From Small Fires, Little Flames: A Reading

Here’s some video from Friday’s reading at BJ Spoke Gallery in Huntington*. Thanks to the gallery, those who came to listen and, especially, Kelly Powell, for hosting the event.

If you missed me here, you can find me featuring at the Blue Duck Bakery in Riverhead on Sunday, November 26th @ 2PM.

See more info about upcoming readings by clicking the Readings tab above.

*I’m not sure how the audio sounds, so I’ll post the poems I’m reading below.  If you like what you hear, you can purchase a copy of Small Fires, Little Flameshere.

18

The magician learns his art
and knows this spell or that one
will turn a stone into a dove.
The audience participates and sees.
There was no bird and now there is.

And saints practice humility,
praying for God’s will
who first caused doves to rise.
There is no art to this.
The congregation believes or disbelieves.

The poet is the one I love,
who tries to turn his heart into a dove
and fails or gets it right,
but no one cares or sees.

19

What god would prick
who could do more?

The one I know isn’t a wind.
He is a whisper.

Among the many voices he is one,
advising yes and no.

So long to other notions of the divine!
This one must do.

It’s been a good friend
since I was born.

20

I would revise so much
is how it used to go,
and then it changed and all
I used to know as loss
became not loss but possibility.

Potential is the better word.
I almost called it hope
but stopped, and would, just short
of that, because hope also means,
to my chagrin, hold on.

21

What word was it?  Oh, yes.
That one the heron said.
Was it only yesterday I heard it?

Or the day before and all the rain…
It’s better to be wet and know it
than think: the sun, the sun.

As if to pray were more than confirmation:
this is, and that’s enough.  No more
wishing for this monk.  Yes, that’s right.

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