Flora
tendrils in a warm pumpkin patch
dancing is bondage in freedom
my feet belong (to you, to you)
my eyes belong (also to you)
so that they and i were (glutting ourselves)
having been struck out (of ourselves)
having been thrown into bewilderment
my feet belong (to you, to you)
my eyes belong (only to you)
my ears are the shape of secrets
when he was entering
//
οὕτως ἐκπεπληγμένοι τε καὶ τεθορυβημένοι ἦσαν
ἡνίκ᾽ εἰσῄει
//
changed “seemed” to
“appeared” for ephane
the meirax of moist
for nothing shabby even
then, green and golden
(they were)(i was)(i was saying)
still being (whole)child
and now i guess somehow very
well, flown and flowing
if (they) would already
(let)be of a youth(maiden)
— the meirax is (moist)fluid as a slipper
river maiden golden child
the meirax (is) slippery and loud
river maiden wild
//
for nothing shabby
even then
(they were)(i was)(i was saying)
still being (whole)child
and now i guess somehow
very well
if (they) would already
(let)be of a youth(maiden)
οὐ γάρ τι φαῦλος
οὐδὲ τότε
ἦν
ἔτι παῖς ὤν
νῦν δ᾽ οἶμαί που
εὖ μάλα
ἂν ἤδη
μειράκιον εἴη
154β
//
δαιμονίως
witch piece cake
in skin prick, i fly across oceans
arrive on the lotus-letters island
of the long-lost highland kingdom
stir and spell a terrible journey
through holy wood by central castling.
to announce my flawless fingers
persuade his drawbridges lowered
which were guarded by a giantess
and cross over the lava moat.
with clean hair only do we enter
the dragon reception, a masque
of marbles clouds and berries.
here is where i will eat out
the remainder of my salad days
sweetly, sing the saffron rage of birds.
with which natural-born prince
whisper in the quartz crystal ball
an uncomplicated lover, yes —
of inexhaustible grief and faith
in these wettest, wildest dreams.
but it appears to me
indeed he
(himself) nearly
already (pleasures)
perhaps
to be
approaching —
//
why she (of all those now)
because she is a world
as meditation —
are you noticing each bare blade
of grass, cut green as a fiery warmth.
because immanence, though shy,
is penetration —
are the rays of the sun shining
into the cells of a golden meadow.
because these happening, all in a rush —
are the (ones) running headlong and entering
in advance, are the lovers and the beloveds
of the (one) seeming to be most beautiful
of all those now.
//
οὗτοι γὰρ τυγχάνουσιν
οἱ εἰσιόντες πρόδρομοί
τε καὶ ἐρασταὶ ὄντες
τοῦ δοκοῦντος καλλίστου εἶναι
τά γε δὴ νῦν
witch in the fire department
hid underneath my flowy dresses draped
in cool blues and soothing beachy tones —
i cant help it, i confess it, father —
i am a woman on fire.
and when i spy them entering a door
i watch their simple, rugged carelessness
and how they handle one anothers
bodies beyond all clothes or covers . . .
as leaves are born in screaming reds
and oranges each wicked September,
so i am born again into this burning
and my roaring flesh becomes the tinder —
and if i cry for help, it only brings them closer —
this crucible — my rose garden — a hose, for water —
//
and Critias
looking towards the door
seeing some young men entering
and (playing?) abusing one another
and another crowd following in the rear
καὶ ὁ Κριτίας
ἀποβλέψας πρὸς τὴν θύραν
ἰδών τινας νεανίσκους εἰσιόντας
καὶ λοιδορουμένους ἀλλήλοις
καὶ ἄλλον ὄχλον ὄπισθεν ἑπόμενον
bare blade of grass
is it different to use a knife
on wood than on flesh?
doctors use knives now
to carve out faces.
they cut eyelids and noses,
they cut lips and jaws.
they cut silent words
to feed the switch.
i put it on a page,
skin should touch skin.
i write it, over and over,
this is not my face.
this is not your face,
i write it, over and over.
somewhere, i hear, we are
born young and beautiful.
//
and about the young
whether any in them(selves) carrying over
would have been been born in
to wisdom or beauty or both
περί τε τῶν νέων
εἴ τινες ἐν αὐτοῖς διαφέροντες
ἢ σοφίᾳ ἢ κάλλει ἢ ἀμφοτέροις
ἐγγεγονότες εἶεν
mother fracas
let her be a just peace
let her be, i want you to
her body is a blossom explosion
just pieces of anti-matter
Ophelia caught a breeze
gone girls light a starry sneeze
to court and spark her in a slow
and simultaneous supernova
love is a universal trigger
her laughter is a harsh word
(t)his life left an uncontainer
and a pistil to uncontain her
unlisted numbers are falling
from a pretty strung-out tree
unstopped daughters are falling
unvesseled veins of (void)milk
when her perfume gets you
death is still (dark)years away
go on, take everything
let her hold you, let her stay
//
(around) about the love of wisdom
how (she) would have (and hold)
the (things) now
the witness
and true love drew a blinding triangle.
the first burn was hollow parallels
desiring scent. when nothing wood was new.
dustbody takes no refuge from a wave.
our battle comes in tangled limbs of loss.
pink button of a clove, warm feet of sandalwood.
the trust we nuzzle into his jugular.
heartsick, i beat myself for thirty years.
the last bird landing on his sea of troubles.
my stranded sail gets nailed at drowning depth,
lust-jumbled junk under a yellow sun.
i touch my hope to his bronze-burnished skin.
i am the phantom i have always been.
and true love draws a binding triangle.
//
do you come beside
(i am) he says
the battle
//
i come beside (her)
// 153β
bling
my dessert comes salted
her spoonlicked sins of virgins
her cruelty is caramel
my man comes from the desert
he tethers me with whispers
the musk of his camel
who am i
//
and the sending
fitting (you)
let go and loosened (upon you)
(i) am (it) is (they) are i say
has brought
(a message)
(wandered)
unconcealed
// 153β
καὶ ἐπιεικῶς
ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ
ἀληθῆ ἀπήγγελται
serious ontology
is fan service. you who are about
to read, please understand. he will be born
the dirtiest ever poem — a thrusting savior
delivering so many ins and outs.
our she-body-battle is hare to meet Rocky.
his being a-lie-high-hive — abs flashing
in gold lamé underwear — running
mascara like horses. out-of-bounds
kissing, destination sen-
sa-si
//
O Socrates —
which i was —
as he says
how do you thrust into —
were you saved from out of the battle?
// 153β
//
camp army camp
animal event (at the school of Taureos)
into the animal event
i have been dragged and well
indeed
every year the same, i guess, except
this time
its me
and like the bull, whos horn, whos unbroken
rage
your hand anointed
when they seize the bodied, lashed and harnessed
nerve by muscle to
the craters edge
as trampled roses bruised into the pass
will grind in
to mud by mountain makers hooves
in magenta-black menstrual blood
my terror
my appetite
//
Socrates: (in Charmides, cont.)
and well indeed into the wrestling-
school of Taureos (where bulls are offerings)
straight down from the temple
of the Queen (of whom nothing is known)
// 153α
καὶ δὴ καὶ εἰς τὴν Ταυρέου παλαίστραν
τὴν καταντικρὺ τοῦ τῆς Βασίλης ἱεροῦ εἰσῆλθον
news of orchids
Phaedrus:
isn’t it overgrowingly (huper-phuos)
(in) other things
and also by the names (honomasin)
joined (together) (eresthai)
οὐχ ὑπερφυῶς
τά τε ἄλλα
καὶ τοῖς ὀνόμασιν εἰρῆσθαι
//
yesterday, in the kitchen, our friend whos out
from prison, was sharing gossip about a junior
being caught and being sent to aranjep
over kampung coffee and orchid media.
and no, they never tell me how it works.
the violet news arrives always from inside
the shackled parallel, the humbled inflorescence.
recirculating sources its own mystery.
war-salvaged rumors from the streets are white
like mouses ears that dream into my peers.
we build them nests from all our mixed-up hair.
the silver blacks the blonde. the ashen thatch.
the trees trail overgrowingly through tails
and tubers until, tangled up, the bearded roots.
to found us here. among inmates and outlaws
and songs, as clove tobacco blanketed our evening.
did you know, they blow the breath of dust
until a fungus makes the faerie home?
a thinking blink is how they move from there
to here, a mayfly mask, the wake to name a wink.
the jungle knows no law, leastly, my wooden sanity.
and when reports an owling bloom, my nervous cell —
i dont believe in walls, i saw you on the battlefield, and
i dont believe youre dead, how could you trust me.
so we have come to be present, by the previous
of evening, out of Potidaea, from the army.
and as having arrived, through time, gladly
i go. and two-thirds of the words are backwards slang.
//
Socrates:
we have come to be present (hekomen)
by the previous of evening
out of Potidaea from the army-ground (stratopedon)
and as having arrived through time
gladly
i go
upon the together-dwelling (sunethes)
rubbed-throughs (diatribas)
ἥκομεν τῇ προτεραίᾳ ἑσπέρας ἐκ Ποτειδαίας ἀπὸ τοῦ στρατοπέδου
οἷον δὲ διὰ χρόνου ἀφιγμένος
ἁσμένως
ᾖα
ἐπὶ τὰς συνήθεις διατριβάς
//
🌒
rude wisdom
true story, when i was nine or ten
my father, at the time, sat me down
as fathers do, to read Plato’s Apology.
there had been a situation at school.
it was a public school and i was new.
it had to do with bullying and needing
to choose a side. well i guess a child
encounters force beside deliberation.
after i finished reading, he asked me
what Socrates would do. it was not
really a question. and i was no fool.
i said, but papa, i am not Socrates.
this morning, i woke up from a dream
about an oil spill. well the sign put forth.
it grew like coltsfoot in the broken step
where id removed an unbelonging one.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
well i guess (oimai)
// 234β
ἐγὼ μὲν οἶμαι
//
the daddys issue
some days like i become your magazine
some days like i become your loaded gun
these days it makes no difference which (oil spill)
yes i read your letter yesterday and all
the days before, your hollow men, your dump
truck spat into my bed, and im not sure
it got there but i wrote you on the third
to say, how dare you write me when you never
learn to read a single fucking word
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
whether id recommend (para-aineein
for you
to gratify
all
the not-loving (ones) (me erosi)
// 234β
εἰ ἅπασίν σοι παραινῶ τοῖς μὴ ἐρῶσι χαρίζεσθαι
//
oil spill
Rafflesia arnoldii
it smells like a rotting corpse
they say, of the reddish-brown giantess
whose speckled blossom murks the jungle cloud
in Kalimantan with her foul putrescence.
blowflies in frenzied ritual surround
her swollen beef-like lips, unfurling with
a steamy hiss.
you steal the kiss.
and wipe your conscience with
a bloody handkerchief.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
and not (to gratify or make well) those who
having done-it-through (dia-prassein)
will befriend honor (philo-timeomai)
toward others
but those who
(self-)uglying (aischunein)
will keep silence (simopaein)
toward the all
οὐδὲ οἳ διαπραξάμενοι πρὸς τοὺς ἄλλους φιλοτιμήσονται
ἀλλ᾽ οἵτινες αἰσχυνόμενοι πρὸς ἅπαντας σιωπήσονται
//
Out of wood
I come to, in a cold sweat, twisted in
the linen sheet. These nights, I’m shivering
again. As overhead, the rain continues on
and on, like a forgotten faucet in the clouds.
In darkness, the rooster crows. His hens
crowd under eaves to avoid the downpour.
The cats are asleep. And I sense your body,
tossed limbs and derelict, fragmented speech.
I dream you’re at a diner, in laughter with
some other family. Beside you sits a woman
who is blonde, like me; while I sit with your kin.
I dream we’re in a doubling argument.
When the waitress brings coffee, my cup
is shallow brew in bone. I want to raise it
to my lips. The taste recedes, an emptied kiss
of blackest mud into the muffled dawn.
A steel blade scrapes the pale surface. A piece
we salvaged from the giant, fallen pule tree.
The base diameter was twice, at least,
your height. I snapped a photo to document
the ancient proportion. The storied work.
Spent shavings accumulate in piles, on piles.
Among them, I find you; wrestling with his grim
resolve to shape a smile out of wood.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
for those ones will show affection (agapeein)
and will follow after (akoloutheein)
and will come to the doors
and will take exceeding amounts of pleasure (malista hedomai)
and will not know (eisontai) the least grace (charis)
and will pray (euchomai) for many good things for them
// 233ε
ἐκεῖνοι γὰρ καὶ ἀγαπήσουσιν
καὶ ἀκολουθήσουσιν
καὶ ἐπὶ τὰς θύρας ἥξουσι
καὶ μάλιστα ἡσθήσονται
καὶ οὐκ ἐλαχίστην χάριν εἴσονται
καὶ πολλὰ ἀγαθὰ αὐτοῖς εὔξονται
ngaji for beginners
toss your compost out the window here
and wake to find a garden of impassables.
the rainy season, barely holding on, nurses
refuse; i think the earth cant help itself.
of course i arrived on an airplane of garbage
along with other harbingers of the end
of the island. i remember motorbike rides
across the sawah during the pandemic,
when it was sinking in how forever i was
here; the tropical scene windswept and quiet,
the people returning to their villages
to farm; it felt as if everyone was home.
back then, we couldnt mampir yet
and i didnt know that if you let a chili grow
it can live for years; it can become a little caterpillar-
munched tree, studded with flaming-hot fruit.
our neighbors treat me like Princess Di.
it doesnt help that i am shy; when we try
to take a walk, we end up seated, with coffee,
small-talk and gossip peppered with serious
conversation; which is my husbands work.
he cultivates connection, setting down
our roots, as i behold, just stupefied
by the spongey texture of community.
and then, i watch out of the corner of
my eye; i fall asleep amidst rotations of rice
and peanuts, tomatoes blushing on the vine
with fields of corn and sugarcane, rows
of marigolds and magenta gomphrena,
patches of green mustard and frilly cabbage,
near densely-shaded thickets of coffee and cacao.
i would absorb the pace of those in steady
negotiation with the sky, and what it gives
the terraced land, absorbing what it can,
for what it gives us — and by my daily plate,
it gives me very, very much.
and too, i read an article about a strong El Niño,
and one about the AMOC shutting down,
and news of friends in Denpasar, their flooded
houses and kos kosans; and always stuck
in traffic, in service to dollars, rubles, yuan,
the concrete surface spreading ever closer.
the village priest asks to send his daughter
to me, so she can practice her English.
of course, i say, let her come, frozen inside
with something like a knot that i cant name.
so im old enough (for here) to be a grandmother
but all the children say i look like Elsa.
so i let them see me picking up plastic,
and in the dirt, on my hands and knees, digging
up peanuts. it used to be my daily task
to ask the young, what is justice?
these days i find my figure lined and lit
inquiring at the city of necessity, ex-
perimenting with my best friends hair — ngaji.
so how shall i explain this, and to whom?
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
yet if it is necessary (chre)
to gratify (charizesthai) most
the ones most lacking (deomenoi)
it is also fitting (prosekein) for the others
to make well (eu poieein)
not the best ones (beltistos)
but the ones most at an impasse (a-porotatoi)
// 233δ
ἔτι δὲ εἰ χρὴ τοῖς δεομένοις μάλιστα χαρίζεσθαι
προσήκει καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις
μὴ τοὺς βελτίστους ἀλλὰ τοὺς ἀπορωτάτους εὖ ποιεῖν
broken poem / ugly poem
broken poem
if this presents itself to you
that friendship is not born
unless somebody happens
to be hungry for your heart
if this presents itself to you
that children are not made
much
nor are fathers and mothers
if this presents itself to you
finding your heart in need
and needing to acquire
a trustworthy friend
i believe you
i do not wonder why
i have been there too
but this
is not that place
so
make me
a broken poem
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
then if this presents (itself) (paristanai) to you
that such strong friendship (ischuran philian)
is not born (gignomai)
unless someone happens (tugchanein)
to be loving (eros)
it is necessary (chre)
to (go) into the heart (en-thumeisthai)
that neither would we make (poieein)
children
about much (peri pollou)
nor fathers and mothers
nor would we have acquired (ktaomai)
trustworthy (pistos)
friends (philos)
who have become (gignomai) such
not from desire (epi-thumia)
but from other (heteron)
practices (epi-tedeumaton)
// 233ξ
εἰ δ᾽ ἄρα σοι τοῦτο παρέστηκεν
ὡς οὐχ οἷόν τε ἰσχυρὰν φιλίαν γενέσθαι
ἐὰν μή τις ἐρῶν τυγχάνῃ
ἐνθυμεῖσθαι χρὴ
ὅτι οὔτ᾽ ἂν τοὺς ὑεῖς περὶ πολλοῦ ἐποιούμεθα
οὔτ᾽ ἂν τοὺς πατέρας καὶ τὰς μητέρας
οὔτ᾽ ἂν πιστοὺς φίλους ἐκεκτήμεθα
οἳ οὐκ ἐξ ἐπιθυμίας τοιαύτης γεγόνασιν
ἀλλ᾽ ἐξ ἑτέρων ἐπιτηδευμάτων
//
ugly poem
lettuce share
sandwich of ends
open-face
if-only
our eggs are smeared
with chickenshit
no lie
look at all those words
does it mean
i can take
the weekend off now
does it mean
my broken poem
is being swallowed up
(may it
be so)
and digested by
the ugly one
you turn
me into
//
🌓