The Berchtesgadener Street Stone

Cool rain falls down, a transparent veil
beyond this Alpine village, mist covers the mountain
I hold a pink stone in my left hand
and watch from behind a glass door.

Beyond this Alpine Village, mist covers the mountain
as I remember walking to St. Leonhardt yesterday morning
and watch from behind a glass door
I have become the mother of the earth.

As I remember walking to St. Leonhardt yesterday morning
wide fields of Queen Ann's lace, full bloom
I have become the mother of the earth
A small pink stone was nestled in the sand near my feet.

Wide fields of Queen Ann's lace, full bloom
at the base of the mountain on Berchtesgadener Street
A small pink stone, nestled in the sand near my feet
half buried in sand and soft damp earth.

At the base of the mountain on Berchtesgadener Street
I bent down to pick up the stone from the field
half buried in sand and soft damp earth
Held it and walked till the winds wiped it dry.

I bent down to pick up the stone from the earth
We walked home together, the stone and I
Held it and walked till the winds wiped it dry
A triangle shaped lump with rounded corners.

We walked home together, the stone and I
soft pink marble, mingled with gray
a triangle shaped lump with rounded corners
Deeper pink veins lie just below the skin.

Soft pink marble, mingled with gray
beneath a transparent surface
deeper pink veins lie just below the skin
cuts and scars from a life that's been harsh.

Beneath a transparent surface
a scarred pink stone speaks of a long journey
cuts and scars from a life that's been harsh
a cool stone warms in the palm of my hand.

A scarred pink stone speaks of a journey
as rain pours from the dense fog in the sky
a cool stone warms in the palm of my hand
as I watch the mountain mingle with mist.

As rain pours from the dense fog in the sky
The stone brings life to my body
as I watch the mountains mingle with mist
It's rained every day since I arrived.

The stone brings life to my body
Jagged mountain edge emerge in the distance
It's rained every day since I arrived
mist, clouds, and sky conspire to make mountains vanish.

Jagged mountain edges emerge in the distance
the ultimate magic show takes place
mist, clouds, and sky conspire to make mountains vanish
I shift in my seat and listen to cars moving outside.

The ultimate magic show takes place
the stone turns over in my hand
I shift in my seat and listed to cars moving outside
one warm thing on a cold rainy morning.

The stone turns over in my hand
it throbs and moves, warmer than my body
the one warm thing on a cold rainy morning
The Berchtesgadener Street Stone held in my hand.

Nine Postcards From Prague

I

Sapphire light mingles with deep red violet
Rolled out behind the spiky black twin towers
Like a futuristic vision.
My neck aches from bending backwards
My soul leaps forward to embrace them.
Evening comes to Prague
Like a dark, warm wool blanket
That wraps a weary traveler's body
At the end of a long journey.

II

Tonight, walking along hard stone paths
The dark Moldau sang to me.
Her voice lifted me up from the street
Like a duet of a finely tuned violin
And a velvet throated cello
As we crossed the wide bridge
Keeping inside the dark shadows.
I watched a long gray pigeon
Quietly fly through the last ray of light
Coming home for rest
We continued searching
For the way back
To where the night begins.

III

Here, in Prague.
Store windows dazzle
With ample treasures of amber,
Garnets and Bohemian glass.
They bulge with heavy burdens of color
And ask me to return again tomorrow.
Come. Walk inside of me.
Touch. Hold. Buy.
I ask, "What is the price?"
How will I carry the large glass flowers home?
How will they look when I place them
In a thick vase
From West Virginia?

IV

At the Pyramida hotel
A small ink drawing hangs
On the wall in room 428.
This familiar artist's style
Catches my eye again.
His drawings hang
In my Pennsylvania home.

Last year in Prague
The artist stood alone
Displaying his drawings
On Sunday morning.
A proud businessman.
I bought several.
The price was too low.

V

I sit alone
On the edge of the spiral tide
In the center of this night
My thoughts turn like a labyrinth
The ocean waves.
Soon you will embrace me
And we will walk away together.

VI

One by one
He looked at each passport
He wears two stars on each shoulder
An 8-pointed star on his chest
A gun on his right hip.
Foolish students giggle in the back of the bus
One asks if he speaks English
He asks if they speak Czech
All laugh at his joke
He is thin and young
And departs with an English "Good Bye."
We occupied seven minutes of his day.

VII

It rains now
as we get our first glimpse of Prague
the translucent gray sky
softens the deep golden fields to mauve
distant trees turn from yellow-green
to blue wine mist.

VIII

Prostitutes take their places
along the road to Prague
they kneel down on the grass
squat low
wave at the tourists
bend forward
arrange their few possessions
in a small backpack.

IX

The late summer rains
have swept away
all our dreams.

The Grödig Stone

Deep ruby red wine
a color in shadow

The delicate flakes of metal flicker
like diamond dust in my drawer

The bottom is plain gray
flat indentations not easy to see

My finger rests on the subtle scar
a pointed oval shape

I am always a visitor
walking the familiar path of the village

The winding bicycle paths
surround the mountain peaks

In the crisp early morning light
a rainbow has enclosed the mountain

Even its memory has vanished
as I walk through fields of Queen Ann Lace.

In the twilight I look back to the village
the church steeple points to my return

Twilight will soon fall downward
cover the red tiled roof and marble staircase.

Kim Itoh and the Glorious Future

Kim Itoh
unpredictable
moves slowly on the darkened stage
in the slant of light
from left to right
his bare feet reaching
searching the uncharted
borderlands
of Butoh conversation

his arms lift up at right angles
shifting his graceful nude body
his swift hands cut upward
moving independently
like a ghost

this is the hellraiser
who has a reputation
to live up to-
this is the solo performer
angry and mildly
disturbing

did you come here
to be shocked
by the Glorious Future
of modern
Japanese
art?
a comically over-toned
glance?

Butoh - a dance in depth
Butoh - a dance of death!

This is I - TODAY

This is I who splashed my body
with a cool blue perfume
put on a backpack loaded
with maps and a bus pass
to begin a day of travel.

This is I who climbed steep
ancient stone steps
paused at the top of a mountain
to share my special place
with friends as we looked out
over the city.

This is I who saw a homeless man
asleep behind a locked iron gate
beneath a camouflage blanket
in a space that was made for Jesus.

This is I who watched the people
climbing and descending the stairs
some stopped to take a look
at the drawing in my book.

This is I walking down Steingasse
beginning to weave the fiber
of a new dream
that is lingering in my mind.

This is I eating lunch
under the yellow umbrella
talking about brown butter,
Austrian noodles, mineral water and cold Coke.
Counting a stack of shillings
to pay for my meal.

This is I shopping on Linzer Gasse
buying German hand creme and toothpaste
wooden crayons and books
coming home with a new pair of Austrian shoes.

This is I writing letters to my mother and sister
while I sit in the shade
Mirabell garden
I wrote of my life today
and I desired to share
the afternoon sun.

This is I remembering yesterday
watching parachutes and black birds
flying over the mountain
and a little blue flower that
was picked by a friend.

This is I who wonder
if the new dream can become real
A studio and time to paint
illusions, impressions
of my soft spoken desires.

All is quiet tonight

Still

At the top of the hill

LIGHT

He wears a long dark hat

Bronze

Stands where the blue house lays  

Spread

Heart an indentation

Shape

No arms and no muscles

Quiet

Only the green moon

Knows

Poem written after looking at Max Ernst's works Young Man with Beating Heart (1944) and Petrified City (1935) in Munich, Germany, July, 1999.

Photo: Capricorn, Max Ernst, 1948/1975, National Gallery, Washington, © 2002 Mary Ann Sullivan (Digital Imaging Project), used with express permission, all rights reserved.