Here are ten selected poems from Stephen Bett’s book, Track This, a book of “relationship”, a sequence of poems “tracking” an evolving relationship.
Track This
I’m tracking us
On the track
Watching where we go
I’m on our case, hon
Case-load
case-worker
Working on it
All thru the days
& days
Those naked nights
without you
Those joy-filled nights
in your grasp
(& gasp
And the sweet
silence
between
A case of full loaded
bodies lined up
close
Tracks on the heart
of the land
Track this
The Gross & Fine Geography
The gross & fine geography
of our hearts
Big sweep
tight corners
I reach
for you
For you
Geographies
that desire
A Big Fat Whopper
It is too easy
this writing
it is crapolla
on the
line
It is not
alive & it
is not
hard,
does not move
anything
anywhere
at all
One hand
behind
my back
stuff
When really it
sometimes
feels
cut
off
by the wheels
Lies beside
me
a big fat
whopper
filled with
idle
shuck
& jive
Oh no,
he said
What else
would
he say
that
whopper
Pressing Hard
We exchange
everything possible—
bodily fluids (hah)
& hearts,
souls,
& the most
intimate &
pressing
dreams
I would not
exchange
myself
(if pressed
But if I could
no longer be myself
(against all my will
(in some strange world unknown
it is you
I would
wish myself
to be
(of what is known to me
That would be
hard pressed,
yet in such
a world
would be a
wonder
still, what
else
can I
say
to you
I have just
said it
The Whole Thing
We are a coastal people, there is nothing
but ocean beyond us
—Jack Spicer
I wait for you
under a tree
in the park
write this
little thing
will steal
up to me
around
its uneven
length
The other
side
lies the
ocean
we both
need
beyond
us
frames
us
holds
us
makes a
whole
each, &
together
like that
it likes
that
Love Becomes Us
It becomes a
solid fact,
becomes it
Now—
this week
this time
What you say
what you do
And it becomes
us both
We are
undone
And put
together
again
Anew
(that word)
it becomes
us
Cupped Hands
Whose turn is it
— up for grabs
Get it then, all that
hi-fuel get out
I’ll be here
Waiting for the
flag to drop
The air whoosh
about your face
cupped
in my
hands
I drink
you in
(again)
My face
cupped
too
Like gestalt
hands,
your finger also
in my
mouth
Teach me, pls, to
speak the way
I would
Three Day Trek
Three days later I don’t
know how to speak, what
to say
This is fraught, I said
sorry it wasn’t
taken on board
I don’t know where
this map points,
don’t know what
you’ve done beside
me on the coach
(One cannot “coach” this
off the line
Was it round trip
I meant to say
But a one track loop
slides off the rails
I said May Day
May Day
though it is mid-
June & no-one
answers
Take the Measure
Maybe we’re all
damaged people,
huh?
And carry, not the
ghosts of cliché,
but chaos deep
within us
Take the measure—
my chaos means
to hold you
Vortex of fast rivets
hammered
into a brace
of steel
Brace is two,
remember
The measure
is also
Russian Oirish, Hail Grace
You are like the Russian
(a language you some-
what speak) …the Russian
stacking dolls
Outer— varnished a
kind & thought-
ful ayre
Inside— poised, full of
grace, oh my god
so, it’s also
in your
face
Innermost— such pathway
moves still warmer there,
its secrets shed
all over mine
own heart
Amaze me each time
anew, Oirish woman,
never held the shape
of you, nor
beheld
(my grace)
I say grace &
you appear over
& over deep
within your
stunning
face
Lovely pure figūra,
knock me out
topmost
shelf,
while I
fall be-
low
your
spell