Poetry: Eye on the Scarecrow by Nathaniel Mackey

Eye on the Scarecrow
by Nathaniel Mackay

—“mu” twentieth part—

The way we lay
  we mimed a body
   of water. It was
this or that way
         the dead and we
       were them. No
     worried which...
       Millet beer made
 our legs go weak,
  our tongues. “The dead,”
       said, “are drowning
    of thirst,” gruff
     summons we muttered
  out loud in our
    It was a journey we
 were on, drawn-out
  scrawl we made a road
of, long huthereed hajj
    were on. Raw strip
   of cloth we now rode,
      wishful, letterless
        the ride we thumbed...
    Harp-headed ghost whose
      head we plucked incessantly.
 Bartered star.       Tethered
   It was a ride we knew we’d
 wish to return to. Every-
     thing was everything,
nothing no less. No less
   arrived or ancestral, of
     late having to do with
  the naming of parts...
    Rolling hills rolled
up like a rug, raw sprawl
                                              of a
       book within a book
     without a name known as
        Namless, not to be
arrived at again...
                                   It was
   the Book of No Avail we
were in did we dare name
  it, momentary kings and
     fleet kingdom. Land fell
   away on all sides.

Lag we caught ourselves,
   run weft at last
 adequate, shadowless,
    left up Atet Street,
  legs tight, hill after
      hill after hill.
    Had it been a book Book
 of Opening the Book it
    would’ve been called,
under lock and key...
   arrest. Ra was on the
 It was after the end of
the world... To lie on
     our backs looking
   into the dark was all
      there was worth
  each the aroused eye
one another sought,
     swore he or she
   we lay where love’s
 pharaonic torso lay
     deepest, wide-eyed
night without sleep...
   our heads with straw,” we
  said, half-skulls tied with
     catgut, strummed...
    our strummed heads, memory
made us itch. Walked out
  weightless, air what eye

               Someone said Rome,
      someone said destory it.
Atlantis, a third shouted
    Low ride among ruins
 notwithstanding we flew.
  Swam, if often seemed,
underwater, oddly immersed,
        long since bid goodbye,
   lay in wait, remote muses
      kept us afloat. Something
 called pursuit had us by
    the nose. Wafted ether
low, tilted floor, splintered
       feet. Throated bone...
   Rickety boat we rode...
     though what we wanted
  was to be everywhere at
an altered life lived on an
       coast we’d lay washed up
         on, instancy and elsewhere


Popular posts from this blog

Music Review: Freedom by Pharrell Williams

Analysis of William Butler Yeats' Crazy Jane Talks with the Bishop

An Analysis of John Clare's I Am!