Monday, November 20, 2006


A smattering of images and poetry, all of my own making. Enjoy.

The suicide note, as a genre, has been going downhill since Seneca
No one teaches your to write
your own death.
That is something learned alone,
through years of grappling
with words bare-handed,
until the calluses and callowness
finally wear away, leaving only
the bones,
the milky white truth
of your hands laid bare.
No one tells you how
to recognize your own death–
but you will see it from time to time,
in a mountain juniper
or an electric transformer
silhouetted against
the autumn sky.
And you will know it
as you once knew
your mother’s shape moving
towards you in the dark;
that is to say,
without knowing at all.
-AG, 2006

Iphigenia at Aulis
I step into sacrifice
like a bone-white robe,
absolved both of sentiment and sense.
I climb into the cavern
of sins not mine,
buried
by wrongs and judgements
past and passed,
an answer
to God’s clamoring
for blood.
A thousand ships set forth
for Troy,
driven not by beauty
but by death,
launched over my body
prostrate, as the sea:
known not for what it is
but for what it holds,
not what I am,
but what through me
comes to be.
-AG, 2006

Little Indiscretions
The endless cresting waves
of sodden days
are made bearable by
these little indiscretions:
a kiss on the forehead
of a love not yet a lover,
while she sleeps in the next bed;
a dozen cigarettes ground out
in a circle of bare earth widening
outside the front door;
flowers secreted
from the garden of a neighbor
who won’t miss them
(for the audacious blooms
of her heirloom
roses)
and god knows, this
last sin–
having dared
at all.
–AG, 2006

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