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Poems by Bill Pearlman CAMINO ABIERTO El camino abierto
transcends the dog-eared
ratio of not knowing,
even as the bus arrives
and we know our way home— There were always detours
detainings, swerves
in the long road. But,
couldn't you announce
now & then praise for odds
that get countered, weavings
when you didn't get hit? Last of the comings or
the first day on earth.
The map says nothing
about all the importance
hanging in the balance.
You could get caught
shelving mysteries
or scheduling a fury.
No matter. Cling
to the arcoiris, the cross-
patterns of clouds lined
with bright breakthrough,
meandering in heavy sky MEMOIR AND PRESENCE Stars and blossoming fruit-trees: utter permanence and extreme fragility give an equal sense of eternity. —Simone Weil A lasting integrity vaults
O’er the disturbing scene;
We’ve been here before, how
Long does the rose take to expire
Or these almost opened lilies
On the dining table, blossoms
Covering the old laptop, signs
Of how the fallen stay down,
Even as against the wholesome
Aspirations we’ve expected
Beside the exhausted auxiliaries
Of time. Eternity lapses and the universe,
Once sparkling with lunar landings
Dips into dispossession, always
The shadow lurking within brilliance
Staying for a long entertainment
As the lone gunman mounts the stairs
Bent on a bloody act—
How often the beloved stood still
Gazing at the surrender to fire,
Looking after the fact outward
Just as your used-up destiny
Dropped from the pages of Life. No argument sees far enough,
No bitterness climaxes
In that quaint engine room
Where galaxies are reshuffled
And the hearts blaze furiously
As the fireworks explode
In the near distance. Come,
Gentle supporting force,
Come sleep near the oasis
Or the fountain endlessly surging
At the mouth of its flowing MEMORIAL DAY, 2006 Lovely day, deep spring,
May 29th, my mother’s birthday
Would have been 84,
Never made it to 60,
Old age staring at us,
What a world of mighty spins,
Longing for the deepest freshness, Cling to the old styles, the murmuring
Of the brook down below the house, Your outcry against all this leaping strain Saw a woman yesterday in a shop,
An instant of splendor, dark beauty
What I wouldn’t give
To make it all up to her,
Give her back that quenching grip,
Make it happen just as we’d planned
So many aeons ago Driving toward gentle excess—
Oh, for a taste of the south,
Getting to the formidable pitch,
Standing as much as you can, Lifting that prerogative into the heavens,
You too could climb my wall,
Jump over my rainbow,
Emerge from my fleet intact,
Trace the devil-may-care moon
Down through the ages,
Living how readily in the known Flooded abstract watercolors
Piling up in the room, once more
Scribble with anecdotes of unconscious
Zoning unforgivable we name ourselves
Legion in color and space You think clearly it will rain possibility
Then it shies back away from bliss
And you thieve your various memory fortunes
For just a trace of living miracle Who is still around?
Lump us all into one driving predicament
Stone’s throw from the frontier
Aliens standing for bright recovery
A few dollars just to make ends meet Flesh junky, old school,
Let me have a look at that—
But I was able, and willing
And you stood me in your stead,
Light broke from the tunnel,
We were living where no one had ever been An ongoing commitment to time—
This is May, fifth month,Not sure what will come next
Half a year to the initiative,
Leaping hellish fun fair
Ok you have me there
I’ll cave, tell me what you know Bear in the road the other day,
Exaggerated black features of face,
Brown mane, huge animal
Not at all alarmed, just walking through
The property, like they say,
Getting used to being pushed aside
But too big to frighten,
John says you freeze if close to them,
They need to feel dominant Nevada City PERFECT PAIRING No error. Fred & Ginger
in Swing Time, awake,
streamlined, profound
a backdrop of song & dance,
specialties of perfect steps
long medium shots the pair
in totally synchronized
numbers, getting it right,
to Kern's music, timing
each sequence with feeling
lasting regard reviewed BODEGA HEAD The great sunlit runway of the sea
whale-watching and California coastline
rugged cliffs overhanging the endless
reaches of the great body— And you, irritated beauty
full of questions, hunches
spring in your gaze, confused
before the process of living— My aged auxiliary indulgence
tries to get close, imagines
a deep spectacular escape
sporting midsea a monstrous mammal almost visible, heading south
amid the following boats and eyes
surrendered to your mute charm,
holding you aloft in marine dream 21Jan06 —Bill Pearlman In a Time of Sorrow ..We wasters of sorrow…R.M. Rilke How could we come this far
Enabling the thoughtful realm,
The ways we weave composures
Or heartaches, the making of joy,
The purpose of earth and earthlings,
The body that kicks its own rage,
The particulars of haunting parades,
The boots, the flags, the parallels
With outrage and force, the rise
Of that awful collective beast
Destruction madness intrusion
Of so many long centuries
The Shadow loose, the commentary
Stocked on shelves, dreams
Of order, of art, the integrity
Of a whole cadre of masters
Who gave themselves to finding
Just what is good, is godly
In our processes, making up
Refinements and new dispensations
Crying for light, more so
In a time of darkness and hope
We have come this far, how
Extend the streaky gamble,
The aspiring bridge beyond For Gus Blaisdell
(in memoriam) Gran dia
established extasis
bright corners of all
that might aspire—
singular circling the whirl
we almost cornered:
this too stayed true
though the elaboration of desire
put you into a mode
we could never fully know:
how those days of consciousness
accumulated in meaning
or remorse: nothing
but did fill you
as you wandered locally:
each step of the boundaries
you knew by heart
and you ambled riotously
(like those great clowns of film,
Chaplin, Keaton)
in and out of lives,
shops, places of exchange and gesture
you loved and cared for. But the body gave out
too soon for us who mattered
and our cases stood mute
before your fallen life.
Little did we know
your jocular respondings
would dissolve into memory
as your heart stopped:
Now what? surely
there is another gest, no one
takes your death that seriously;
it is too remote, too
sphered beyond your
incessant presence: phonecall,
restaurant, bookstore, always
filled with the vocal
manner of your unique
staying power: this
celebration in conversational art,
pushed to new performance
unknown until spoken:
collected, precise, mobile
in that arch excess of learning
which surpassed endearing
for it was housed
in a real historical life— California, New Mexico,
The Frontier Restaurant, Italy,
Photography, poetry, philosophy,
the train into modernity
spoken with large hopes,
an intrinsic revelation
this could have happened
on the bus or off—
Kesey in an Oregon field, the bus Further just behind his uproar,
or Connell on the Albuquerque lawn
holding Mayan figurines,
or the body of work
not quite finished, another
production almost underway
embraced with staggering
dispositions of grace & aggression… We have our heroes,
nevertheless it accedes
a celebratory range, feeling
states that rise formidably
in the long haul of love San Miguel de Allende, 15Feb04 For James Blake One player just keeps comin’
And we praise his hurried oomph,
His pure mental spark Or the fantastic passing shot,
Or the huge serve up the T
That gives away his buoyant verve Or else, in a twisting wild excitement,
Something whirls the body outward
And rips a winner down the line (2005 US Open) SOFT YOU NOW Spoke necessary yields, as though
what we care about forwards
this everyday pride, purpose
softly reaching the richest intent:
a gentle kind buoying
of what will be, what
in the long run tells all
and returns to our pivotal chest
these proverbial goods, a glowing
paragon sifting through worlds. Winter Solstice 2004 May love begin anew
warm growing power
come alive inside skin
your best chronicled soul
reaching from below
to the top of the world —Bill Pearlman The Unfolding For Meredith LaVene & Dede Rhodes (i.m) Slowly but achingly
we hoist through summer days.
The momentum back downward,
and a death advancing;
we will the fullness of life,
yet life does not cheer us now.
The presences of simple souls
matter, and our respondings;
Light of sky on lake,
brightness, abundance,
a few water birds. Time,
though heedless of our joys,
takes the whole show to task:
what more can you find,
among the dark greenery,
the flowers perfectly attuned,
the messages straining toward
unfettered hope or dear acceptance
as what’s dearly beloved proves provisional. —Bill Pearlman TWO POEMS IN MEMORY OF WALTER WEBER (1924-2003) Tennis furies at Walter Weber’s Courts Forced or unforced, fury builds
from error to error & implosion
(held checked by sanctioned rule)
burns red-hot on hard clay— What the hell made this racket fail
or slid the volley under me
while vile strings went nowhere near
the picture-perfect groundstroke? Undone at net, a dribbling mishit
makes mischief of addled hopes,
puts the onus on sheer luck
and down goes the racket in rage. And yet, submerged in ancient ritual
contestants storm exhaustive tumult,
as the occasional sweet-spot winner
brings us back to high five. But whence cometh these tennis furies?
and how put them to work to flash-out
the effort of muscles on solid ground,
power surges recharged for joy or the mute unfolding of mastery
summoned from the soul’s vision
of a fluid sunlit presence
where all is faultless & free San Miguel de Allende, January, 2003 Tennis Butterfly And while I stood on the clay court,
(down a break but rallying),
an abstract of hellish emotion
& bitter rivalry (en garde), a small frail white butterfly
landed on my tennis shoe,
and I was ready for vision,
as I kicked my serve
into steadfast motion,
staving off court enemies,
landing a clean groundstroke, that butterfly all the while
reminding me
of the light happy states
life conspires toward,
the soft landings, the eternal joys —Bill Pearlman The satisfaction
of Conversation Study the interlock
folks who feel words, right brain standing against the fellowship unearthed distant object a star emitting solid light-
I was listening trying to hear as always you cornered me we were locked two against the emptiness two polar states gravitating as one 2 Was it speaking or listening? or both? what was the intercept flowed between us? Something immensely necessary as always humans with great promise a species given over the light, the plaything so much that calls out to catch us spoiling for a union-
3 Whatever was it stayed with us we fought for cover a dancing synthesis so many who came long ago, wanting a clear investigation, one on one a desert island how we loved, depended on the recovery close to the full engagement. —Bill Pearlman “Let me play among the stars…” Keep hearing Peggy Lee singing ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ (Bart Howard) which appeared on the Classic Arts Channel on the local cable. “Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars…In other words, hold my hand…” Why it’s been a standard, standard of beauty, standard by which all else is measured. How one becomes a standard, keeps at it, becomes…Peggy Lee in the clip, from a 1984 concert, late in her career & life, late but great blonde wall of a woman, next to the Steinway and fine accompanist, Michael Renzi, crescendoes, and she with one eye half-shut, but such ease of delivery, such an old sound, star of radio days, style all her own, graceful soft sound, long light gown, torch songstress, keen in the groove here, her voice revealing a long life’s journey, but hopeful as the full moon on a clear night, the spotlight spilling into the feeling of such lyrical flight, the song so sweetly melodious, stirring enchanted testimony, years after the recorded event… —Bill Pearlman Against the Great Heave of Eternity Power to provoke
the livelong song
auspices that cry out
breaking through all ways
you could have blended
what went before & now
but the outcry stammered
in the great flux of time
and you felt your way forward
and you cried out fierily
this is our joint momentum
hold this forever rushing
dance of formalities steady But it was you
or us or the inevitable
causeway we marveled
out at the varying edge
pushed forward into this
sensation at the birth of thrust
or when you saw unfold
that tireless spectacle,
that aggrieved ancient form
we only imagined downwind or onstage,
keeping the verse timely,
regular, sweepingly grand
across the centuries —Bill Pearlman Act of Joy Rehearse what gives you joy
a giant sweep of fun that drives
into the heart of commotion or a landslide in which winningly
she takes down your future
and puts a flower in or a jumping disposition that spins
out at the edge of forever
and dauntless rides you inward or a leapfelt hope that divines
the only circus in town
running up the tent, the poles inventing a shape we all admire
the players and the animals
all entering on cue, the lights undiminished, aligning
all eyes with spectacle and height
where the imagination heaves a sigh and wonder, that just yesterday
went wanting to the shore,
wishing for tumult and outcry now beds down with splendid action,
a tightwire act that sparkles
as muscle and bone rise --Bill Pearlman The Death That Capsizes All Reproach For Gus Saw his mute overthrow as a sign
there would be difficulties at the edge
of time. Just when things looked auspicious,
his heart attacked
and the whole system went south.
I would have loved to find him new rhythm,
juice his stride for another ten years.
But no such luck. The inevitable flat-on-the-back
figure in hospital, looking peaceful,
displacing who in fact is departed;
the great word machine adjourned,
the great vocal capability not even
whispering one final valediction. —Bill Pearlman 9-11-02 Such was our merciless gaze
that when the towers collapsed
the weather changed forever,
and there was endless winter
debris hanging from hope,
the dynasty under siege. What did we do to provoke
this fathomless deterioration,
this unthinkable wrath?
The underpinnings of our realm
plunging haplessly downward,
the sky itself a nuclear doom. Come down with me, American love,
pray elevators dropping endlessly
will take us to a new domain,
an innocent rearranging of desire,
a momentary resurrection reversing
the untold agony of those attacks. —Bill Pearlman In the Coffee House And so you struggle it's not so calm as death nor so apocalyptic as a gale but it seems hard & you wished you liked it better- But after a long sleep, the hanging dream portends depth and you can go to breakfast. You can go for coffee and rolls and the sight of children and mothers & the young scrambling to learn some treasured take on history- Nothing but does matter, keeps us hungry and full, keeps what sanity provides toward ongoing existence. —Bill Pearlman En La Playa These forms of beauty you understand. It is the open and you hear the crack
of surf and the totality of the sea's gorgeous identity: nothing like this
has yet occurred, though it is obviously the repetition of this beauty that
so astounds.This was everywhere your desire: to be in the sun, in the gentle
breeze, the body of ocean never at ease, but restlessly moving, strident and
sure, witnessed by gathering birds, amazed contingencies and continuities,
rocks and sand, the human body happily absorbed. But fall back on late afternoon, the sun still strong, though falling, and
the surmise of day's end. The old route of the sun and the forms of
elemental closure. The house and course of human destiny, its stamina and
senses of loss. But the pure strength of it, the necessary momentum, the
frank retrieval of new life after lengthy struggle. No more to say but it
has surrounded us, has brought us happiness, has sent us packing. But a
strange insistence overall, a magnificent view of the sea, endless
brightness and yet always shadows beginning to form, a brisk almost
sentimental cohesion, a praiseful dance, a surrendering to the presence of
more and more vital littoral splendor —Bill Pearlman WORLD SERIES KISS
for Barry Bonds Sport that deems transparent hopes: the long ball & all that it imports-Towering drive into the furthest reaches imagined: the ball become an inflated sphere worth millions. Love should have such power, a kiss ascend the starry heavens. —Bill Pearlman —TOP OF PAGE— | 
