Ada Limon's Blog, page 3
April 14, 2015
Poem 14 (Poem 13 was a secret)
Dream the Crocodile #14
Who was the first to spot the crocodile
under the milky lit up pond water? Someone
who thought it was fake, a skinny dip prank,
but I saw its head, giant as a cement mixer,
snaking through the water underneath me.
By the time I'd gotten to shore, everyone
was flat out flailing and me some sort sort
of gazelle slash wild bore slash anything preyed
upon was climbing the 80-foot chain link
metal fence for my measly little life. But,
even at the top, the croc came hard, his teeth
gashing my left thigh, his tail snapping my
right until he fell down to the gravel below,
crawling off to the collection pond to grow.
Later, the doctor fixed my wounds, one
thigh was near ruined, almost corned beef,
the other had a perfect red ropey scar that
cut where the sharp tail had burned into me.
When you finally saw me, you could barely
breathe, my flayed skin was still falling off.
And when you fainted in the parlor, everyone
was so worried about you.
Who was the first to spot the crocodile
under the milky lit up pond water? Someone
who thought it was fake, a skinny dip prank,
but I saw its head, giant as a cement mixer,
snaking through the water underneath me.
By the time I'd gotten to shore, everyone
was flat out flailing and me some sort sort
of gazelle slash wild bore slash anything preyed
upon was climbing the 80-foot chain link
metal fence for my measly little life. But,
even at the top, the croc came hard, his teeth
gashing my left thigh, his tail snapping my
right until he fell down to the gravel below,
crawling off to the collection pond to grow.
Later, the doctor fixed my wounds, one
thigh was near ruined, almost corned beef,
the other had a perfect red ropey scar that
cut where the sharp tail had burned into me.
When you finally saw me, you could barely
breathe, my flayed skin was still falling off.
And when you fainted in the parlor, everyone
was so worried about you.
April 12, 2015
Poem 12
How Most of the Dreams Go #12
First it's a fawn dog, and then it's a baby.
I'm helping him to swim in a warm pool,
the water is dark like slate-colored ink
and edges are cement and so high
that to sink would be easy and final.
I whisper to the dog (that is also the child),
"Is it okay that I want you to be my
best friend?" And the child nods.
(And the dog nods.) In the end,
sometimes he drowns. But sometimes
we drown together.
First it's a fawn dog, and then it's a baby.
I'm helping him to swim in a warm pool,
the water is dark like slate-colored ink
and edges are cement and so high
that to sink would be easy and final.
I whisper to the dog (that is also the child),
"Is it okay that I want you to be my
best friend?" And the child nods.
(And the dog nods.) In the end,
sometimes he drowns. But sometimes
we drown together.
Poem 11
Dream of Destruction #11
We somehow knew the electric orange volcanic ooze of hot lava was bound to bury us all, little spurts of ashpopping early like pre-cum and not innocuous at all blasted into the sky like a warning siren on the horizon.The air felt different. The sky felt different. You felt different.Still, there I was down in the valley where I was born, coyoteson the ridges of the Mayacamas, turning over the steamy earthto plant a garden. You were standing on the steps, staringout at the sky's ominous openings, a mouth of terrible red,like a tongue that'd been bitten so often it was not a tongue,but a bloody wound with which the earth tried to speak. I heldthat black rake in my hand like a weapon. I was going to rakeuntil that goddamn lava came and killed us, I was goingto rake and rake and rake, feverishly and mean, until the fertiledirt knew I was willing to die trying.
We somehow knew the electric orange volcanic ooze of hot lava was bound to bury us all, little spurts of ashpopping early like pre-cum and not innocuous at all blasted into the sky like a warning siren on the horizon.The air felt different. The sky felt different. You felt different.Still, there I was down in the valley where I was born, coyoteson the ridges of the Mayacamas, turning over the steamy earthto plant a garden. You were standing on the steps, staringout at the sky's ominous openings, a mouth of terrible red,like a tongue that'd been bitten so often it was not a tongue,but a bloody wound with which the earth tried to speak. I heldthat black rake in my hand like a weapon. I was going to rakeuntil that goddamn lava came and killed us, I was goingto rake and rake and rake, feverishly and mean, until the fertiledirt knew I was willing to die trying.
Poem 10
Dream the Album Release #10
In the basement bar where they'd managed
to hoist down an avocado green rusted pick-up truck
to authenticate the hoot and holler of a hootenanny,
Alex Battles was launching a new banjo album
and I sat on a tall bar stool that twisted and twisted
until I was dizzy on cheap booze and Battles cries.
I kept trying to call you, but there was no service,
just a blank screen that flashed a bright gray
and seemed to indicate that I was invisible.
Poem 9
Dream of the German Shepherd #9
The house was down a hill by the water;
so many bricks to get deep into the space
we lived in. You were cooking something,
unloading groceries and the dogs were so
hungry. With horror, I realized I had left
the german shepherd muzzled for days--
she was dying, starving. I pet her head,
her deep neck fur thick and warm
like a bear's. I removed the muzzle
and massaged the greasy tamped down
places it had cinched her mouth closed.
As I rubbed her and rubbed and apologized,
instead of biting, or eating, or running--
she began, with a low growl, to speak.
The house was down a hill by the water;
so many bricks to get deep into the space
we lived in. You were cooking something,
unloading groceries and the dogs were so
hungry. With horror, I realized I had left
the german shepherd muzzled for days--
she was dying, starving. I pet her head,
her deep neck fur thick and warm
like a bear's. I removed the muzzle
and massaged the greasy tamped down
places it had cinched her mouth closed.
As I rubbed her and rubbed and apologized,
instead of biting, or eating, or running--
she began, with a low growl, to speak.
April 10, 2015
Poem 8
Dream of the Plane #8
There I was on the tarmac, bags bursting
at my feet, listening to the bloated blowhard
of a captain tell us we were grounded for good.
Out the window, the shimmering hills pulsed
with coyotes and the civil twilight sky highlighted
the California highways that roped like king
snakes draped among the cacti. I sent you
a message siting the mad engine malfunction
and how Buenos Aires was now a no go.
"At least we can head back to California,"
I wrote, but you were already flying first
class to somewhere else fantastic.
There I was on the tarmac, bags bursting
at my feet, listening to the bloated blowhard
of a captain tell us we were grounded for good.
Out the window, the shimmering hills pulsed
with coyotes and the civil twilight sky highlighted
the California highways that roped like king
snakes draped among the cacti. I sent you
a message siting the mad engine malfunction
and how Buenos Aires was now a no go.
"At least we can head back to California,"
I wrote, but you were already flying first
class to somewhere else fantastic.
April 7, 2015
Poem 7
Dream of the Trees #7
We all agreed that we wanted to live by a river,
and no one knew cats could swim, let alone
that Humphrey and Bernadette'd be such fine fishers.
C's mom had made some gorgeous Lebanese cake
and the kids were tossing handfuls to the pelicans.
In almost every location, I was learning to make
a garden. Dad helped me plant tomatoes and corn
and the barns were real sturdy going into the winter.
(Which was good because the war was still out there.)
On the way home from a party where someone'd
made a card game that included the photographs
of every ex-love of mine smiling with their new families,
we found a tree that was bursting with golden
cattails, and another, powdery white, that smelled
like honeycomb and rose petals. We scooped
all the fallen blooms into our arms and cradled them,
ecstatic, and vowing that wherever we ended up,
we'd plant trees exactly like these.
We all agreed that we wanted to live by a river,
and no one knew cats could swim, let alone
that Humphrey and Bernadette'd be such fine fishers.
C's mom had made some gorgeous Lebanese cake
and the kids were tossing handfuls to the pelicans.
In almost every location, I was learning to make
a garden. Dad helped me plant tomatoes and corn
and the barns were real sturdy going into the winter.
(Which was good because the war was still out there.)
On the way home from a party where someone'd
made a card game that included the photographs
of every ex-love of mine smiling with their new families,
we found a tree that was bursting with golden
cattails, and another, powdery white, that smelled
like honeycomb and rose petals. We scooped
all the fallen blooms into our arms and cradled them,
ecstatic, and vowing that wherever we ended up,
we'd plant trees exactly like these.
April 6, 2015
Poem 6
Dream of the Great Book #6
We were told before the project could begin,
she had to find the right road. Then, she could
invite the artists to bring their offerings. Tusk-like
and as long of a road as I've seen, it curled upwards
like the curves of the Golden Gate's arches. Mahogany
and round and wide, it ferried the artists in droves
from every pinned map's marked spot. Wearing
long robes of every color, they brought their one
gift to her as she waited, weighed them in her
palms and placed them in the book everyone,
and I mean everyone, was waiting for.
We were told before the project could begin,
she had to find the right road. Then, she could
invite the artists to bring their offerings. Tusk-like
and as long of a road as I've seen, it curled upwards
like the curves of the Golden Gate's arches. Mahogany
and round and wide, it ferried the artists in droves
from every pinned map's marked spot. Wearing
long robes of every color, they brought their one
gift to her as she waited, weighed them in her
palms and placed them in the book everyone,
and I mean everyone, was waiting for.
Poem 5
Dream the Beach #5
There were so many meetings, but also the beach.
My sweet coven was gathered under a swaying palm
surrounded by tide pools full of anemones and coconut
casings. I owed so many things to people: notes,
critical essays, a kiss. Sharon Olds was sad I had
been so absent in her lecture classes and my PhD
was suffering so. But it was warm out and the girls
were laying out on large wooden chaise lounge chairs,
the dog was learning to swim in a child's blue pool,
and for the first time in my life I had found a really
gorgeous pair of nude heels that I could walk in like
a real champ.
April 4, 2015
Poem 4
Dream the Creek Again #4
There's a place that only I know exists, an elevator
whisks you down an abandoned mine shaft where
the neon fish splash in droves in the creek's clear
aqua water. A long time ago, the rose quartz bloomed
like algae on the cave walls, and the wet streaks of black
earth fueled the fish's mouths. I come here mostly alone.
For almost forty years I've dropped down into this hidden
crack in the world where light comes in stuck in strict
beams that prism and ping. But this time, I walked across
the street from where I had parked the car on Arnold Drive,
I looked down to where my hush-hush world was waiting,
and bridged out my hand to bring you in.
There's a place that only I know exists, an elevator
whisks you down an abandoned mine shaft where
the neon fish splash in droves in the creek's clear
aqua water. A long time ago, the rose quartz bloomed
like algae on the cave walls, and the wet streaks of black
earth fueled the fish's mouths. I come here mostly alone.
For almost forty years I've dropped down into this hidden
crack in the world where light comes in stuck in strict
beams that prism and ping. But this time, I walked across
the street from where I had parked the car on Arnold Drive,
I looked down to where my hush-hush world was waiting,
and bridged out my hand to bring you in.
