What it Means to be Human

Poems about What it Means to be Human.

Match.com poem by John Barr


She's sitting in the breakfast nook
reading the laptop's opened palm;

he's at his desk doing the same,
and fits the profile in her Notebook.

These two are not from ads but real,
and have not found each other because

the sky into which their queries rise
is thick with stars, and even the stars

are only a small part of the spectrum
of the noise of galaxies.

They open like the trumpets of lilies,
like Plato's halves they yearn to be whole.

Between them a universe,
only a little of which is visible.

John Barr / from Dante in China 

Three Weddings (and no Funeral) image

Three Weddings (and no Funeral)

For an Island Wedding

Once there was an inland sea,
its waters blue and beautiful
with absence, for there was nothing else
and this was once upon a time.

Out of this sea an island rose,
its conifers green with abundance,
its reaches white where the waves climbed,
and this was once upon a time.

Out of the island there rose a town,
its streets busy with men,
its harbor brown with boats
busy with cargoes of the time.

Out of the town a church was raised,
its walls in all simplicity
contained like hands the faith
and the fervor of that time.

And out of this church that rose from the town
that rose from the island that rose from the sea
a man and woman came and joined.
Their love was green with abundance
and white where the waves climbed
and beautiful and blue. And it held like hands
in all simplicity our time,
and other times and once upon a time.

Sleeping Late

We slept until the clocks ran down,
the wedding flowers dried to dust,
the gas man disconnected us.
Days without sound
the spiders darned and starved.

The world returned to work but we did not.
Steeply slanted into sleep,
dream after dream as things should be,
we followed the overtures of our vows
on tides of understanding to where two
together is sufficient and entire,
and marriage a radiant equipoise.

Our quest—for nothing less
than Eden and its innocence—embraced
exalted gardens all across the earth.
But innocence, we learned at last,
is not a state of grace we lose at birth,
then work a lifetime to recover.
It’s what a lifelong hunger self-creates.
At the ending of love’s labors, ours and yours,
it is the blessing that awaits.

These Are the Conditions

Two souls on separate voyages,
not just beginning but well begun,
knowing enough of the world
but still in love with what is good.

This is how it happens.
A passionate perceiving, a beholding
of a second center to the world,
a blossoming of incompletion.

This is where it goes.
In the single tending of the two
the voyages converge
and, soul subsumed in soul, the two are one.

And this is how it ends. It never does.
Love is the gentle absence of many other things.
It will be the last thing left, the final trace
when our kind is finally done.

John Barr / from this Archive, What it Means to be Human

Firstborn image by John Barr


For Nate and now for Blair


In case we cannot speak
I tell you now, before you are born
or even conceived,
that I am with you
until the round of your baby head
grows into the broken flagstones
of no face but your own,
and you go forth into good life.


In the hill of pregnancy,
swayed to the mother,
already you are you.
At night you wake in your day
and practice, a foot of travel left,
the last dive into light.


Balled like a juniper for the USA
you transit night like a northern state.
The moon the semaphore,
your bed the rolling freight,
I in the small town cannot say
what garden you are headed for.

John Barr

Da Vinci Illustration Body Language

Body Language

Arms implying one another,
legs in alternation going south,
this swaying scaffold of bones
bears through fields
the head without a thought.

poetry marker

Blood floods the passageways,
the stomach grips its food,
the heart advances in darkness…

all while I walk,
shake hands, work the wash of events.

poetry marker

In seven years, they say, it is renewed:
each hair in its follicle,
each pore in its microbe dell.
Atom for atom, the valleys of my brain,
the long journey in my legs
suffer replacement.
A good occasion for improvement
you would think:
but no,
the same old scars,
all my mistakes preserved.

poetry marker

Once in his life
a man should know his body in its prime.

Dark drifts of hair,
the narrows of the waist,
the great junction of the thighs,
the torso lagged with muscle bronze.

The body's peak
on the long parabola from helplessness to helplessness.

poetry marker

At death
the soul flies out of the mouth,
all eyes on it, it
continues out of the room.
Then the body is declared
larval to the man.

Yet I live in a settlement of two hundred bones.
Of its own accord my body beats.
the great whorls of my fingerprints
approach like storms.

John Barr/from The Hundred Fathom Curve: New and Collected Poems

Night Flight poem by John Barr

Night Flight

–for Stephen Sandy

Into the last smoke blue of this day's light
the de Havilland lifts, trailing from each wing
the lights of the Capitol.

Except for the heat blur off each engine's cowl
the view is clear, out to the nebula of Lancaster,
so clear the wingtip strobes have nothing to print on.

The plane gains altitude like an extended praise.
In the cockpit richly blue gauges
keep track of our relationships to earth.

Having succeeded in leaving the earth
not nearly so well as the plane, this poem
discovers it is not about a plane but you.

John Barr / from The Hundred Fathom Curve


Commuter Moons

Out of round, it ascends
the early air,
the window of the car
that takes me to LaGuardia.

As a stone skips on water,
it touches moments months apart.

Have you, from 30,000’,
seen it at day's edge?
Out of its element, so pale
the blue of astronauts shows through,

you could well prefer the desert below
scored by roads, or how a river's folds
show water's sidelong slide to gravity,
the deep reversals of its getting there.

I know it won't bear one more metaphor,
having been the thing in easy reach
of a thousand generations,

but it is high and bright and half
tonight. The stars we know as morning
dim in its government.
And here on the floor the very light.

John Barr / from The Hundred Fathom Curve

Chapter 11 by John Barr

Chapter 11

Waiting for the marshal's men,
I can tell you the velocity
of money is faster out than in.

Squeezing nickels from cotton candy,
watching Dumbo chasing Dumbo,
the Ferris wheel coining sky

reminds me of the Northwest passage.
Questing for what does not exist,
like wrong views of God, can last

a life. (How else can a carni
of a tented city in a meadow
make the Greatest Little Show?)

The prowess of rubes, skill of swells,
the ardor of the drifter for
the runaway. The luck of the Born to Lose.

John Barr / from The Hundred Fathom Curve

Sign Shop Poem by John Barr

Sign Shop, Sing Sing

Worthy of Dante, penal planners
fit the sentence to the crime.
One hundred times the lifer writes DEAD END
the rapist YIELD

Consigned to help us KEEP RIGHT
these minor Moses lay down laws
                            ONE WAY
                            OBEY THE LIMITS

In bins wait cautions
                            FROST HEAVE
                            FALLING ROCKS
for every hazard but the one that put them here.

We hear and heed. Mild souls who hold the road,
the likes of us imagine the likes of them,
in a custom '57 Chevy, mowing down every sign they've made
on the way to unpaved, unposted roads.
And wouldn't we like, like them, to open up,
looking for conviction in the zone
between boredom and extinction.

John Barr/from The Hundred Fathom Curve

commercial-truck-representing teamsters poem


Now must be the time to make time,
judging from the rapid bump of semis
filling my room. (Having discharged live loads
at Albany are they–at 4 A.M.–
on to loads of cold-rolled sheet?)

At All-Night Stops, in the presumptive day
of mercury vapor you see them circling their rigs,
testing with ballpeen for the "No flat here"
that 18 Firestones better sing:
you overhear them in booths, in the assumed
accent of crackers prolonging
a mythology of getting through.

In shirt tails and shit kickers, awkward
as crabs, no wonder their withdrawal
into the greater identity of cabs.
Atop chrome registers they double clutch
in intricate shifts, feel in gear trains
for the nodes to make this mother move.

Muncie... South Bend ... Kankakee,
on handfuls of speed they test the limits:
Smokey's temper, templates of curves,
tread's griplessness on ice,
the harebrained, hairpin possibilities.

Eating the rinse their mudflaps fling,
I can ignore how they highball our good grief,
what their bumpers say they pay in taxes,
even the menace of their Brotherhood.
Bring our bread with incivility
they may, but (under their seats the proper answer
for highjackers) bring us our bread they do.

John Barr/from The Hundred Fathom Curve New and Collected Poems

Driving In Rain poem by John Barr

Driving In Rain

End of a weekend, going back,
my two tracks sinuate as one.
Skin of rain drawn tight by wind,
the windshield wipers don't keep up.

Posed in this airspace, passing
Purgatory Gulf Pop. 125,
I wonder why observe the limits, why
keep pulling it back
when, let go, it would go
straight for a time,
                                          then wander
off without assumptions,
questioning first the need for road.

John Barr/from The Hundred Fathom Curve