Category: Lisa Jarnot

by Lisa Jarnot

They loved these things. They loved the trees

the sheep the windows of the sun. They loved the sun

and called the sun the sun. They called the sun the birds

and then the sheep and then it rained and then they ate.

They ate the sheep, the birds, the sun, and then the rain.

The rain came and they loved it and they loved the little

trees. They loved the trees and also ships and little

windows of the sun. They loved the thing called sun, the trees,

the birds, the sheep, the windows of the ship and also rain.

They asked about the sheep and also birds and then the sun.

They told the stories of the birds they knew and then they ate.

They ate the birds in stories that had sheep and ships and birds.

They told the stories of the birds to add it to the birds.

They added to the birds to then subtract it from the little

sheep. They fell asleep, the birds in films that fell asleep and ate.

They asked, as birds, to be the birds, in stories that had trees,

in the windows of the ships that rocked beneath the sun.

They built the ships that were the ships in stories with the rain.

They ate the rain, the birds, the sheep, the ships beneath the rain.

The rain came and they loved it like they loved the little birds.

They looked like birds, the birds they were, of keyholes and the sun,

far from the ships, the rain, the burning sheep, the little

windows of themselves with teeth like tiny trees

that from the trees looked out of rain storms where they ate.

They sat in shadow of the dawn with sheep that ate

the trees with birds that starred in films and stared up at the rain,

collectively and alone, and with the sheep in trees

that were the doorways of the sun, dangerous, unlike the birds,

where the sheep were, having flown away, in little

hearts of song, the song of the sheep which was the doorway of the sun,

and from the doorway of the sun they were all there beneath the sun,

the birds in films, the sheep with trees, the doorways where they ate,

having fallen asleep, beside the sun, up to the sides of the ships, little,

tired, being animals and trees, gesticulating wildly, in the rain

that came inside the film beside the trees, before the birds

arrived as birds, graceful, tired, burned down like the burning little trees

that had always been the trees, that had been there near the sun,

that had harbored all the birds, having eaten what was ate,

inside the rain near little ships with sheep in shadows of the sun.

from Black Dog SongsFind more by Lisa Jarnot at the library

Copyright © 2003 Lisa Jarnot
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

by Lisa Jarnot

When you do grow up

you’ll be able to write

poems and things will be

like they are now,

except there will be

more sardines, and all the

grilled cheese sandwiches

on white bread will move

away and it may still snow

on cold nights when the

dogs bark, wrestling in

the dark, but all the stars

are the same, and you

are the same, still wavering

in the hall light, unbridled

light nor dark.

from Black Dog SongsFind more by Lisa Jarnot at the library

Copyright © 2003 Lisa Jarnot
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

by Lisa Jarnot

Dust and spirit

in the cavernous eyes

of our dead cat

help to immanentize the eschaton

toward a fruit-based strangeness

with the head of a girl

with the snake of a body

at the Erie County Fair

in the Synod of Dort

find a solitude,

near the chessmen and the tax returns

where the lammas dream

in a luxury gay space communism

find a dead wood’s postcolonial guerilla exegesis

in the mobs of vindicators

find the root fallacy

of the music that can carry it

and for “weird but true”

read “the world tree”

read the crows of Boulder,

read the magpies of London,

read archaic tribal garbage or an original Christology

and then Jack, and then Bobbie,

and then Jeffrey’s bridge,

and then Corbett’s ashes,

in the funerals, dentists, divorces,

In the brain masala and bhima astrologers

be a brilliant heliotrope in a flannel waffle hemp

read the welfare queen’s strawberry unicorn cakes her bare buick rusting

no Ding Dongs,

no Sea Gods,

and more Toms outbound.

from A Princess Magic Presto SpellFind more by Lisa Jarnot at the library

Copyright © Lisa Jarnot
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

by Lisa Jarnot

FOR THOMAS

From the five good emperors

I have learned that there were five good emperors,

From the lemon tree I’ve planted

now I know that leaves unpummeled yet will drop,

From the clock, the time, it’s five p.m.,

from the sun the length of day,

From Quercus borealis, the queer names of the leaves

of all the trees,

From burning I’ve learned burning,

from the aster family chickory abounds,

From hawkweed of the colors bright,

from sleeping, of my dreams,

From mosquitoes, scratching, from fishes, fishing,

from turkeys how to run and how to hop,

From erect perennials I’ve learned to reach the shelf,

from my cats to lick the dark part of the tin,

From the sparrows I’ve learned this and that,

from Germanic tribes, to gather thoughts in herds,

From the window blinds, from the sun decayed,

from the heart, a brimming record braised and turned.

from Night ScenesFind more by Lisa Jarnot at the library

Copyright © 2008 Lisa Jarnot
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

by Lisa Jarnot

FOR MENDY

The fatigue of feast,

the umbrellas and the

suits and ties, the

thunder of it,

floating into panther

fatness full

the checkmarks

that accompany the page

the gluttony of flower prints,

the tight skin of the sterile pear

gone spawned, consumed,

in leaf

no more lamb chops for you,

no more scrambled eggs and greens,

no more aardvark statues,

no more American flags,

no more caterpillars to

torch out of the trees,

cut wood, dead wood,

white pine branches,

drooping cypri,

dog asleep under the brush

also gone,

sun gone in the gray

swimming hole a stage prop,

water from the creek

feeding agile garlic greens in May

whose wallet, whose welfare,

whose heart, whose feathers,

whose darkness is the

darkness of a missing bird,

a tunnel of mind, an income of

herbaceous bruise, who is

and who is not, voracious

braeken gone.

from Night ScenesFind more by Lisa Jarnot at the library

Copyright © 2008 Lisa Jarnot
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.