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PoetryOver the past ten years my poems have appeared in poetry magazines all over the United States. My work has appeared in Sugar House Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, North American Review, Nimrod, Southwest Review and many others. I'm preparing to publish a book of poems, "Birds and The Trick of Time" this year.
Here's a few poems: |
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INVENTING GOD
Who spoke first to the sky,
conjured a name
for the lord of light?
Was she in the mountains
when clouds came so low
she heard voices,
dreamed she could walk
through the mist into the other world?
Was it when she knelt
in a cave of stone needles
and begged for her baby’s breath
to stitch the light again?
Was it when a man lay
on his back in a meadow
floating a river of scents
and rose out of his skin
drifting the ocean of stars?
Or was it a day like today
when she walks down
the stone steps
with the last of her bags,
the little dog dancing beside her?
Copyright Mark Anthony Burke
conjured a name
for the lord of light?
Was she in the mountains
when clouds came so low
she heard voices,
dreamed she could walk
through the mist into the other world?
Was it when she knelt
in a cave of stone needles
and begged for her baby’s breath
to stitch the light again?
Was it when a man lay
on his back in a meadow
floating a river of scents
and rose out of his skin
drifting the ocean of stars?
Or was it a day like today
when she walks down
the stone steps
with the last of her bags,
the little dog dancing beside her?
Copyright Mark Anthony Burke
SMUGGLING
You made me promise
not to concoct another excuse,
not call again just to hear
the soft leather of your voice,
stop taping poems about you
on the light poles of your street.
But the night fills me,
takes me out walking
the path across the hills,
June nights on the river,
rage of water, box of songs.
We took turns in the oar-rack seat,
ran the chutes, the pooled waltzes,
everything lashed on the raft,
only the voices of birds beside ours.
Tied off at dusk
where the river calmed at a turn,
we slept on the grass near the shore,
drank the stars, water’s endless chant
sewing the dark.
Five nights, six days got us
to the take-out bridge.
Hushed by the presence of strangers,
we packed the car in silence,
too many after one.
I wasn’t honest that night
at the prairie crossing,
told the border guard I wasn’t
smuggling anything into Canada.
But I lied, I carried
the wood-smoke scent of your hair,
your body and the dawn
we lay together
peaking from the tent
at fox pups playing
in the wind-struck grass.
Copyright Mark Anthony Burke
not to concoct another excuse,
not call again just to hear
the soft leather of your voice,
stop taping poems about you
on the light poles of your street.
But the night fills me,
takes me out walking
the path across the hills,
June nights on the river,
rage of water, box of songs.
We took turns in the oar-rack seat,
ran the chutes, the pooled waltzes,
everything lashed on the raft,
only the voices of birds beside ours.
Tied off at dusk
where the river calmed at a turn,
we slept on the grass near the shore,
drank the stars, water’s endless chant
sewing the dark.
Five nights, six days got us
to the take-out bridge.
Hushed by the presence of strangers,
we packed the car in silence,
too many after one.
I wasn’t honest that night
at the prairie crossing,
told the border guard I wasn’t
smuggling anything into Canada.
But I lied, I carried
the wood-smoke scent of your hair,
your body and the dawn
we lay together
peaking from the tent
at fox pups playing
in the wind-struck grass.
Copyright Mark Anthony Burke
SYCAMORE AVENUE
I walked the empty rooms,
climbed up on the roof, watched
the evening fall into darkness
around Pico and La Brea.
Gone to find work, I stayed
on the top floor of a fifties duplex,
looked for the signs in the sky
that helped to guide me.
At night, I shaped
wire-mesh forms of wolves,
statues of women, coated them
in paper-mache, the room
crowded with goddess statues,
animals, half-covered mesh frames,
bodies balanced upright, skin drying.
Thursday nights before garbage day,
I listened for the voices
that floated up from the street
mixing with the bone rattle
of dead palm branches in the wind.
Silhouettes combed the walkways
between apartment buildings,
the boy lifted dumpster lids,
the girl picked from the sidewalk bins,
whistled if they found anything.
The woman pushed a shopping cart,
carried what they took, scavengers
combing Sycamore Avenue.
I wanted to walk with them,
move through the darkness, talk.
Nights when the groan
of police helicopters woke me,
searchlights scraping the alleys,
I swam back through
a scatter of dreams,
gusts of a song about a river
blowing through the air,
went back into the front room,
talked to the bodies as they dried
leaning against each other.
Copyright Mark Anthony Burke
climbed up on the roof, watched
the evening fall into darkness
around Pico and La Brea.
Gone to find work, I stayed
on the top floor of a fifties duplex,
looked for the signs in the sky
that helped to guide me.
At night, I shaped
wire-mesh forms of wolves,
statues of women, coated them
in paper-mache, the room
crowded with goddess statues,
animals, half-covered mesh frames,
bodies balanced upright, skin drying.
Thursday nights before garbage day,
I listened for the voices
that floated up from the street
mixing with the bone rattle
of dead palm branches in the wind.
Silhouettes combed the walkways
between apartment buildings,
the boy lifted dumpster lids,
the girl picked from the sidewalk bins,
whistled if they found anything.
The woman pushed a shopping cart,
carried what they took, scavengers
combing Sycamore Avenue.
I wanted to walk with them,
move through the darkness, talk.
Nights when the groan
of police helicopters woke me,
searchlights scraping the alleys,
I swam back through
a scatter of dreams,
gusts of a song about a river
blowing through the air,
went back into the front room,
talked to the bodies as they dried
leaning against each other.
Copyright Mark Anthony Burke
WALK AWAY THE GHOSTS
A quick clap of wings
opens the morning,
swifts darting past the window.
Sunlight streaks across the trees
and through the gaps in the blinds
where bright bands
stripe you as you sleep.
You are as lovely as
the violet jewels of jacaranda
and still I am up and gone.
The old men tap
two fingers over their hearts
and nod a prayer of greeting
when they pass me
climbing the path to the temple.
They must know that I’m afraid
you will tire of my moody ways,
the hours of doubt and distance.
I have no medicine but to walk
and argue with the voices
until they melt into the light.
When I come back, please
come and we’ll drink the red tea,
walk the gardens where the storks
have built their nests on poles,
watch the curved bone of moon
rise into the evening sky.
opens the morning,
swifts darting past the window.
Sunlight streaks across the trees
and through the gaps in the blinds
where bright bands
stripe you as you sleep.
You are as lovely as
the violet jewels of jacaranda
and still I am up and gone.
The old men tap
two fingers over their hearts
and nod a prayer of greeting
when they pass me
climbing the path to the temple.
They must know that I’m afraid
you will tire of my moody ways,
the hours of doubt and distance.
I have no medicine but to walk
and argue with the voices
until they melt into the light.
When I come back, please
come and we’ll drink the red tea,
walk the gardens where the storks
have built their nests on poles,
watch the curved bone of moon
rise into the evening sky.
Copyright Mark Anthony Burke