Marsh Hawk Review is an online poetry journal sponsored by the Marsh Hawk Press collective. Marsh Hawk Review will appear twice a year, under the revolving editorship of collective members. Each issue will offer a selection of poems solicited by the editor, in addition to new work posted by poets in the collective.

Sunday, June 10, 2012

Paul Pines

The Anatomy of Love

One can’t underestimate
Aphrodite’s connection
to the unconscious,
born as she is
on water
 if only
from spume

               a surface creature
               on the energized
               wave

One can’t underestimate
 the wound to Eros
delivered by
 Psyche
               when burning oil
               from her lamp
               spilled
               on his cheek

to dis/spell his hope
such love might
be sustained
 in the dark
out of mother’s
 sight
          requiring no
          conscious     
separation
 from her

One can’t underestimate
Aphrodite’s anger

or Psyche’s
terror.

One can’t underestimate
the healing time
for Eros


Dance to the End of Love

                          -after Leonard Cohen

There is something 
shocking

but riveting
in words

written as
a young man

sung in the voice
of an old one—

as if the latter
had been waiting

inside the former
all along

to bring us this
requiem of

unbearable
liberation.



                                         Spiritual Gifts
                                                   -for Asa, at 95
1                                                                                             2
the little things                                                                         like Marty Feldman
unexpected                                                                               as he appears

that trickle in                                                                            in Young Frankenstein
at difficult times                                                                       here representing

often have                                                                                the figure of death
great effect                                                                               common to all

in a tiny way                                                                             Jew/ Muslim/Hindu
a measure of                                                                             the same boney nose

serendipity                                                                                 and big eyes peeking
can be a window                                                                        out of the dark cowl

on the infinite                                                                             as if in a constant
bound in                                                                                     state of surprise

boundlessness                                                                            at what he sees fixed
through which                                                                            before his mind’s eye

life becomes                                                                               a terror so vast
an oxy/moron                                                                             in a container



                                               that fills the emptiness
                                               with explosive laughter



Time Travel at Seventy

                                                              - I am doing a lot of thinking about life and meanwhile       
                                                                life is passing and I'm not keeping up.   Fred Waitzkin


Certainly the age and condition of the vehicle
  is a factor.
My seventy year old car
is still running pretty
smoothly,
                but I can't depend on its pick up,
                or the that it will keep going
                indefinitely.

The mileage
keeps mounting
and the repairs are more frequent.
I’m often most peaceful
when I admire it as an object
sitting motionless in the driveway.

From that position,
I can lean back and appreciate
how far it’s taken me
and how faithful it’s been
in spite of the road conditions
and conclude
that it owes me nothing more,

somehow still confident
 at least for the moment it will respond
to my key in the ignition.

But I no longer feel I must push it
at certain speeds,
or through terrain already traveled
and we’ve driven through
so much landscape.

It's almost as though
the vehicle
which has moved us
through the world has become
itself the most compelling
landscape
                  its stationary presence
                  in this unfolding
                  state of mind
                  the sum
of all motion
                 

Goodbye, Ted, R.I.P.

Last words
On my message machine
The day before
He died:

              This is Ted Enslin
Just wanted to thank you
For the  poems
The Belize section
is lovely

If you want to call me
The number is…

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