The Weaving (Love Poem)
July was always the month for me. I cling
to July as if there are no doubts about
July. I feel human enough and animal enough
in July. I identify with those harvests flying
just above the rock walls, and then bursting
from themselves into the ground, into each other.
I'm talking about a plain garden with apricots
and lemons, where the cicadas play in the sage but never
show their watery guitars. And what is that harvest
all about? Their music is a harvest, an overflowing
harvest, whether those musicians and their instruments
are visible, or not.
I'm saying I have everything in July. I'm saying
that July is the birth of it. July
the spiders born in the camellias. July
the hummingbird and the olive―
and that's Linda Janakos' hummingbird
asleep in her lap, that's Linda Janakos' olive,
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poem by Doren Robbins
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For Pablo Neruda (elegy)
Lean men,
broad shouldered men,
I see them in the newspaper
with their perfectly styled hair
and their sagging inquisitive eyes
and the gold bars on the epaulets of their uniforms
that shine even there is no light—
they took you down, Neruda,
it didn’t matter to them
that you emerged from the
birthplace of shadows—
it didn’t matter to them
that you imitated the moon with words
for a woman, or that you screamed at the blood
on the factories
of the poor—
they simply wanted you dead—
you were weak,
you were old,
you saw it coming,
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poem by Doren Robbins
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The Twilight Of Cesare Pavese (Elegy)
Pavese lost
to a Hollywood starlet,
and to the girl in the myth
who came from the waves—
casually he met her
as with an actress
at a party in some canyon house—
in the hills of his birth
he met her, 'a brighter presence
in the unsteady starlight.'
Pavese lost,
blocked within
his impenetrable boundary—
he wrote: 'she stands
on the ground of everything I love
and I cannot understand her.'
When the poets were seeking
an Hermetic refinement, a detached
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poem by Doren Robbins
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