Poetry by David Merriman

ENJOY THE FREE POETRY. OK?

Thoughts On The Environmental Movement

Nothing left but pulverized tree trunk
Silt and worm shit. This bloated rock
Decked to the nines in oil, in gold, in
Afghan diamonds, is worth a hell of a
Lot more pockmarked and on fire.
Just as we bite into the apple core
Itself after finishing an apple
Eventually we must puncture the crust
And suck the black blood straight
From the artery of the earth.

~

[Those who believe that love]

Those who believe that love
is a descent, like climbing down
the mountain and returning home,
are closer to their happiness.
Nothing to offer but the proffer
of myself, nothing to give
but the gait of my nothings.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
The footprint is the sand,
the lack of feeling is the feeling.

~

For Boys

Who among you will claim his manhood?
Who will go beneath the ice and murder the leviathan?
I stand amidst your fears and womanly longings
Like a soldier atop a slaughtered dog.
What you have considered a triumph
Is but the sugar sticking to my fingers.
Know this. Only what is embossed, pounded, waled;
Only your feral pain, left to its slow formation,
Like moss choking a rock,
Will prepare you, at last, to bridle power.

~

[if I could be god tonight]

if i could be god tonight.
fill my pockets with the pebbles of your body.
my body wilted and roaring.
my hand my palm my cock.
if i could be god tonight.
choke me darling i am the god.
who is the slave i am the god.
who is on the cross.

~

On Hope

“Hope makes torture possible.” Graham Foust

Again, again, the love alive,
Like a luffing sail,
Burgeons to its fullest boast.
Not for one motive or thing
But for all motives, all things.

Evenly God comes to each, and each
Most gingered wish, like a moth
Livening in one’s palm,
Begins its stirring. Then it is still.
All suffering results from this.

~

Transference

Even the stilled bell sings
in the fingers of those who touch it.
My lover, when others are near us,
they too begin singing,
in new faith, dumb as birds.

~

Transfert

(translation by Amelia Shroyer)

Même la cloche calmé chante
dans les doigts de celui qui l’en touche.
Mon amant, quand d’autres nous avoisinent,
ils commencent aussi à chanter,
dans la foi nouvelle, bêtes comme des oiseaux.