Sharon Dolin
from A Manual for Living
Living Wisdom Is More Important
Than Knowing About It
So don those russet/saffron robes,
but does that make you wise?
In color, perhaps,
but in choler . . .
perhaps not.
from The Black Paintings
The Coven
after Goya
Conjure me up: goat-bearded, horned, you
robed silhouette. Conjure me up
out of carbon dirt in a habit
of white, all feet and hands stuck
on a hunch-
backed stump. Stir, stir for the clapping hiss
your brood of brujas scheme: so kerchiefed
in fright we cast a lurid
so sticky-webbed we’ve conjured up even you.
And don’t think I haven’t noticed you, sweet ingénue,
sitting on the side in novitiate black,
hands hidden in a fur muff, unable to clap or snap.
You’ll become like me: shriveled crab apple
they toss to the horses as cante jondo
is being squeezed from the throat of a ravening guitar.
The Dog
after Goya
Nothing. Nobody.
In the eye of the dog
upwards
headed toward what
dark fumbling bumble
bee light.
Any minute land might smother-wash
over him
darkness of the returning wave.
Wind might ruffle him
in the howl-hour of dawn.
Bleary in the dreary
noon of the deaf man’s room.
Dark death of the sun. Black dog.
Yellow black dog. Golden-eared
shadowplay. The color of
surrender
The shape of
late hope.
The Fountain
after Goya
Not in a muchedumbre of white.
Not with mantillas of black lace.
Not as a crone nor as an inquisitor.
Nor with a carriage of fire.
Nor with petitions nor looking for
Miraculous cures from the waters.
Just to bathe my face and hands and feet.
Just to wash off
These persistent worries that gnaw me.
Like any young dog.
Any broken guitar.
Two Old Folks Eating
after Goya
I only believe in darkness
and what light it throws off.
I am neither the bald one
gummy with her glazed look
at what has come for her,
her spoon a spinning top
of destiny—with the face of
someone’s forgotten nurse.
Nor the skeletal beggar
who proves there is always one
who is more famished
more flensed of everything
but an attitude of bone.
from A Manual for Living
Living Wisdom Is More Important
Than Knowing About It
So don those russet/saffron robes,
but does that make you wise?
In color, perhaps,
but in choler . . .
perhaps not.
from The Black Paintings
The Coven
after Goya
Conjure me up: goat-bearded, horned, you
robed silhouette. Conjure me up
out of carbon dirt in a habit
of white, all feet and hands stuck
on a hunch-
backed stump. Stir, stir for the clapping hiss
your brood of brujas scheme: so kerchiefed
in fright we cast a lurid
so sticky-webbed we’ve conjured up even you.
And don’t think I haven’t noticed you, sweet ingénue,
sitting on the side in novitiate black,
hands hidden in a fur muff, unable to clap or snap.
You’ll become like me: shriveled crab apple
they toss to the horses as cante jondo
is being squeezed from the throat of a ravening guitar.
The Dog
after Goya
Nothing. Nobody.
In the eye of the dog
upwards
headed toward what
dark fumbling bumble
bee light.
Any minute land might smother-wash
over him
darkness of the returning wave.
Wind might ruffle him
in the howl-hour of dawn.
Bleary in the dreary
noon of the deaf man’s room.
Dark death of the sun. Black dog.
Yellow black dog. Golden-eared
shadowplay. The color of
surrender
The shape of
late hope.
The Fountain
after Goya
Not in a muchedumbre of white.
Not with mantillas of black lace.
Not as a crone nor as an inquisitor.
Nor with a carriage of fire.
Nor with petitions nor looking for
Miraculous cures from the waters.
Just to bathe my face and hands and feet.
Just to wash off
These persistent worries that gnaw me.
Like any young dog.
Any broken guitar.
Two Old Folks Eating
after Goya
I only believe in darkness
and what light it throws off.
I am neither the bald one
gummy with her glazed look
at what has come for her,
her spoon a spinning top
of destiny—with the face of
someone’s forgotten nurse.
Nor the skeletal beggar
who proves there is always one
who is more famished
more flensed of everything
but an attitude of bone.