In a Suburb of the Spirit (Homophonic Series)

I've mentioned this series of poems before. It's three poems from my sonnet book Nervous Songs, published 1986, followed by four homophonic translations of the same. Homophonic translation is English to English translation to other words and phrases similar in sound to the original. Here I present only one of the series.

In a Suburb of the Spirit

1
Everything has happened. Nothing is quite new.
Summer is so old it wrinkles at the edges.
Nothing is surprising. Nothing should alarm.
It’s the same old rain over and over.
The sun is old, and the light is so decrepit
it lies flat on the ground and can't get up again.
Even your anger is old. It’s large or small,
but all of your life it’s been the same. Then

everything is new. Nothing ever ages. There
was no wind until just now, no glacier until you
thought of it. Fish change every second. Every glance
makes a new landscape, and the sea has a stiff new shine
as it moves around on crutches. Clouds are shaped
like typewriters. Things amaze. Nothing dies.

2
The very inch is a gap-end. Nothing is quite true.
Summer is so cold it buckles and fledges.
Nothing’s enterprising. Nothing good swarms.
It’s the same old game, cover to cover.
A hand is gold, and the blight is so electric
it lies flat as a hound and can’t get it up again.
Even your anger is moldy in a barge or mall.
Bunt all your life—shit’s been the same. Blend

every inch, it’s true: nothing never rages. Harry
washes no windows until just now, no glaziers under glue.
Dock off it. Fish change every session. The very glance
shakes the blue land’s shape; the lea’s a stiff blue line.
Such proofs are not hunches. Clouds are shaped
like bike riders. Das Ding’s ablaze. Nothing flies.

3
Everything is a mapping. No mapping in life’s view.
Summer is so cold it drinks from our ledges.
Nothing is surpassing. Nothing should conform.
It’s the same cold rain that covers like a lover.
The gun is sold, and the night is given credit.
Shit lies flat on the ground and cants back up again.
Even our strangers grow cold. It’s Marge or Paul.
But tall as your life it’s been the same. Then

everything is true. Nothing ever fades. There
was no ink until just now, no eraser until truth
doubted it. A leash hangs every second. Every hand
wants a good handshake, and the sea has a stiff tune’s cry
as it grooves on down and fusses. The proud are shaped
like typed letters. Lingering amazement. Nothing hides.

4
Every sin is sharp. Not every sin’s quite you.
Some are so bold they rankle at the pledging.
No sin is surprising. No sin, if good, can harm.
Sin’s the same old game, forever like a river.
The sun is gold, and its flight is so perfected
it buys back the ground and can’t get wet again.
Even the danger is old. It’s marginal or all,
but all your life it’s been no gain. Sin’s

very sting is new. No sin ever ages. There
was no sin until just now, no engagement if you
shouted it. Bliss changes every stone. Air and sand
create chance states, and the knee has a lively shine
that loves the ground it touches. The proud are shaped
like tightrope walkers. Things are crazy. Something dies.

5
Air and singing wraps us. No singing is quite pure.
Some are so low they sink at the pledging.
No singing is surprising. Not singing good alarms.
The same cold rain falls over and over.
The stunned are cold, and their plight so expected
it lies back like a sound and can’t erupt again.
Even our language is old. It’s dark or it’s cold,
but, small as life, it rains in Spain. Against

each singing, truth. No singing on pages. There
was no singing until the hour, no lazy air until truth’s
caught in it. A wish sings every second. Every mansion
breaks a loose handshake, and steel has the gift of shining
as it moves around in a funk. The bound are taped
to the skylights. Sing unfazed. No singing signs.

We've Decided (Homophonic Series)

[The poem "We've decided" was published in Nervous Songs, 1986. Fifteen years later I wrote four homophonic translations of the work; likewise, of two other poems in the book.] Photo by Philip Hoover.

Original

I can be myself today, tall space ape
in a garden where other space apes play.
What a nice time this will be! and I
can roll on the sides of my balled feet
like a hairy barrel loaded, swinging arms
that scratch the ground like leaves. I’m
an ape today, headed for my pulpit of joy
in sunshine by the window. Daughter laughs.

That’s good. We can hear her mother dressing:
conspicuous absent rustle, dry nylon and hair.
Oh, lord of the spinal cord, what stone
repose do I feel when high heels spike
the spilled roast beef? I do not play
no rock and roll. I am an ape today.

1

Spies can be themselves and pray, space shapes
like wardens where other space shapes pray.
What bright signs lists can be! and I
can play goalie on gliding robo-feet
like an aery feral gnosis, thinking of alms
that match the sound of waves. I'm
a shape that prays, shedding all culpable joys
in an undying window. Laughter laughs.

That’s new. We can fear its other lessons:
continuous absent hustle, tight nylons and tears.
Ode bored with final form, what bone
composure do I feel when ideals strike
the still moist leaf? I do not spray
no phlox with oil. I am a shape today.

2

I can see the shelf OK, call space a grape
in jargon since tender fresh grapes change.
What a crime scene this will be! and I
can roll on my bowling ball feet
like a scary bear exploded, singing of charms
that catch the sound of the sea. I’m
a grape, OK, headed for my gulp of joy
in an unshining window. Laughter gasps.

What’s food? We can bear our brother fressing:
despicable absent bustle, cry of lions and bears.
Oh, lord of the penal code, what stoned
exposure do I feel when the spine feels like
chilled ice tea? Nor do I ever say
no lox and bagels. I am a grape, OK?

3

The eye can be itself today, space tape
in a garden where other space tapes play.
What a fine slime this will be! An eye
call roll on the side of its raw seeing
like a tarrying arrow slowing, singing words
that flinch like ounce and please. The eye is
itself today, shedding all its Tupelo joy
in gun-shine at the window. Daughter’s black

in mood. She can fear the other mission:
continuous ashen tussle of high pylons and air.
Restored like the final chord, what tonal
closure do I feel when spiked tea kills
a thrilled ghost cleanly? The eye won’t pay
the landscape’s toll. The eye is space today.

4

The shy can be themselves today—pace and gape
in a dungeon where others gape and pace.
What a fine shyness this will be! and shyness
can stroll the length of its long street
like a hairy chairman bloated, singing harms
that smash the proud like fleas. The shy
have faith today, headed for their populist joy
in the blind sign of a window. Father brags,

“I'm stewed.” He can hear grandmother’s lessons:
ubiquitous passion, dust, fine dye jobs, and prayer.
Torn like the final word, what prone
disposal do I seek when high steel strikes
a West Coast priest? The shy don’t play
with no damned fool. The shy are afraid today.