Poems - Page 8 of 10 - John Barr Poetry

Body Language

John Barr / What it Means to be Human

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

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.

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.

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.

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.
Unmemorized
the great whorls of my fingerprints
approach like storms.

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

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Night Flight

John Barr / What it Means to be Human

–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

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Commuter Moons

John Barr / What it Means to be Human

1.
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.

2.
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.

3.
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

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Chapter 11

John Barr / What it Means to be Human

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

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Sign Shop, Sing Sing

John Barr / What it Means to be Human

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

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

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

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Teamsters

John Barr / What it Means to be Human

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

Teamsters Read More »

Driving In Rain

John Barr / What it Means to be Human

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

Driving In Rain Read More »

Outage

John Barr / What it Means to be Human

Our dogs in the sudden silence raise
their heads. Hums of the house gone dead,
the clocks flash 12, the freezer's hold
softens with remembered thaws.
The power grid's ability
to self-excite, the integrity
of a communal whole aborts.

Not everything, of course. A breeze
unbundles the treetops and disports,
the nation of frogs exhorts, exhorts,
and here in the room lungs fill and pause.
I think the end may come this way,
some things in the dark at first
just not going forward as they should.

John Barr / from The Hundred Fathom Curve

Outage Read More »

The Nature of Knowing

John Barr / Natural Wonders

Ineluctable modality of the visible.
James Joyce

Before first light, the first first light–
more night than not–
when what you know is still your own.

In minutes it will be too late,
shape and color
make the strange familiar.

An hour from now the sun will flood
the trees with certainties
demanding to be understood.

The agency of objects will insist,
and your life as intuition
for this day will be lost.

John Barr / from Dante in China

The Nature of Knowing Read More »

First Light

John Barr / Natural Wonders

Spiders in the cold,
bees in inarticulate bunches
hang from a day's work.
Waiting for light they wait
to see what they will be.
A tree lets down
green undersides and is maple.
A window glints—
a thing of saffron
kindles with singlehood.
In the broad yard
each thing dandles
its blue, its name, its consequence.

**John Barr, "First Light" from The Hundred Fathom Curve: New & Collected Poems.** Copyright © 2011 by John Barr. Reprinted by permission of Red Hen Press.Source: The Hundred Fathom Curve: New & Collected Poems (Red Hen Press, 2011)

First Light Read More »

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

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.

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.

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.

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. Unmemorized the great whorls of my fingerprints approach like storms.

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

–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

1. 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.

2. 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.

3. 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

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

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

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

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

John Barr/from The Hundred Fathom Curve

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.

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

Our dogs in the sudden silence raise their heads. Hums of the house gone dead, the clocks flash 12, the freezer's hold softens with remembered thaws. The power grid's ability to self-excite, the integrity of a communal whole aborts.

Not everything, of course. A breeze unbundles the treetops and disports, the nation of frogs exhorts, exhorts, and here in the room lungs fill and pause. I think the end may come this way, some things in the dark at first just not going forward as they should.

John Barr / from The Hundred Fathom Curve

Ineluctable modality of the visible. James Joyce

Before first light, the first first light– more night than not– when what you know is still your own.

In minutes it will be too late, shape and color make the strange familiar.

An hour from now the sun will flood the trees with certainties demanding to be understood.

The agency of objects will insist, and your life as intuition for this day will be lost.

John Barr / from Dante in China

John Barr, "First Light" from The Hundred Fathom Curve: New & Collected Poems. Copyright © 2011 by John Barr. Reprinted by permission of Red Hen Press.Source: The Hundred Fathom Curve: New & Collected Poems (Red Hen Press, 2011)

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

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.

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.

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.

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.
Unmemorized
the great whorls of my fingerprints
approach like storms.

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.

1.
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.

2.
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.

3.
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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

Our dogs in the sudden silence raise
their heads. Hums of the house gone dead,
the clocks flash 12, the freezer's hold
softens with remembered thaws.
The power grid's ability
to self-excite, the integrity
of a communal whole aborts.

Not everything, of course. A breeze
unbundles the treetops and disports,
the nation of frogs exhorts, exhorts,
and here in the room lungs fill and pause.
I think the end may come this way,
some things in the dark at first
just not going forward as they should.

Ineluctable modality of the visible.
James Joyce

Before first light, the first first light–
more night than not–
when what you know is still your own.

In minutes it will be too late,
shape and color
make the strange familiar.

An hour from now the sun will flood
the trees with certainties
demanding to be understood.

The agency of objects will insist,
and your life as intuition
for this day will be lost.

**John Barr, "First Light" from The Hundred Fathom Curve: New & Collected Poems.** Copyright © 2011 by John Barr. Reprinted by permission of Red Hen Press.Source: The Hundred Fathom Curve: New & Collected Poems (Red Hen Press, 2011)