Cups: 8

By Robin Blaser 1925–2009 Robin Blaser

There is no saluation. The

harvesters with gunny sacks

bend picking up jade stones.

(Sure that Amor would appear

in sleep. Director. Guide.)

Secret borrowings fit into their hands.

Cold on the tongue.

White flecks on the water.

These jade pebbles are true green

when wet.

On the seventh night, the branches parted.

The other replied,

How photographic. Amor doesn’t appear

on demand. He’s more like a snake skin.

If he fits, he lets you in

or sheds your body against the rocks.

I slept in a fort.

My bed pushed up against the log

enclosure. At 3:00 his ankles pressed

against each side of my head.

When I woke crying for help

he rose near the kitchen door

dressed as a hunter.

The other replied,

Amor born like a cup trembles

at the lip. Superstitions fit

into your hands.

Thou has returned to thy house.

The other replied,

Torn loose from the eaves,

the blood trembles at the lips.

Nine fetters on they feet

Nine crossings of the street

Nine suppers where they meet

Nine words of loss repeat

this and that

Nine hunters cross the field

Nine lovers yield

their right of way

Two came fighting out of the dark.

Source: The Holy Forest: Collected Poems of Robin Blaser. (University of California Press, 2006)

Biography

Born in Denver and raised in Twin Falls, Idaho, poet, editor, and essayist Robin Blaser was educated at the University of California-Berkeley. With poets Robert Duncan and Jack Spicer, he helped spark the Berkeley Poetry Renaissance in the 1940s that preceded the San Francisco poetry renaissance of the 1950s and 1960s. In 1965, Blaser met Robert Creeley and Charles Olson, with whom he later worked closely. Miriam Nichols, editor . . .

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