DEADSPACE POETRY
spring to life for better or worse
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MANTIS
I was a hollow butterflyall the juices dried up
the ash of a lepidopteran phoenix
the very husk of possibility
can you try too hard?
can you really?
a preying mantis tried to fly up my nose
it wasn't his fault...I had turned on the floodlight in my workshop.
Deep in the night, beset by that terrible maelstrom of light
my proboscis must have seemed a port in the storm
I was startled and brushed him away
he landed on my workbench
on his scissor hand
was spited a tiny moth
as a child, I associated them with tyrannosaurs
...terrible Mantis Rex...or perhaps cobras,
hypnotizing their prey until...
that sudden strike
they seemed so cold, so calculating, so merciless
they fascinated me the way dangerous things often fascinate young boys
but this one seemed awfully frightened
not at all the voracious mechanical killer
His eyes like beads of ink on a hot skillet
watched me
his head twisted like it was threaded
onto his neck
drawn together as we were
by my nose
each of us considered for a short moment
the dire consequences
had he succeeded in his attempt
for a moment it seemed the barriers collapsed
between his insectness and my humanity
our scale, our dimension, our means of employment
our disparate world views
seemed for a mere second, perhaps two
of little consequence
and we shared a moment of intimacy
uncommon between carpenter-types and preying mantis-types
he did seem very afraid
or so I felt...it was difficult to confirm these feelings
as he soon crawled under the bench
I was also unable to interview the moth
Chris Travis - COPYRIGHT 1995
THE MORNING LIKE A CHEERFUL CHILD
the morning like a cheerful child
humming before her eyes are open
and I...I with my complaints and creaking limbs
like the oak and ash, leap into flame.
The forest and I burn
to hear her voice,
so sweet and nonsensical
I am remade
Some days she pouts and will not lift her song
like a first light flight of splendor
above the shivering leaves
and I stumble in my hollow shoes
not understanding
Sometimes I awake to her tears
oh musty, humid heart
oh sheets of sorrow
oh weeping, thundering fog
How she wallows in her distress
Then she comes like a silver bell
ringing birdsong into crystal
beams of light through the arching limbs
shout like angels...
each breeze a caress
each breath a journey
each moment fused destiny...
oooh... I take her in my arms
as my child and mother
and rock her, rock her, rock her
oh, oh, oh...my love, my precious one
and I stroke her hair across the heavens
and lay my trembling hand upon her cheek...
and then...I let her go...
that she may grow into the day
Copyright 1995 Chris Travis
CORK
My crimson ship, brave against the flickering stars
quakes on the wrinkles of mirror
and all the sea of waiting
glistens in her wake
Stretched across the rippling slate
dark shadows foretell another world
but such is not the concern
of my vermillion ark
Her thoughts strain taut below the sparkling plane
She holds me tight in her teasing grip
testing my attention
lest she vanish like alarum bells
leaving no emergency
and costing the bounty of my patience
She is the heart of time
all things dance to her bouncing tune
and all the world is held by a single strand of spiderweb
and all the world goes passing by
and all the world lies just beneath the surface
We see reflections in the river...
chains of diamonds...a necklace of moments...
ripples in the liquid sky
Copyright 1996 by Christopher K. Travis
It rained, It rained
It rained, it rained
just look at the drops
there’s mud in the driveway
and water for crops
It rained, it’s wet
there are pools in the lawn
it cleaned out the gutters
as it gurgled along
It ran through the ditches
and filled up the cracks
that lay on the ground
like huge chicken tracks
like great big dry roosters
had fractured the land
nothing could stop them
nothing could stand
‘till it rained, it rained
from heaven to ground
and softened the landscape
and made it more round
and filled in the valleys
and sealed up the holes
and watered the corn
that needed it so
It rained, it rained
like a big ol’ freight train
it barreled down gullies
and back up again
it chugged up the banks
screamed ‘round the curves
beer cans and gum wraps
were tossed in the surf
Like everything else
we long for so much
it ran through our fingers
and turned into dust
we struggle to hold it
cup our hands as it falls
we drink it and dam it
and pipe it through walls
but it sinks and it rises
into ground, into air
and we cannot predict
when it joins with la mer
we cannot contain
it‘s rise from the sea
as it turns into fog
on the firth of Dundee
or wafts through the ferns
in the Pacific northwest
or spills on the front
of a parched poet’s vest
or falls from the sky
like jewels in light
and calls the living
once more back to life
At the edge of the storm
where the sunlight remains
the last drops of gold
hang from the grain
You stand in the field
with arms to the sky
You reach for the heavens
as the clouds hurtle by
shouting over and over
and over again...
“It rained, it rained,
it rained, it rained,
it rained, it rained,
it rained.”
Copyright 1996 Christopher K. Travis
Cultivated Man
by greater poets than I. Yes, greater hearts
felt a sense of place, a homeward call,
and sought their roots to explain it all
I’m not the first to pursue the phrase
that defines the call to native land
for all men seek with all their parts
asylum for their wounded hearts
But I, I stumble for the words
to take the humble truth in tow
that I am grown from dirt and sand,
not from the sky as I would plan
My life grew from no wind-borne spore
no rare wild seed that washed ashore
no chance leaven ‘neath sheltering stone
who’s only debt the direction blown
No, I...I am a cultivated man
I was sown with others in sacred land
We took root and grew in even rows
together were nurtured by rake and hoe
And the soil that courses in our veins
though different colors, is all the same
We all knew the same hot sun
The same hard rain fell on every one
It was Texas soil and Texas sun
and Texas rain and Texas sky
and Texas wind and Texas mud
and Texas runs now in our blood
And now however high we grow
however far our seed may blow
our roots remain in Texas loam
the footprints left are Texas’ own
And I, the cultivated man
now till a garden in the sun
and my beloved fruit has grown
strong Texas flesh and Texas bone
so lay me down come that day
my body a feast for Texas clay
so Texas seed in the Texas wind
can grow more cultivated men
Copyright 1996 by Christopher K. Travis
The Maestro’s Prayer
as maestro paces through the fold
and sits before the burning bush
that smolders with the prayer untold
And those who have on evenings past
born witness to his prophesy
hold still their hearts
hold still their hearts
hold still their hearts
in the silent sanctuary
His carriage stiff but proud, unbowed
his eyes close soft as he collects
the evening’s prayer, the adoration
somewhere within
somewhere within
his supplication
Then from the gushing holy font
there spills a rushing, roaring stream
that carries all the faithful through
passion, pain and haunting dream
courage lost and found again
the greatest hope, the love most true
all cascade as he lays his hands
like light on water
light on water
light on water
where he commands
And all the minutia of nature’s wealth
glow in the burning bush’s hearth
thoughts that spawned
like fish of fire
down through the ages of man’s desire
leap and flash, glisten and flare
like burning angels
burning angels
burning angels
on the pyre
All the flock transfixed, transfigured
and transported
to a glory too oft discarded
are roused to claim
their ill-kept souls
and dancing to the psalm of glory
are witness to the maestro’s heart
in his creation
in his creation
in his creation
they see their part
At last the prayers rise to heaven
in union the singer and the song
from choir and fire and holy water
springs the life for which they long
splash of music, drenched in flame
many colors, none the same
flashing like a silver sword
the maestro’s hands
the maestro’s hands
the maestro’s hands
end the prayer
with one
...last
...chord
Copyright 1997-1998 Christopher K. Travis
(This poem is dedicated to James Dick,
Founder of the Festival-Institute at Round Top)
BLESS IT ALL
By Chris TravisThere’s a simple song of joy
that fear and pain
seek to destroy
a simple song, but hard to sing
for all who have felt the sting
of loss, of hate, of unrighted wrong
For those, it hurts to sing this song
but for a child, who hears it’s call
it’s easy to bless the big and small
Those for whom there was no fall
from grace find peace
in such a psalm
Such simple souls will overcome
and standing tall will bless it all
Bless it all, bless it all
They bless all creatures great and small
They bless the up and bless the down
bless the sky and bless the ground
bless the hot and bless the cold
bless the new and bless the old
bless the bottom and the top
Bless the go and bless the stop
They bless the loss
and bless the win,
They bless whatever shape they’re in
So you and I can do the same
and warm our hearts on blessing’s flame
If we bless the gutter
and bless the star,
bless it all where e’er we are
Bless the bad and bless the good
Bless the lost and misunderstood
Bless the right and bless the wrong
bless the weak and bless the strong
Bless the best and bless the worst
the worst perhaps
we should bless first
For blessings will remove the curse
that fear and pain bring to the land
If blessings can’t then nothing can
for when you bless
the least small thing
throughout the world
your blessing rings
and by your blessing
you are blessed
When you are blessed
so are the rest
So listen to the children sing
from their perfect voices spring
blessings for the setting sun
whose blessing shines on everyone
and as they watch
the darkness fall
they touch the world
and bless it all
bless it all
bless it all
Copyright 1997-1998 Christopher K. Travis
More Chris Travis poetry here.
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