The pain in my knees
makes it difficult
to trim my toenails.
Is this not the stuff of poems?
jobe
we are earth on one side
and water on the other
in us there is air and fire
and soot and ashes and hope
we might walk a long road
or a short one and we can choose
to not walk anywhere at all
— the sun — the moon — the stars —
these things can give us direction
something to follow
when we go to our rest at night
we should keep a shovel close by
we never know if we’ll awaken again
and perhaps the people who find us
will take the shovel and do the right thing
jobe
The foolish reject what they see, not what they think; the wise reject what they think, not what they see.
Huang Po
All day inside – reading poems –
while spring leaves grow
in the warmth of the sun
jobe
Derive happiness in oneself from a good day’s work, from illuminating the fog that surrounds us.
Henri Matisse
see me bathe
high above this long green valley
high above the river
the air is cool and I am clean
I have wanted to be clean for so long now
my body is below
lying still and dirty on the ground
I can hear my wife crying
but I am rising
up past the clouds now
free
clean at long last
jobe
Grandmother went to sleep full of the emptiness that everyone is afraid of. She is sleeping across a blue landscape, under a green sky. This is a land that smells like jasmine, but that doesn't tell us much. Grandmother is dreaming of a day like this one, only in heaven, not here. She wants to take walks above the shore. She wants to sip tea and read those old books again, the ones she always loved. In a dream, anything is possible - flying, a new love, you can even be young again. Grandmother isn't afraid of the emptiness, she knows better than that. Look at her, smiling in her sleep. So peaceful, so relaxed.
jobe
There ain't a man livin' who hasn't talked to his dog.
Hank Williams
after midnight
my doggo speaks secrets to me
only in spanish
and I am up all night
with Google Translate
mi perro es un genio loco
jobe
Where does the soul come from? Where does it
Go at night? That's where I desire to live. I dream
And leave my body every night, some nights
It happens several times. On that astral plane
I find my soul and many of these pitiful poems.
I live one life here and another life there, and
Often I just close my eyes and I am gone. Maybe
There will come a night when I do not return.
I know I would prefer to stay on the other side.
It is a land of light and shadow, like here. Who
Can say which realm is real and which is not?
I say both lives are real. I say both are dreams.
jobe
I Will Put in Your Mouth the Words of the Ancients
and in the smirk of dark ages, add coins and
executed thoughts. You will never be hungrier. History
is a sensuous woman who stands by an evening
window, holding a candle, and no one knows if the light
is for getting her through the house, or inviting someone in.
Upstairs, the bed chamber is cold and quiet. For warmth
you will need a lover or warm bricks at your feet, and
prayers, even if you are not religious. Many prayers.
Ann Menebroker 1936—2016 CE
Ann Menebroker, Annie, is dearly missed. Like a lot of people around this greater Sacramento area, I loved her. She was a dear, sweet friend for three decades. Her poetry has always owned me. She could single out a moment and catch it like a photographer, or a Buddhist hermit monk, or both.
I was walking into a poetry reading in Midtown Sacramento in 2016 when I learned of her death. Annie was 80, but I was still caught off guard. How could somebody so full of life be gone? It felt exactly like being punched in the stomach.
I recently found a letter that the late poet Jack Hirschman wrote me over 25 years ago. My mind can be scattered, I had forgotten it. Thank goodness I had put it away for safe keeping. The letter is sweet and kind and full of support for my poetry. It means so much to me.
Jack was a large spirit as well as a wonderful poet. He spent time in Italy and his Italian allowed him to do translations of poets there, and also translate his own work into Italian. I had a fun lunch with him and the poet Luke Breit one day. Luke is gone now, too.
Jeez, what’s up here? Today is not Late Poets Day. It’s the National Poetry Month, though. At least it is until the Executive Order comes down cancelling it. “Hey, poets — We’re fired. “
This is what happens; I have a large amount of books. Most of them, by far, are poetry. Poems from many centuries, many cultures. And a lot of them are from poets around here. Often, my friends. I’ll be going through my books and look! There’s Annie! There’s Jack! Then it comes your way. I’ll put a Jack Hirshman poem below the paywall.
Thanks for reading the book of jobe today. New posts are on Tuesdays and Fridays.
jobe
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to book of jobe to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.