there are brighter stars than this

last april, i learned about viktor kulle when i was asked to translate some of his work by an editor of a journal on the occasion of his fiftieth birthday. as i was reading through work he had published in russian journals, i came across a fabulous cri de coeur called 'stella polaris.'

there are thousands of things written about each visible star in the night sky, but this one arranged itself around several precursors in my mind. itself being an elegy for a woman haunting kulle, who may not even be dead, as in joseph's elegy for marina basmanova. a counterpoint to h.d.'s 'stars wheel in purple.'

in december, i was out on the steps in my new place late at night after rain, looking down behind the houses on the other side of the road where i could see the still waters of chandler pond. i'd had a fight with masha and was smoking a cigarette to calm down.  i'd just read a.r. ammons'  'hardweed path going.'  i came in after masha was asleep to write a culmination poem.
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'stars wheel in purple'
h.d.

stars wheel in purple, yours is not so rare
as hesperus, not yet so great a star
as bright aldeboran or sirius,
nor yet the stained and brilliant one of war;

stars turn in purple, glorious to the sight;
yours is not so gracious as the pleiads are
nor as orion's sapphires, luminous;

yet disenchanted, cold, imperious face,
when all the others blighted, reel and fall,
your star, steel-set, keeps lone and frigid tryst
to freighted ships, baffled in wind and blast.
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'elegy'
(after joseph brodsky)

the bar hasn't changed , sweetheart
the crap painted on the walls is the same
the prices haven't change--but has the wine aged?
i don't believe it's any better, any worse
there's no progres, and it's good there isn't

a pilot on the postal route, single and
fallen-angelic, is drowning in his vodka
while fiddles stir the spirits for old times' sake
maidenwhite roofs loom beyond the window
and a bell calls out--it's dark already

you lied, but why: and why can't my ear
distinguish between that and the truth anymore
wanting some new sound--unavailable to you
weird, silent words that might only be
pronounced in your voice, like they used to
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'stella polaris'
viktor kulle

the first time
she came to me
darkness in the flesh
and looked me in the eye

and said--i'm not going
anywhere, where would i?
now she's a star
i took her light

but could barely
carry on...
what moves
the satellites

pulled me along, too
i put my soul in neutral...
the oxygen
i'd stolen

into my black ribs--
an amplitude of the senses
the lungs' panting
to their rank ejaculation--i want you

no matter who
i sleep with bile replaces
their stirring dew
dew you and i could hardly

expect to drink now
two mouths pressed into one
less likely here at least
than then and there

the fur on his face
helps keep out the cold
a hunt is happening
somewhere in the clouds

heaven's horn blows
he hears the hounds
and the trembling ball of chase
races down his hole

he dare not speak
a single word
but makes a silent prayer
an underground, an orphan's prayer

lord, shut up my throat
let me lay with
anyone, anything at all
but not--with love
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'polestar'

a jo-reet is a bird...
i go out on the stoop
and try to listen to the water
going down to the pond
and the water passing over
try organizing strings of white breath
into something useful
i smoke a cigarette
to hear
the paper burning
i'm of two minds about the
wind
the honey
and the foxhole
about the
hunt
the fowler and the foxer
the ground nests of the marshbirds
the cormorant
in the birch tree
i call them mine
because i made them
the blue scars
up and down
the body
but i don't know who
or whose
any of it is
or where it came from
rain water trying
to find its way home
up or down
i can't sleep
am i fox
or hound
looking for the foxhole
pawing
the ground
under the poem
or bear
and beholden to no one