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Upon Hearing that “Bread is the Way Sun Enters Our Body”

Upon Hearing that “Bread is the Way Sun Enters Our Body” by Dennis Camire

I feel this need to knead on my knees

    And praise the daily “tran-sun-stantiation”

Of sun into whole grain calories via

         T he Holy ghost of yeast. And kudos

To pepperoni pizza dough now morphing

              Into these acned teens of Helios

While the bread sticks become nothing-less

       T han batons of this God-force handed off

To hungry loved ones so, in mere contemplation

             Of a “single grain of whole wheat,”

T hey might finally cross the

              Finishing line into the divine!

Oh yes, bless the shamans of our bakers

          Keeping those stone oven temples’ fired

To coax golden Goddesses inside honey wheat

    To continue illumining the skyline of every slice!

And after we caffeinate conversations

         By singing how each sweet portly, pastry

“Is just sun made up in so much make-up”—

    Or by declaring “the solar flare of each éclair”—

                       

Or by shimmying in kind to “the northern lights’

           Cosmic cursive espied in the marbled rye”—

Consider, finally, the sourdough’s soul’s

               Own second rising when musing

How that same sun beams through

           T he doughy body’s own celestial abode

So our neurons feel the same heat

            As those distant rings of Neptune do—

And our membranes glow for the same reason

           As any of the solar system’s marvelous moons—

And sun, bread, and body s are now just one

              String-laden cosmos-in-expansion—

Heeding us, surely, to feel the vitamin d of delight

            As her hand, say, alights and tans your thigh—

Or to know the solar radiation of a soul

          So freely giving love over to your blue being—

Which fathoms, now, how that sacred moment

             Of silence before breaking open the loaf

Is heightened by looking into one another’s eyes

             And recognizing all the sunshine in disguise.

 

From Combed by Crows, poems by Dennis Camire

 

A favorite poem by Emily Dickinson, born 12/10/1830

Happy Birthday Emily


In Winter in my Room
I came upon a Worm—
Pink, lank and warm—
But as he was a worm
And worms presume
Not quite with him at home—
Secured him by a string
To something neighboring
And went along.

A Trifle afterward
A thing occurred
I’d not believe it if I heard
But state with creeping blood—
A snake with mottles rare
Surveyed my chamber floor
In feature as the worm before
But ringed with power—

The very string with which
I tied him—too
When he was mean and new
That string was there—

I shrank—”How fair you are”!
Propitiation’s claw—
“Afraid,” he hissed
“Of me”?
“No cordiality”—
He fathomed me—
Then to a Rhythm Slim
Secreted in his Form
As Patterns swim
Projected him.

That time I flew
Both eyes his way
Lest he pursue
Nor ever ceased to run
Till in a distant Town
Towns on from mine
I set me down
This was a dream.

Beautiful

from Never Completely Awake 

Poem videos can be seen on the book page above.

Beautiful               by Martina Reisz Newberry

for my Aunt Jan who is . . .

Beautiful isn’t it,
the way some beaches are sand
and some are small, smooth rocks and
Beautiful
the way the water bends like molten silver
when the weather is hot and
it’s late in the afternoon?
Beautiful
the way the sky tears down the middle
for lightning and mends again later on
Beautiful
how breath turns white in the cold and
how the world’s roads move across the land
no matter what
Beautiful, isn’t it,
the way love rhymes with glove and
silk rhymes with milk and
rage rhymes with cage?
Beautiful
the way the light stays on and on
during the Summer months and
a different kind of
Beautiful
when Fall makes it fade early
Beautiful
the cleanliness of bones in moonlight
when the desert is silent and without wind
Beautiful
the cool rind of a honeydew melon
and the perfume inside it inviting taste
Beautiful,
the way a woman hums to herself
while she gets dressed and
sighs one hundred sighs
when she undresses
Beautiful
the accident of passion,
the brush of hands, then mouths,
then bodies doing more than brushing—
flesh on flesh
to music older than the stars
Beautiful,
the smell of soap
and burning wood
and frying onions
and a diner far up the road
that you didn’t know was there
Beautiful, isn’t it,
the smooth red bark
of the manzanita plant and
a long teardrop earring
that touches a woman’s neck
and how Beautiful
a full cupboard
jars of delicious things
There is the Beautiful
ice sculpture
with perfect pink shrimp surrounding
and the Beauty of buttered potatoes
Beautiful the strange trailing roots
of water lilies and
the zippers on dark leather jackets
Beautiful
the figurine
of the two-headed saint and
the red satin lining
of the box it came in
Beautiful
a new book, a new shirt,
new sheets, a new pen.
Beautiful
the lover that used to matter,
the one that matters now,
and the ones that never mattered
Beautiful
a pain that stops,
a cut that heals,
a scar that was earned,
not inflicted
Beautiful
a hand sitting in for
your mother’s hand
a dance, a smile sitting in
for the ones your mother
could not give
Did I say how Beautiful
is the purity of a
man’s shaved head
or the long, dark hair,
a man might have—like
a river down his back
Beautiful
a drinking glass so clean
it looks like water
holding itself
Beautiful,
a runner, a cyclist,
Kabballah,
birthday cake
Beautiful
a childhood that might
never have been but was
Beautiful,
the way you read
or hear this poem—
your eyes wishing
for everything,
wanting this to be one thing
that will not be content,
one thing
that will not be captured.

The Dragonfly Biologist Falling in Love

The Dragonfly Biologist Falling in Love

by Dennis Camire

Because she thinks love, too,
Is threatened with slow extinction
Despite it’s like translucent wings,
Her slow rising to romance’s promise is
A dragonfly nymph crawling up reed stock
After five years of moon walking the bottom of a pond;

And she imagines his first tender strokes
As those first warm rays dissolving
The emerging nymph’s armored encasing
So the winged, inchoate fetus inside
Can birth from behind the cervix
Of those enormous Darth Vader eyes;

And when she’s tortured by thoughts
Of everything that could go wrong
She’s schooled to think of predatory birds
Circling after one swallow-swoon
Alerts them to the cad fly appetizers hatching
Over the fractured plates of lily pads;

But when she tempers his expectations
By explaining the years of underwater life
Prior to the dragonfly’s brief five weeks of flight,
His carpe diem nature overtakes
And she finds herself, on dates, netted
By his surprised embraces from behind.

Later, she acclimates to the strangers
Watching their playful foreplay
As though in frolicking they, too, shine
An aqua green or lupine blue.
And the day after they rise together
From his bed, may he follow her

To the remote bogs and ponds
To press the netted wings together
Before lifting the creature for measuring;
And may he marvel, like her, at the two
Pair of wings working in perfect unison
While the ten thousand lensed eyes

Are alert to everything for 360 degrees;
And when one–upon release–
Alights his shoulder, may he still,
Like a child playing One, Two, Three Red Light,
Move his eyes enough to see the way
She rests, transfixed, by his side, smiling

And unwilling, too, to move, or breathe, or speak
Whether it’s curiosity, exhaustion, or love
Keeping the mysterious dragonfly in their life.

From Combed by Crows, Deerbrook Editions 2017 

Find the link to the review of the book in Off Radar on the site page.