George Wallace

In Issue 1 on May 1, 2008 at 10:00 am


what god says to the microbe the mealy worm says to the ant
what the wingbat prays to the moon is belched out by stars in april
these are the sounds of spring when the dead acorn of january awakens
and parasailing through the meadow a paper bag of dandelion seeds
what i like about spring is peach petals unfolding
a pebble pushed aside by the green peckerhead of dawn
and a brace of purple hyacinth nosing their way into life
spring is a blind persistent puppy spring is new kali of the leaf flesh
spring is a deity whose worship is assured in codework of dew
great lattice of stone! latheringsoap of generations!
what brimmings! what miraculous stripping off of clothes!
a man is naked as a mountain cat, a fox leaps easily through tulip trees
and spring i wander through your labyrinth of blue gentians
i feel the throbbing root of your fur in my thighs
my lips are a humming bee in your harmonica
i smell daylight playing through my notebook paper
the taste of my marrow is antler bone and makes jaws crack open
here are my seawings here my toe and tongue
here my kidneys riveted with a thicket of fool’s gold
here are my nipples round as the roundest paragraphs
i am marbles plummeting down a waterfall
i am hint of aluminum in lightning
many-colored thread of chemistry inhabit my sky
this is my buddha wakefulness
this my all day grape vine
thickening in a moist honey of mist
here is my deadstalk wind
here the yellowing out of willow branches
marsh mud drink up my hawk and raise my neckhair
i am a preacher in the pulpit of meadowgrass again!
like a kentucky colonel lost in wild raspberries
i part the bushes and daylight falls out
i enter into you with the unaccountable joy of sex
weeping in the rain water comes trickling out of my nose
i am a prize fighter who won’t throw in the towel
i am no stranger to the sweet intercourse of appleblossoms but
why am i telling you all this, spring, when it is you, yes
you! spring, you can tell the such and such of it
the little spontaneous mayflies dancing in your eyes
the marigolds leaping out of your shoes
the anticipation of summer
pants flung wide in a schoolhouse door
the doom of february telescoped down to nothing
the snail is in his membrane the tyranny of government is a dull memory
and i look at you and i know that yes! i shall not want
you shall lead me through the flocks and i will say
spring i am! the grandchild in every old man limping
i am! the secret muscle in every embrace
i am! the ploughboy grinning in wicked soil
i am! the callous and the dragonfly
the slut the freshwater boot
ornamental wizard!
potash tippler!
new bacchanale along the wooded trail!
o spring! i have to hand it to you
open mouthed snoring or legless
under your glass-eyed gaze of sun
i am easy sleeping again
i am an infant in your crib of the world

A Morning Without Eyes

a morning without eyes is perfectly all right with me,
bright rain free and clear as daylight in a tea-cup —
and o! the sweet widowhood of its hair!
one cannot be too careful about stating certain things.
a morning without eyes is a black & white kind of time,
somewhat slow, like the motion of the sun’s hands
across a man’s face. like the great hands of a panda bear
as it walks through bamboo with a fat shadow trailing behind him.
i am not one of those who cuts his finger on the edge of experience
and forgets his lesson quick. a man pays attention in this world.
he learns. he learns. even learns that there is something
to love in a morning without eyes. so perfect! so blind!
so full of opportunity to learn how to see again, how to love
this world more. and a life without the possibility of love in it
is a blinder thing than a morning without eyes.
it doesn’t matter what you try to tell me. i know what i know —
and i do love a morning without eyes. there’s just
something about it that is dearer to me than
a bucketful of unhappy religions.

New York-based George Wallace is author of sixteen chapbooks of poetry in the US, UK and Italy, including Swimming Through Water (La Finestra, It), Burn My Heart in Wet Sand (Troubadour, UK) and SUmmer of Love Sumer of Love (Shivastan, US). Editor of Poetrybay (, Polarity, Long Island Quarterly and other fine periodicals, he tours the US and UK widely to perform his poetry and offer writing workshops. Visit for further information.

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