Potato Soul

it’s hard to cook potatoes at a certain time of year, they sag and wrinkle, all eyes, lustful surging outward, turning green if soul is a potato, how to judge? when to cook, when to save who’s greening for the renewal Image from Sewell family  archives, circa 1974, north of Valhalla.

Listening to Snatam Kaur

and if you could not sing for me i would seek the song of strangers rather than live silenced   and if you desired to sing for me but your words were taken i would learn the songs of strangers and sing you new words   and if you would sing with me these songs,…

Song of Praise (resung)

In Nass Valley, one shaft of sun lights two red and white toadstools in damp moss, luminous deeper in cathedral, wingéd ugly fungi, colours i wouldn’t admit there, i and all that i am, no less than the stinkhorn and oozing mud sing the brown and wrinkled, slick and loathsome, what i would not dare…

Voice and Heart, and Giants Among Us

“These poets who are so arrogant as to learn their own work by heart!” It was pointed at me, in the sort of insider-voice just loud enough to be overheard, but not so bold as to invite direct response. I didn’t need to respond anyhow, i’d said my piece. Out loud. Full voice. The way…