W      F
                                                               E           R
                                                             I                O
                                                          V                    M
                                                                    the
                                                        L                       H
                                                          A                   T
                                                             B               N                          
                                                               Y           I
                                                                     R

                                                              poems by

                                                         Janine  Manatis

Copyright
2002

                  1.                          								      
aimless  aimless  aimless                                                                                                                                                                                                  
wanderer

child

in the dark soft
woods of night.

Where are you going?

you hunt among the
jasmine spray and
purple blue bells

lost

along the
taken way.

Where is your home?

hurryinfromshowersofrainandsunray
won’t help you.
coverupfromwindandpain
will only lead you                 
                                farther
                                      down
                                           the
                                             darkened
                                                        lane
                                                           from where you came
an aimless aimless aimless
wanderer
 
Stand still and
See in the midst
Only breath
To know your
Fear amiss

you are always a  
wanderer
till 
you can a 
pilgrim
be.

                                             2.
                                        
                                      I will be myself
                                      If I can find me
                                    That I swear to you
                                        This very day
 
                                       But if not me
                                  Then while I’m looking
                                            Who? 

                                3.                                                                                                         

              Out of the Anguish of the Ages
               There can be found on display
               In various museums, bird droppings. 
               These have scorched the earth  
               And been recorded.

              Out of the Anguish of the Ages
              Reported by scholars to be of value
              Shapes born in the ocean
              Retreated to land
              Now held behind glass
              Are on view.

             Out of the multi-colored, vari-scented, time-ticked
             Anguish of all Ages
             A tooth; a nail; a pot;
             A filigreed gold bee for the tip 
             Of a nipple of a queen;           
                                              (Clearly we’ve treasured humor as well as art.)    
         
            Stick, strings, skins as means for music
            With a song rhymed on rock;
            And down the traceable line,
            Weapons from sling-shot to E=MCsquared 

            Out of the Anguish of our Age
            Some dare to speak of the
            Positive side of Doom
            That warriors say will be rewarded.

            By whom? For among the skeletons 
            Of Progress, where will be room
            To label and encase a tear? 

                                             4. 

             Spread out across the balding head of love
                            the hairs of innocence.
             I know there are only a few
             Blood-clotted and snarled
             Where the frantic hands of time
                          comb through.

             Sincerely, keep the wind soft, I say
                        not to blow what’s left
             Away like petals of a flower that
                        once was. 

                                                      5.

                   They came with the cold hands of distant relatives
                                         to clear the house
                    go through drawers the contents of not meant
                                         for them.
                    Wrap up the tokens, yes; but cannot sort out
                                         divide among take away
                     her unpossession only she could give.

                                on sunny autumn afternoons seated
                                in her firescape garden, the air
                                made dearer filled with washed white
                                hair drying & flowing, the white breeze
                                of hair flowing & drying & filling
                                the view.

                    They talk and decide what to do with (1) the
                     pans with the (2) pots with (3) the clock and
                     her hand sewn quilt (4) also (5) the garden
                     nature tended since she went away to die.

                     All,s figured: me you they get.
                     Only her unpossession given of being lasts
                                       unnumbered
                     no ingredient of decay
                     no weather warp possible.

                     She was become is
                                        impressed in a view.   

                                                    6.

The flower opened and closed in a moment. A moment of burning summer heat. August heat. The heat of voices in anger. At the tip of the eye a bush with enormous blue blossoms. Fat like the breasts of somebody else’s mother. Crunch and touchable with no odor. Sterile patches of brown grass harsh under feet hardened by bare walking down summer roads of gravel on the unfinished street. Burned by the anger of sun and voices inside the window. To peek is to be seen. Listen Hearing through the net of adolescence. The tangled net that catches hurt and throws it back, wriggling and writing in the memory forever. Not understood. Not forgotten.

No breeze. Only loud stillness inside and outside. Inside and outside the frightened mind. Inside and outside the shattered house. Crack! Crack down the middle of life. Crack in the soul wherein forever afterward doubt floats beside tormented unacceptable truths. Crack forever filled but ever empty. Full and empty. Full and empty. Cooked by memory and served up by despair.

There is no father except the father you had but never had. To never have this is acceptable: imagination is a great provided else how would the soul survive. To have is great fortune: what one has not even death can take away. But to have yet never have, this is to be cursed, to be ill-used; to be rejected by life; to be rejected everlastingly. To be a seeker, not a finder.

There is no mother except the one you have always been with. Tied with a knotted cord, harsh words and possess laughter. Truth caught up in a tangle impossible to be straightened. More tangled by more owning. And more owned out of that need which molds the rumpled mind.

Dazed by the heat of anger never spent. Bottled up in words. Air-tight. Thus to live without breath. With the bush at the edge of the eye and the harsh feel beneath the feet. Out of reach to any of the senses. And most of all the heart. 

                                                     

                                                                        7.

                                                     YOU ARE LIKE PENNY CANDY
                                                                 TO A CHILD             ME
                                                      A GROWN UP IS.

                                                                                                                  cherry   
                                ChEwEy toffee                                        lolli-pops    lime                   
                                                                                                                     &
                                                                                                                  orange

                                  TootsieRolls
                                                                                                     pepp        
                                                                                                     er
                                                                                                     min 
                    L  I  C  O  R  I  C  E                                                     t                               
                                                                                                     st
                                                                                                     ick
                                                                                                       s  

                                                                                                                    jelly beans!

                                     yes, all kinds of Special Delight
                              packaged for the
                                                            young.

                                  i’m tweleve again and mis
                                                                            er
                                                                               ab
                                                                                   ly
                                                                                      Sad
                          to  see  your  feet  dance  gayuponthegrass
                     without                                                                me.

                                                               8.

                                There is a concern I have in all this Mystery:
                                that you should live to an old man.
                                to have that while of time with
                                its burden of glory burden of grief
                                due your faith filled being.

                              Pitiful. Oh, pity what pitiful magnitude
                               this brief longevity I wish you.
                              It murders other woes dwelling in the perhaps
                              Of whose divinity?

                              Reality of dreams gives way to out of touch present
                              Pounding home, what I would will I cannot.
                              All that matters is all that is impossible.

                             Thus I, holder of the wonderest miracle,
                             Can grow the unknown seed
                             Birth the intangible soul
                             And with all that power to people the mud
                            Cannot stay you, whom I love, to a forever length.