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"The Air Poets Play out the swiftest gales And sometimes loll in the eddies." -- Gary Snyder
Air Base, Iceland, 1965
The reek of drying fish along the gravel road to Keflavik Those chilly June days. The tipsy evenings, nerve kept on a taut leash, Behind curtains drawn against the unrelenting light. We taped our measurements with fumbling hands, For Hong Kong tailoring, then said good-night. The jagged hills nicked the gazing eye. Mornings, my body steamed in a sauna, alone. A few weeks of this and I flew south forever, Who'd not risked a kiss, and no one waved.© Carl Selph, 2001A Clear Day in MexicoNothing at all has been clear today except the sky, if you want to ignore those clouds like big gobs of shaving cream; and, of course, the water coming up hot, strained through the opaque earth-- you can certainly see to the bottom of that! Funny, looking at this water, I remember drinking tap-water in Reykjavik years ago-- so pure it confused the tongue and throat and gave me the sensation I was drinking air, it seemed so endless and insubstantial, too clean and too perfectly cool to sate my thirst. As a matter of fact, the air I'm breathing right now goes down exactly like that thin Icelandic water.© Carl Selph, 2001TargetsE.T.C.Happily met, in the ordinary way, by intent And fortunate, directed accident, Two straightshooters who'd always missed Now find they have been seriously kissed Dead center and must reckon with their wounded state And raise a shield against all other late- Arriving feathered darts-- Attracted to their unaccustomed tender parts.© Carl Selph, 2001I, born with just one leg, Now walk and run on two. I never learned to dance, But I can dance with you. When we are lip to lip our foreign tongues translate to one blent language and express simplicities of love neither alone could phrase with such linguistic perfectness. I never learned to dance, But I can dance with you. I, born with just one leg, Now walk and run on two.© Carl Selph, 2001Prayer on the Death of a Lady of Perfect Taste
A lady of great style and wit, After a fever and a fit, Still punctual though, sadly, late, Is floating up to Heaven's gate. Her mind was keen, her body thin, Her soul free of aesthetic sin; No matter what the color-rage, Her refuge and defense was beige. With excess others lived and died; Good taste was her unerring guide. For all that soigné was and smart Beat her impeccable, trim heart. Grant that she enter Peter's fold. Let her "antique" the streets of gold, "Edit" the pearls and amethyst, Warehouse the gates (they won't be missed), Re-costume God's angelic hordes, Dim halos, douse all flaming swords, Enshrining there for all to see Bon goût, her chief morality.© Carl Selph, 2001All text on this page is copyrighted by Carl Selph and appears here by permission. All rights reserved. It may not be archived beyond one personal electronic copy for offline reading; such a copy must include the entire text of the present notice and the author's name. It may not be printed, posted on a web-site, distributed publicly or privately, used or quoted in whole or in part, or published in any manner or form whatsoever without the author's explicit permission. E-mail Wordreign to contact Carl Selph and your request will be promptly forwarded.
Carl Selph Poetry Index Original Writing Page Images from Myst © 1993 Cyan, Inc. and Riven © 1997 Cyan, Inc. All rights reserved. Myst® and Riven® are registered trademarks of Cyan, Inc. Used by permission.