We end in joy.
–Theodore Roethke

I will do it with splashes
of ochre and orange, alizarin, cerulean
on a canvas as wide as his Huck Finn grin,
a riot of kiwi and turquoise storming
the cliché: desert hues at sunset,
Cape Cod wind and water, wood grain
and tree limb bending to
the sculptor’s hand.

I will do it by fusing matchsticks
with glue sticks to sharp sticks, to broken
sticks, to stockade sticks, by building
boxes, by boxing in the light
in bricks of glass that catch
the morning swimming by
like tropical fish in a tank.

I will not tear the world apart.

I will do it by taking the stage
where I can be absurd,
abstract, abnormal,
where I can be an abdomen,
an Abominable Snowman,
a man lost in snow,
a white sock.

I will do it by telling tales
of my Italian relatives,
Uncle Giovanni and Cousin Dominic,
though I have no Italian relatives,
have never been to Italy,
and do not drink wine.

I will come to love hummingbirds.

I will do it by cooking
with every spice on my shelf:
oregano, basil, cardamom and dill.
Cinnamon, mustard, chili pepper, sage.
I will make a poem for the palate,
a prayer for delight. I will mix
and mash and make more than enough.
I will feed everyone.

10/2/10

Guillermo Delgado's "For Tom", 2010, acrylic on wood, 8'' x 10"

	 	 	 	 

What Lingers 

 

Sometimes a splash of brown

just to the side of my vision.

 

In the woods, near the compost,

grass matted flat.

 

At night, the click of claws

on the deck, a bark at the neighbor’s

where now there are only cats.

 

Something slides beneath my eyelids,

goes neon when I squeeze

tight for a better glimpse.

 

I might catch the odd floater

on the horizon.  I might think

I’ve just seen a snake.

 

There is an apple

on my kitchen counter

and somewhere my mother,

 

pairing knife in hand,

ready to slice it for a snack.

 

 

                       2/22/10

Guillermo Delgado's Untitled #17, 2010, mixed media on wc paper, 6'' x 12"

 
How to Keep a Notebook

I have always carried the mountain
with me:  grandmother, Crede hill,
Pedernal, Petoskey stone.

I learn how to sing
these things alive, how the vibration
of pencil on paper strikes

a chord, how that sound
can be blue, its waves
tucking over you.

Because he had no word
for blue, Homer sang the sea
wine-dark.

Inside a wine-dark shaft
in the mountain, lips
are moving:

it may take months
to form a syllable,
for a word to swim the map
of the known world.
With words I begin to map
the mountain:  dirt, pulse, snow-light.

                                 1/21/10

Guillermo Delgado's Untitled #15, 2009, mixed media on wc paper, 12'' x 9"

Learning to Pray


I was never good at it, even as a kid,

kneeling on the tile floor, elbows

on the pieced quilt, hands

folded, a collapsible steeple.


When I shut my eyes, I didn’t see

God, but silver bullets and horses

cresting the horizon of hills.

What I was told to say to God


about my soul, my blessings

felt muzzled by an inside voice,

one that wanted a fast new sled,

more of my grandmother’s dimes.


I knew my mother prayed daily

that my grandmother’s brain tumor

would shrivel to a raisin.  The grape

enlarged to cluster and she died.


I never got the inside voice

to hush, stop interrupting, making,

grocery lists, quit asking how to miracles

and seeking explanations.


It kept up such a racket:  argue,

measure, translate, deny.

Compose, regret. Then my mother

died.  Voices lost their sound.


Now I know silence as a kind

of prayer, a voice asking nothing,

tired of words, tired of lifting up

and tying down, tired


of grammar, syntax, left brain.

Prayer finds its own release,

the hand and breath of God

calling forth a chord.


It’s no struggle

tuning this instrument

I’ve never held, playing

a score I’ve never seen,


the song untethered from its notes:

acorn, feather, moon.

Guillermo Delgado's Untitled #14, 2009, mixed media on wc paper, 12'' x 9"