Henri Cole Poems
|2.||Hand Grenade Bag||6/16/2016|
|5.||Cherry Blossom Storm||6/16/2016|
|7.||Oil & Steel||6/16/2016|
|12.||Gravity and Center||6/16/2016|
|14.||Myself with Cats||6/16/2016|
|17.||Saint Stephen's Day with the Griffins||6/16/2016|
|18.||Self-portrait in a Gold Kimono||6/16/2016|
Hand Grenade Bag
This well-used little bag is just the right size
to carry a copy of the Psalms. Its plain-woven
flowers and helicopter share the sky with bombs
falling like turnips—he who makes light of other
men will be killed by a turnip. A bachelor,
I wear it across my shoulder—it's easier to be
a bachelor all my life than a widow for a day.
On the bag's face, two black shapes appear
to be crows—be guided by the crow and you
will come to a body—though they are
military aircraft. A man who needs fire
will soon enough hold it in his...
Waking from comalike sleep, I saw the poppies,
with their limp necks and unregimented beauty.
Pause, I thought, say something true: It was night,
I wanted to kiss your lips, which remained supple,
but all the water in them had been replaced
with embalming compound. So I was angry.
I loved the poppies, with their wide-open faces,
how they carried themselves, beckoning to me
instead of pushing away. The way in and the way out