattails

trying to convince us

of the finish line.

with one hand in your hand lord

one hand in the fire

i will tip toe

to heaven

sometimes barely

breathing out

i will tip toe to heaven

sometimes singing

out loud

i will tip toe

to heaven

lost in the sound.

I wait for the bird

sometimes

make it plead

it still sings everyday

but i listen. now

to the different notes.

listen for the vision

before i lift the pen.

my belly is full

of the bird. because

we all know

the body has never

held the spirit well

chains. rattle often.

there are wombs

we fall through in dreams

like cobwebs of milk

we hear our mothers sing

tender tender is the night

blessed blessed is the day

if your bird isn't singing

pay attention

if your bird isn't singing

stop what you're doing

if your bird isn't singing

turn off the alarm

go back to bed.

if your bird isn't singing

jump

if your bird isn't singing

forget everything

if your bird isn't singing

write a poem

with a pencil of blood

open your window in the morning

smell things

greet the sun

do you feel it beginning?

is there bird

in your lungs?

when i was young

where is the champagne?

Where the shotgun?

i listen to the children play

they cry by my side.

we are mountains of our own decay.

when i was young

i climbed trees

and my echo down below was the lord

when i was a baby

they held my toes

and my mother whispered me a kiss in the night

when i was a river

i had no worries

tra la la la la

in my feet is the calling

i walk home,

it is dark.

is there room in this world

for a piece of my heart

i reach out into the sweetest music

there are things in me which are so soft

like beautiful women with wings of worn brown leather

which are also horses that run,

that take shapes

like shadow puppets on a white wall

and i let them run through

my fingers and hair every season

knowing they are the best stuff

what there is in my throat that can sing

is yours, it is yours, it is yours.

i have arrows and stones

and sticks for walking

i have mannah and gold

and wine for drinking

there is no wall above me

there is no bottom to my canyon

i want to go crazy crazy crazy

on a white day

with a strange wind

beside me

too often

you check the bus number

too often

you look at the map

too often

you call your mother

too often

you complain

too often

you find the reason not to

too often

you forget.

too often

you curse anyone.

too often

you speak without purpose.

too often

you frown without reason.

too often

you forget to pray

too often

god is a pretty idea

too often

the windows of paradise are fogged over

too often

you pass over your neighbor.

too often

you starve the ghost to feed the donkey

too often

your love suffers for chicken scratch on a page.

too often

history mocks you.

too often

you're already lost.

too often

it's the wrong number.

too often

you're already there.

too often it was the road not taken

too often

the deck is stacked

too often

you forget to breathe.

too often

you aren't where you want to be.

but as often as we fuck up

or forget the whole plan

the miracle is

the love

that still aches our bones together

for another morning

that puts our backs to the wind

and gives us the push

and though we dream without hope

though we fly without wings

it is the perfect struggle

for the only

prize.

you must speak

what the soul demands

as the horses

must walk

through the sorrel grass

and tall thrush

to drink

at the river

how can i touch

you now

and still drink

the flames.

i wanted the earth

for its beauty

i wanted to die

for the pain.

where can we go

where the flowers

won't find us

i'm barely twenty-three

and i've heard ten thousand

stories.

all strange

all different

all wanting the truth

all assuming they had it

or were on the fastest way there.

i remember their cars

or their faces

or a scowl

or a smile

i remember the hungry

ones and the angry ones

the ones hard up

the ones fed well and often.

the ones who laughed

and were empty

and the ones who cried

to get full

i tried to kiss

my savior

in most of them.

some i couldnt

and wept.

what can tomorrow

ask of you

that you

have not answered.

think hard

before you lift

the glass

to drink

again.

Music

VIDEO

NICHOLAS D'ANDREA

words

BIO