Wednesday, September 14, 2016

John Keats: (Ode) To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, - 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 

Friday, August 19, 2016

Three Sonnets


Chop up text from dirty French
novels, throw in some candy
hearts, make it a production, all
for what reason? That this is all
building to some astonishing
climax, as our bodies reach
through envelopes to grasp
with greedy hands desired limbs?
I'm not sick of it yet, because it
is interesting to dance with raw
desire- to imagine the eyes,
the breasts, the sex, how they all
might look in motion, in rapture,
in the only text that really matters.

c. 2009


You always wait for Kate's
next move, and when it's
finished you can light a
cigarette, stare off into space,
peer into the windows of distant
buildings, holding offices that
probably have swivel chairs,
people who know more
about money than you do,
but stay too busy to do what
you do, which is each other
on the phone, oh baby oh yes,
jacked/in-box full of what
you jerk from these digital kisses-

c. 2008


Grape soda in the fridge;
wind, out of Eleusis, shut
the door. Our clothes came
off; your limbs spun like

spokes. I peered outside; it
was light. New Hampshire
summer sun, four a.m.
Bubbling, we made love.

You were Dickinson with
guts, a tattoo. I was John
Keats. Now Philly moves
me less than grape soda.

Wind spreads toxins...Emily,
Emily, no complaints. I saved the bottle.

c. Adam Fieled 2005

Sunday, July 17, 2016

Ekphrasis: Portrait: Mary Harju/Adam Fieled

Dear M, I know many yeses.
Yes, I’ve had pants-ants, I’ve

sewed my oats, not Quaker,
but remember: oats are small.

Yes, I wrote our happenings,
made them public. OK, you

can say I suck. Sucking hasn’t
made me sour, however. I’m

as sweet as a Gobstopper. I’m
colorful, too. You should suck

me again sometime. Love, A. 

c. Mary Harju/Adam Fieled 2006

Saturday, July 16, 2016

Ekphrasis: The Fall: Mary Harju/Adam Fieled

I look at a bridge through the window.
I am standing, naked, while you paint.

I feel that every moment is new, nude.
I am in my body as it actually is, I am

in time as it moves forward, from in
side my body, responsive to drafts

coming through the window, mirrors
that show me what I know too well

to know, what I have lived through
and with, what I have seen but not

been Other to. Sunlight glistens—
we fall upwards, without question.

c. Mary Harju/Adam Fieled 2008