Recording of “Mountains in Montana” #1
recited by Sean Farragher
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Mountains in Montana #1
5:45 AM August 11, 2007
The curves of every hill
change my scale of what
can be realized.
I climb to the past
and the rocks beneath
the waves are not lost.
They bend as granite
flows with rivers home.
Carried there by motion
of water fall ocean wave
my sand grains round
with each deposition.
I was raised on the Palisades
between New York and New Jersey
Edgewater was my crisp ocean
blurred by the red ozone night
fall when the cold air dried
ice ponds into thin crackling
skin that I wore in that winter.
I expect swollen hills in Montana
but the scale of Mountains drives
my peace into another falling
cliff caught under the heights
where summer blueberries grow
and we hike as children for horizon
will be done. Thy will be done.
My scale in Montana is taunted.
I love it. I feel as if I can say
the word love here and accept it.
Relative space has changed my arms
and legs made them longer and
resumed where strength revives
the long walk into a dark cave
to dream again about ceremony
and the ritual that a Phoenix
sets in its fire and tongues.
We have so many languages now.
I am larger here in the morning
at 0545 AM on August 11. The
heavens are slightly lit in one
high point and dark retains
the middle and the end of eye.
Every gray hill where
wild fire looms stretches
bones and sinew into new
sculptures that are animate.
I am realized now as sun drives
its shadows away to dry forest.
I assume my whole skin
and beauty swallowed by blue.
.
.
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Recorded Cd in MP3 format of Sean Farragher
reading
"Mountains in Montana" Sections #1 to #23
can be
purchased for $13.00;
Email Sean Farragher greatriverpress@gmail.com or write:
Sean Farragher
909 W. Central Rd. #503
Missoula, Montana 59801
406-493-0599
Mountains in Montana #2 & #3
scroll down
Printed Text of Mountains in Montana
Sections 1-23
Will be supplied with Cd purchase
##
Mountains in Montana #2
6:55 AM August Nineteen 2007
“Life is a sexually transmitted disease.” -- R. D. Laing
We are the Alive in the smoke
of red log resumed wild fires.
1.
Am I that dead painted sky
that cannot shift out
of its way to prevent
wild fire and ordinary
crime set in umber clouds
made grievous by nature
in tormented sandy grey?
Love photographed fog
and fed back her story;
love made hard, drove
the rocks into change.
2. The Manitou
For Lakota, Teton Dakota, Teton Sioux
I am more Grit than sky
and I war on the beasts
of the earth to wear down
the rocks and millions
of year as tectonics win.
We will collapse and read
that flat scale to linger
when hammer strikes
open rock becomes skin.
3.
I cannot speak clearly
when the weather blasts
difficult. It’s not possessed
like dreams open starry night
for Van Gogh to keep inside
his secret book now released.
It floods mad space with order
made from his resurrection.
4.
Every word of my mountain
dries up too easy. The grass
was dead and at five minutes
before 7 AM on 19 August
the rain does not feed
cliff its proper respect.
Love might inspire calm.
Emotion turns weather red.
Rain could hold wild fire
and melt dead grass into green.
5.
Breathing strikes fewer burdens.
In that rain love breaks from simple wind
pushed low to high and if we resurrect
that morning after our bodies clasp
with erotic charms to drive our limbs
into the ripe face of the vertical cliff.
Lust was born from death as well
as that prerogative that life spurned
to keep death in separate arcades
so the bells would ring and gongs
strike when she felt her heart seize
when that moment ripens rivers
to press her body from the pattern
to drive hard into love again.
6.
Sex cures the perilous
storms from all mountains
with cliffs and nubile limbs.
It threads the smoke into
blue morning glories and
white peonies as fire fades.
##
Mountains in Montana #3
Historic Love Poem
August 24, 2007
Her smile curls on the horizon
while her face followed larger
than the moon became caught
with fire flies in August twilight.
I hold to her in magic wand.
My woman rides Montana hills
in blue, gray, tan, black and
brown frenzy. I am willing
sex toy. Tied to our bed we
swirl waves, clouds, tempest;
our eyes craft blush and come.
Please rest. She sleeps
within our ribald flanks
engorged with blond hair
fresh shaken branches
and every green grape
and orange slice crushed
in mouth with wilder kiss
and ground in stud to tease
the blood to even greater
floods and screams than
waterslide-roller-coaster.
In common light, nothing
less than wild fires shake red
horizon and please when she
races her breasts like white
clouds with rose edges fascinate
while we watch through a prism
our legs pause in stream and
cold water and its hot crust
cook our sex in tangible lust.
2
Steam covers Montana's
mountains in summer too.
Cold will come and snow
compels us to the edge
when hurricane's swirl
covered until bodies quit.
3
Daydreams march away
as we churn sex to
perfect aspects as history
of rocks as the moan
of dark sex knows only
our secrets which we keep
together bound in a ribbon.
4
Love is born in historic
poems. It's one of many
masks I fondle and
bless as you are semen
to my eggs of words.
Gender is stretched
5
I write historic poems.
Kiss my mouth with
the full sun set soon.
Our children grow
by generations.
The mountains
tremble every night
when the air freeze
and our hand snow
covered make shadows
on the walls as fright
without escape blends
into the historic mountain
fallen down again and again.
6/
in morning breakfast
with children I cook
sausage and eggs
and serve us with
single rose to lips.
(Sections #3-22 Available on CD with printed Text)
###
Mountains in Montana #23
March 16, 2008
"And thus I clothe my naked villainy
With old odd ends, stol'n forth of holy writ;
And seem a saint, when most I play the devil."
William Shakespeare
I will not break rocks
and speak false and I
begin with vigor,” she said,
and her bloom reached
its furthest point to spread
petals to crumple for weakened
love reached second to last
step beyond infinite life where
honesty pimps its own tragedy.
Landscapes roll exact from mountain
with no one to catch the infants’
storms where silica and iron oxide
painted hot breath into limonite
as god lost her holy fight with
green and lemon flowers handled
by the midwife of crystalline law
its unveiled vigor opened with
rush of lava and pressure split
within folds that will be genesis
for another hundred million years.
2.
Scream of schist and red jewels
ruby split horizon as mitosis
struck other germ to split by two --
“there is no other truth possible,”
she said again. She spoke attention
and caressed the seabird beach.
She connects to every part
of light drained from tempest
she accepted as her rigor
draw the view of mountain
and its longer lives are sculpture
drawn for theaters of the Play.
3.
Mountains fold out of flower buds
and every streak on their wet skin
paints another mountain ridge
where I step forward to spring.
There is no false birth.
Children run from seeds
to shining sea. Waves
feed gravity and its plan.
“Something grand,” she said
will challenge the birth
of leaves where conch shells
strum their change of state
while ribbons of mountains
fold into cradles as birth
opens the cervix and dilated
we are spun with mother
earth companion in the park
when the green flower spoke
my childhood name when
my grandfather held my
shoulder to steady my hand
breaking into the loam with
wild seeds borrowed from
some unknown meadow.
We set our hands in loam
and I could see what none
before knew as the lies
of truth break open god.
“I will be taught all atoms,”
Tom and Mountain spoke
at last, and my greeny
mouth opens to breathe
every journey known.
In the beginning no
one can speak lies.
Faith or its fact
has not created
its death cold shell.
For 13$ you can purchase CD in MP3 format with
Printed Text of the full poem, Mountains in Montana
Sections 1-23. Send check or money order
to Sean Farragher 909 W. Central Avenue
Missoula, MT 59801 Call 406-493-0599
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