George Moore
2 poems
**
Afghan Archaeology
A dust storm stops the bus. We pick up what we find. But hands never touch bone without a certain reflex revulsion. At least this humanness is a part of what we remember. Think of the reversals, the terminus, digits of this delicate mechanism of the hand, reaching out to grasp its future. In among the other discoveries, among slate knife, cylinder bead, basaltic hammerstones, steatite spindle whorl, obsidian bracelet pieces, were these: awls, needles, spatula, gouges, polished gaming pieces of astragali. And somewhere, somewhere back in my head, a cranium bowl. The herdsmen move across the Amu-darya as a sun’s pace, the eternal cycle that won’t lend itself to endgame, or artifact. Human bones, direful, revered, even amulets, must rest between worlds, cannot make the passage back. What I hold before my eyes, inspect for signs that might betray its purpose in some elemental past, turns to self scrutiny. What lips have touched this tibia flute of unknown date? The carvings do not betray even the generation, or failed to make their music when the road is opened again.
**
Kabul Before the War
Uncertainty is a place.
Within it,
self & deserts
are confused
calling at the windows
night and day.
The body heat
dragged through
the city,
by men sitting in doorways
smoking,
the muffled clink
of tin and copper,
carts crowded
with burnished meats,
moving slowly
between stalls of tires,
of onions
or chickpeas.
Like a child
with its first glass
sphere, the hidden
world of
future cyclones
stirring
dusty rivers,
by low
mud houses,
are recalled
against a backdrop
of brown heaven.
The changes
were coming,
daily things
yet the same,
the mystery meat
from bowls of clay.
**
return to sawbuck 3.3
**
George Moore has spent a good deal of his time traveling in Asia, South American and Europe over the last few decades, and his work reflects his interests in regions as diverse as Afghanistan, Tibet and Iceland. His poetry has appeared in The Atlantic Monthy, Poetry, North American Review, Colorado Review, and Orion, and he is a four-time nominee for a Pushcart Prize. In 2007, he was a finalist for the Richard Snyder Memorial Prize from Ashland Poetry Press, and earlier for The National Poetry Series, The Brittingham Poetry Award, and The Anhinga Poetry Prize. His most recent collections include Headhunting (Edwin Mellen, 2002), and All Night Card Game in the Back Room of Time (poetschapbooks.com, 2008). He teaches literature at the University of Colorado, Boulder.
**
Afghan Archaeology
A dust storm stops the bus. We pick up what we find. But hands never touch bone without a certain reflex revulsion. At least this humanness is a part of what we remember. Think of the reversals, the terminus, digits of this delicate mechanism of the hand, reaching out to grasp its future. In among the other discoveries, among slate knife, cylinder bead, basaltic hammerstones, steatite spindle whorl, obsidian bracelet pieces, were these: awls, needles, spatula, gouges, polished gaming pieces of astragali. And somewhere, somewhere back in my head, a cranium bowl. The herdsmen move across the Amu-darya as a sun’s pace, the eternal cycle that won’t lend itself to endgame, or artifact. Human bones, direful, revered, even amulets, must rest between worlds, cannot make the passage back. What I hold before my eyes, inspect for signs that might betray its purpose in some elemental past, turns to self scrutiny. What lips have touched this tibia flute of unknown date? The carvings do not betray even the generation, or failed to make their music when the road is opened again.
**
Kabul Before the War
Uncertainty is a place.
Within it,
self & deserts
are confused
calling at the windows
night and day.
The body heat
dragged through
the city,
by men sitting in doorways
smoking,
the muffled clink
of tin and copper,
carts crowded
with burnished meats,
moving slowly
between stalls of tires,
of onions
or chickpeas.
Like a child
with its first glass
sphere, the hidden
world of
future cyclones
stirring
dusty rivers,
by low
mud houses,
are recalled
against a backdrop
of brown heaven.
The changes
were coming,
daily things
yet the same,
the mystery meat
from bowls of clay.
**
return to sawbuck 3.3
**
George Moore has spent a good deal of his time traveling in Asia, South American and Europe over the last few decades, and his work reflects his interests in regions as diverse as Afghanistan, Tibet and Iceland. His poetry has appeared in The Atlantic Monthy, Poetry, North American Review, Colorado Review, and Orion, and he is a four-time nominee for a Pushcart Prize. In 2007, he was a finalist for the Richard Snyder Memorial Prize from Ashland Poetry Press, and earlier for The National Poetry Series, The Brittingham Poetry Award, and The Anhinga Poetry Prize. His most recent collections include Headhunting (Edwin Mellen, 2002), and All Night Card Game in the Back Room of Time (poetschapbooks.com, 2008). He teaches literature at the University of Colorado, Boulder.
Labels: 3.3, george moore
