a poet in tulsa
inspired by the series of poems fredrico garcia lorca composed during his visit to columbia university in 1929/1930, i am exploring the city of tulsa through my camera and my words.
finding traces: the visceral remains of old roads, battered ghosts and forgotten stories; collecting these artifacts into a whole, with the aim for publication in 2017.
one of the pieces, "before word, soñando con el vuelo", inspired by a painting created by my wife cynthia brown follows.
before words: painting by Cynthia Brown
before word, soñando con el vuelo
the betrayal had not begun
time was not yet time
stars were not stars
moon had yet to become moon
we awakened upon day
facing the warmth
plunging our skin into the lifting
of the returning world pausing
at the half-recalled sensation
of the filtering colors of sky
it was left to the keening ones
to articulate song
then leave those of us
bound to earth to be
seduced by their plaintive cries
to began our dreaming
compelled to follow and
soar beyond into flight
this delicate floating
borne upon high
before even the heavens became
we were lifted with the frailty
of these incoherent wings
some nocturnal tryst
between our selves
and the faraway clouds
ever closer we drew
almost forever but
not quite touching
how far we flew
passing over creatures
in their reverie
the crevices within our eyes
filled with invocations of light
and of darkness rendered by
its absence
it was never easy to return
the time that was not
wore us until weary
we arose again from the dust
etching the hollow places
tracing the riverbed
with faltering clarity
we recalled how we could not
and of how we wanted
on these altars
we placed our brittle hands
carved into stone
molded into clay
these visions
we recorded this passage
of day into night
the hunger of our flesh
the smell of blood pooling
rendering the world
of the squatting man
his transformation
as he became turtle
his carapace
made of bone and ash
was the quiet way
of calling home to those
still lost in the flight
of translating shadows
later they were to be found
silenced and buried
in the deluge
of the coming days
that emptied our souls
spent our fire
and bound us again
to this place
(dream 13 (minus even) max richter)
the betrayal had not begun
time was not yet time
stars were not stars
moon had yet to become moon
we awakened upon day
facing the warmth
plunging our skin into the lifting
of the returning world pausing
at the half-recalled sensation
of the filtering colors of sky
it was left to the keening ones
to articulate song
then leave those of us
bound to earth to be
seduced by their plaintive cries
to began our dreaming
compelled to follow and
soar beyond into flight
this delicate floating
borne upon high
before even the heavens became
we were lifted with the frailty
of these incoherent wings
some nocturnal tryst
between our selves
and the faraway clouds
ever closer we drew
almost forever but
not quite touching
how far we flew
passing over creatures
in their reverie
the crevices within our eyes
filled with invocations of light
and of darkness rendered by
its absence
it was never easy to return
the time that was not
wore us until weary
we arose again from the dust
etching the hollow places
tracing the riverbed
with faltering clarity
we recalled how we could not
and of how we wanted
on these altars
we placed our brittle hands
carved into stone
molded into clay
these visions
we recorded this passage
of day into night
the hunger of our flesh
the smell of blood pooling
rendering the world
of the squatting man
his transformation
as he became turtle
his carapace
made of bone and ash
was the quiet way
of calling home to those
still lost in the flight
of translating shadows
later they were to be found
silenced and buried
in the deluge
of the coming days
that emptied our souls
spent our fire
and bound us again
to this place
(dream 13 (minus even) max richter)
at the intersection
of thirty sixth street north and nowhere
there’s a come and go
and a stay if you will attitude
the firemen from station twenty four
run sprints back and forth up and down the driveway
panting with the lost dog
and the angry boy
fetching beer for mom
in a a brown sack
heading back to comanche park
saddled on this corner
like a wet mirage
the guard at the gate
sweeps at the dirt that never ceases
to fill the empty cracks in their lives
while an old man with a bike helmet
and knee high boots scratches at the grass
that creeps over the sidewalk
these apartments are sinking slowly
disappearing into the bottomlands
that swell up near dirty bottom creek
where terrence crutcher was shot
in the middle of the street
from here you can almost
throw a stone at northland shopping center
that sits mostly empty
at the word of life ministry
theres a blue door that says sanctuary
the red hawk watches all of this from a oak tree
filled with dead branches and webworms
observing the coming and goings
of the speeding automobiles
and where was he that late summer night
high above so high above
maybe up near the houses on reservoir hill
that look down on martin luther king boulevard
a street that runs south from north until it stops
at archer where the downtown
do gooders said enough
and the road stayed cincinnati
but the bridge over the tracks
that slashed like a dull knife
into the prairie grass and divided the city
has bronze plagues that help us
commemorate the loss of who knows
how many back in twenty one
this city has trouble with street names
and liked to pretend the past never happened
until lee roy opened up a door
and let the ghosts come in
then he followed them out
at brady heights the church
across from tate’s old house
reads condolences for the lost soul
the prayer flags and black ribbons mingle
with boarded windows and buddhas
we speak with forked tongues of tragedies
hang signs to remember
yet do our best to forget
of thirty sixth street north and nowhere
there’s a come and go
and a stay if you will attitude
the firemen from station twenty four
run sprints back and forth up and down the driveway
panting with the lost dog
and the angry boy
fetching beer for mom
in a a brown sack
heading back to comanche park
saddled on this corner
like a wet mirage
the guard at the gate
sweeps at the dirt that never ceases
to fill the empty cracks in their lives
while an old man with a bike helmet
and knee high boots scratches at the grass
that creeps over the sidewalk
these apartments are sinking slowly
disappearing into the bottomlands
that swell up near dirty bottom creek
where terrence crutcher was shot
in the middle of the street
from here you can almost
throw a stone at northland shopping center
that sits mostly empty
at the word of life ministry
theres a blue door that says sanctuary
the red hawk watches all of this from a oak tree
filled with dead branches and webworms
observing the coming and goings
of the speeding automobiles
and where was he that late summer night
high above so high above
maybe up near the houses on reservoir hill
that look down on martin luther king boulevard
a street that runs south from north until it stops
at archer where the downtown
do gooders said enough
and the road stayed cincinnati
but the bridge over the tracks
that slashed like a dull knife
into the prairie grass and divided the city
has bronze plagues that help us
commemorate the loss of who knows
how many back in twenty one
this city has trouble with street names
and liked to pretend the past never happened
until lee roy opened up a door
and let the ghosts come in
then he followed them out
at brady heights the church
across from tate’s old house
reads condolences for the lost soul
the prayer flags and black ribbons mingle
with boarded windows and buddhas
we speak with forked tongues of tragedies
hang signs to remember
yet do our best to forget