Circle of Light


Marc Weber




we talked conscious so conscious of one another
our eyes meeting our bodies and faces reflecting
in the images we think the other must see every
move we make alters the image the words floating
on the tension of meeting touch me no just
tell me about the other things in your life




to take a drink of water to taste in it clarity
at last after days being unable to move
unwilling to undertake anything
more than simple housecleaning
washing the dishes polishing the floor
emptying ashtrays
to take a drink of water to taste in it clarity
to swallow and feel the body's heat being absorbed
by the cold water
"clarity in the sense of silence" says Oppen
but also in the sense of movement




talking with the woman of the gray eyes
and imperfect nose (not the curve
on the inside of an eggshell) at a table
covered by red and white plaid outdoors
next to the curb
                         where I faced down the street
into trees that had new leaves

Breton was a child she said

description I said floats up above
the structure you give to the words
Breton said he would not enter that room

She spoke of her love for Borges of where he says
he does not know which of them was writing that story

I said to the face of Sidney's thick beard
"did you say they put 10,000 people in that stadium?"

"another untopple-able government"

Neruda tied and laid down to die they would not
arm the people
                        she touched
the black hair of his head with her hand like a gun



The watcher

the sky can crack as it makes no change
bluest water blue as open atmosphere seen from space
the colors of the spectroscope

worn brick beside flowers of vivid orange
buildings run up from a ravine
in which plummets a 100 ft. waterfall
beyond the gray steeples the highest points are the mountains
which some call Enchanted
crooked lines on the horizon visible at dawn

I am here for no reason I watch my mind continually
it is hard to write this as it is a part of my watching

where does the mind begin to talk poetry when it speaks of itself

sometimes my thoughts turn into one electric pulse
which blinks over
seems to encase the body choking it like a throat
feeling as it does similar to emotion some part of my mind
expects the body to form some utterance like a tear or a sound
but it does not as the experience does not call to the body
no expression is asked for no meaning can be attached

to become lost trying to find the physical direction
of a thought to touch your face wondering

where does the mind begin to talk poetry when it speaks of itself



The question

a death's head staring, asking me to fuck its skeleton
I am parked toward the sunset
pink to orange
the death's head sits in a large American car
it chokes with emphysema coughs
its bones turn pink to orange with ghostly flesh enwrapped

I am always being asked
where I am going how long I will
be gone

               by my writing I have
bored the death's head who has driven
to a different part of the parking lot



Poem of embrace

a length of body brought overland on thighs
as long as her face
chafed knees remind me of sun and rock
resting near her body enfolded in the arms
of her wide shoulders
the tawny skin of her chest
moist under my breath
I grasp her warrior's
stance I remember again her
standing before me
eyes half-lowered as a smile came
the night clung overhead the lamps
broken winds
                      played up into us
parts of feelings seemed behind everything
           buildings, cars, autumn leaves,
streetlamps, light-blurred night
behind the words we spoke
                                           I knew
no sounds I knew no colors
                                            the face
was one of other thoughts relief could not come
until a joy drained it



Vision of lovers

a glance from eyes in two heads the faces
move on the tops of the bodies
which come together
which moan in the hollow where the heart is and breath is
in the chest of the lovers

the two are divided by the lines of hair
which run down their bellies
also the creases of their backbones

a hand over the buttocks of one brings both closer
the silence of the environment for deep love
the air is a wisp which cools without sound

the texture of ocean waves is not smooth
a large wave is dotted with lacunae
the surface is made of pores especially to be seen
in the hands

moisture blurs the light that is only noticeable
where it falls on the sky-side of the body
eyelashes interfere




written by loved person
sometimes long discursives
or else
meaningless broken sentences
long white sheets
were found some covered
crumpled among
nothing of interest



Painting all night

light touching her hand fingers of taper-
smooth pores I reach into
a palm
             seeing shadows flutter over paper
white fingers curve
whatever bird keeps modulating notes
going in its throat out there
the break of your touch is to be desired as
moving over
                    forms are touched but margins
          the darkness of the knuckles lengthens
I awaken when pipes move water

later in the light against the windows
the room is seen faces in black air between panes

guarded by a broken facade of color
bouncing up into the face
surrounding levels of walls fall down as the dawn comes




my life is the end of trouble

a sky filled with clouds in twilight
that have gone black
to write of phenomena what relation
does it have to me
can I become part of it by incantation
in a mere poem

a juxtaposition of my face and the mountains
or a sea muddy with silt a river full of pieces
of manure

my voice is my breathing or heart-beating

my hand is full of muscles



didn't know or couldn't understand ever though
I could have asked why
there was plenty of stillness
and we were alone
later on of course I stood out on the lawn
and looked out at space



death came in the disassociation of personalities

from one another
is the result
the result the end a state of things
my love's face will not be brightened
the touch will not absolve

music may be light and jump
through the darkness
it may be taken
but even if I forget for a moment
I shall return to her face
sheathed by an arm lying under a window



Love morning chant

then in the dark then where I was meeting
at the time of our subtle love our undisguised
intimacies unhidden then in the dark
can we be more than then we were in our many
times then we were in our many meetings then in
many ways we are going we are going arise
in a dark morning arise to dark morning
come then to the morning where because
of every moving because of your moving and
my moving toward you then we may become
and you may be at last in our ending you
may be dark and know of the time you may already
be ahead may already be going may already be
moving there in the dark morning at the time
of quiet meeting there when we are going
awaiting sometime the precipice then in the
many ways then in the many darkness as
yet I am not there no we must not stop we cannot



you that our love mistrust fear of loss
fear of the truthful separation
fear of the what can be no other
fear of the space
all the time and not touching with not touching
where we must or die my dear my dear you say
nothing but death you are nothing but death
you are the final reckoning where I am gone



. . . keeps blasting your senses as you walk
down the docks in Acapulco

as you hope to keep remembering everything
hope to keep tied up with the goodness

even though right now it's good right now
I'm on top of a hill glittering lights spread out

below me my time now to be ravished for its beauty
Satie is being played downstairs we are true




seemed that in the space of the moment or
should I say should it be something other

you and I might carry it out might space
the times that lie somewhat ahead

then where in the ultimacies in the culminatings
in the many spaces we may cover you

and I in the voids          "don't become too
overbearing, don't speak so much, don't go on

like a fool"      I must say some of the final
words that is my only course my only

one there in your presence
not ceasing to speak of

what you evoke even if it is not possible
that I can even if not



circle of light beneath the eye
exposing pores opening the whiteness of the skin
of the skin
broken into the curtain, you sleep on.
two thoughts outside and here
life breaks
cannot stop
the breaking



El Calvario

in striated clouds forms of slate blue showing the permanence
of the trees in the rain flower petals divide and fall green tropics
cover even the rock here water breaks from the streets
springs feed moss on the pavement

my own hand seeks to move you
that I have never a hope to touch

being in the center of as you called it "a real civilization"
I am forced to identify myself to say something about me is real
some real biography some permanent facts no acceptance of thoughts as thoughts here

walk down past the new bright-green tennis courts
over the ravine on the bridge with its fountains
el Calvario astride the hill above its tower of dark brown stone
the walls that enclose the street expose you on the sidewalk



So we are to part

can you be very far or can I be
what is to be known or spoken to ourselves

and reordered for emotion night of wind
hissing of rain on the road saying goodbye

in the daylight so we are to part
for a moment waiting to have you say it

close everything off turn your face and body
into the doorway



from making sweat break out on my face

turning into the living room noiseless dripping of snow
away mountains are dark purple
though actually trees are green

the bark of trees creased as if in response to weather

swirls of antenna wire can hardly be seen
in the leaves by the side of the house

I must come back to me


Originally published by San Marcos Press, Cerrillos, NM, in 1973.
Long out of print, the text is presented here complete.
Marc Weber now goes by M. L. Weber. He edits Sugar Mule, an ezine.

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