| Three years ago when our annual
poetry anthology RUNES, A Review of Poetry was still in the
planning stages, we asked our friend David St. John if he'd be willing
to fly to San Francisco and lead a 2-day poetry workshop. He said,
"YES!" Six weeks later, with a group of 15 Bay Area poets, we held the
first of these weekends in 'Lyn Follett's house high in the hills above
Sausalito. Now, due to overwhelming demand, we find ourselves, as
editors of RUNES, sponsoring three different groups (the Whitmans,
the Dickinsons, and the Eliots) which each meet twice a year. We have
never decided exactly what to call these weekends. Because the poets in
these groups are extremely accomplished and well-read, the sessions feel
more like master classes than workshops. A great deal of our time is
spent not only on poems by the participants but in discussion of the
craft of poetry. David is a brilliant teacher with an encyclopedic
knowledge in of poetry ancient and modern. We find these weekends
intense and rewarding. And, yes, we have waiting lists. And our waiting
lists have waiting lists. CB Follett & Susan Terris, Co-Editors of
RUNES, A Review |
RED PYTHON
I didn’t see it until she stretched out
One leg as she shifted her weight
On the chair at the conference table where
We’d been discussing some detail so arcane
Even the academic horseshit flies had grown bored
& beneath the steel grey silk of that pant leg
Flicked quick as a tongue a single razor-toed boot
Scaled unmistakenly with the stripped skin
Of some sacred serpent slicked still
& dyed the same shade as
The memory of some ancient sacrifice where
The stones themselves had grown bloody as hope
& as I caught her eye for just an instant
I felt all that useless human breath squeezed out of me
STATEMENT OF STYLE
She gave a whole new meaning to the phrase
Seeing red the way even the sheets
& curtains & mahognany table conspired
To enwomb you in that pulsing web of
Heat & of course if I’d any sense at all
I’d have been out of there
In twenty seconds but such scarlet convictions
I admit held for me a certain allure so
I continued to read aloud from my
Favorite translation of Reverdy as she
Undressed me with no little humor & much
Determination until it was clear I was very much
In the pink as they say but oh my Lord not
At all out of those red woods
CORAL SHALLOWS
Marble angel are you still there standing
On the coral beach in Key West calling me on
Your cell phone to say I’m sorry it was all just another
Misunderstanding one of so many we seem to be
Having lately as those quaint tongues of death creep
Up the legs of our own shadows but for my part
I keep my talismans close -- my necklace with
Its wing of silver lit by turquoise & red coral
& obsidian which the old woman in the pueblo
Fastened around my neck saying You are a creature
Of blood inflamed as coals & this wing will
Lift you above the fields of sorrow
She really said that & you said So here I am 3,000 miles
Away beside shallows reeking of green primeval sex
BLUE NAILS (II)
Circumstance means everything when
Night begins to creep closer to the bed
& silence is the worst lover not to
Mention the most wasteful so she sat
At her dresser naked from the waist
Up & held out first her left hand then
Her right each with a slow consideration
As if she were watching five moons rise
Now from the East & now the West
Each pale oval lacquered a nervous blue
The same neon pulse as certain tropical fish
In the clear shallows of the Caribbean where
Certainly she would one day be living in her next
& more deeply gracious life
TIMBERWOLF
Arctic manners serve some of us well by
Which I mean a coolness edging to the predatory
But it’s no way to lead a life said my old pal
The albino werewolf as we were out strolling
The lake’s lip one evening & I can tell
He’s upset so I say Look man you’re famous
For doing half the models in the Hamptons
& the Paris/Berlin twins to boot (so to speak) so
Do you mean to tell me there’s a heart
Softening in that corpse of ice you carry so elegantly
Along your beautiful thin bones & he seemed
Horrified he might actually be suspected of some
Feeling other than lust but then he smiled & said
Well but now you see I’m lonely as a stone
PRISM (WHITE LIGHT)
Ice & the shadows of ice like the white scar
Of wind upon the world like the dust
Of polar flares strafing the St. Petersburg night
As the saint is laid again upon the grill of
Circumstance above the searing pearl ash until
Even the stars slowly drilling the sky rotate
In their boiling sockets & all hell breaks
Apart its howling white teeth its breath
Ruptured into the rapturous spectrum of
Pain by which we know the hues
Of our passage each one of us still assembling
The complicated palette (as in Make me
A pallet on your floor) where sleep splinters
& the rage of the new day again coaxes us alive
"Red Python" were published in The Southern Review
"Statement of Style" was in The Lyric
"Timberwolf" was in PoetryBay
"Blue Nails (II) was in The Blue Moon Review
"Coral Shallows" was in Kestrel
"Prism (White Light) was in RUNES, A Review of Poetry
All of these poems are in PRISM
by David St. John published by Arctos Press.
