Selected Poems from Four and a Half Years as a Student at Hampshire College in Amherst, Massachusetts by Peter Christopher 1992-1996

The Only Way to Save Yourself Is To Leave Yourself Behind

When I was a little boy I was always right     G C
Would always be that way, I could see          D7 G
If anyone or anything didn't fit quite right   G C
It was them or it was wrong, not me.           D7 G

I had my first girlfriend, and guess what I found.
I found lots of things that were wrong.
I told her all about them, and how she could improve.
Well, she wasn't my girlfriend for long.

Chorus:

You can bitch, you can moan, you can feel righteous too    C G
But that is a kind of living grave.                        G D7
The world doesn't care whether you live alive or dead.     G CG
The only way to save yourself is to leave yourself behind. G D7 G

You can try to change the ones who aren't as you wish.
Your brothers, mothers, sons, daughters, sisters, students, lovers...
But if you love them set them free from what you want them to be.
If you love them set them free, set them free.

You can moan about the world when it isn't as it ought to be
Or change your expectations and life alive in peace.
The scientist within me finally discovered
That the first never works, and the second always does.

Chorus.

Skeleton House

Skeleton House
(where life appears and disappears)-
I arrive around 730 with my bag full of cherries.
Which I'd freshly picked.
Tonight's potluck night -- I'm late, but the others are later.
I hear quiet snores and assume it's Kara -- her house for the summer.
Sit down, and begin to eat my cherries. Wild ones, small with big
        pits. 
Tasty. Kara awakes briefly and tells me she ran out of propane -- I 
        get the feeling she isn't dying to see me.
Then she's snoring again; and I read a book on the
        Alexander Technique.
Around Eight, Brett arrives, breaking up my quiet moment,
His arrival almost defining the silence that had been.
The overgrown garden -- too dark here in the woods to grow much -- 
It looks abandoned until Brett enters it, plucking flowers and eating
        leaves.
Kara tells him about her propane, and he fetches his from the next
        house, hooks it up, and washes potatoes.
Kara tells him there's some squash from her garden, and 6 avocados
        for guacamole. Lemons and garlic too.

The building's getting dark, and Kara gives me vibes I can't
        understand. She doesn't seem to want to talk or listen, but
        doesn't seem to have any complaints either. I'm confused
        and stay quiet.
"I passed Camille on the road, and she's almost here, riding bike with
        some other guy" -- Camille and Erico step in with Arizona,
        Steve close behind, with his home-made bong.
Eric"o" I know, one of those fellows whose lips are like lightning
	and he wants you to hear every word
	but there is nothing in his words to listen to.
	Because he has everybody's nervousness leaking out today.
The last light disappears as we light the candles around the table,
        and begin our worship.
The three candles here and one over the stove light the round
        building, and show Brett madly slicing as Kara stretches out
        on the floor. Meanwhile Arizona, standing on the table over us
        all, she's fully two feet tall, running here and there with Cherries,
        excited, and to Camille -- Mom -- teasing her with the cherry
        she knows Camille wants.
In the candlelight I see the climax of the poem -- Camille, with her
        hair pulled some to the side by her head-band; Arizona at her
        side, smiling too -- Camille's face, the most important and
        interesting and the only existing thing at this moment --
        a few of her clumped, dark hairs hanging down sideways -- The 
        Mother and her daughter, Life -- Camille's soft voice, 
        everything hard and harsh missing, extinguished by her sweet
        tongue. The blonde baby standing there on Her table. Life,
        Love, and everything.
Dazzled and starry-eyed, her words flow into me -- again I am only 
        fully conscious of it when she is no longer there, when they 
	have laid down on a futon at the side to sleep.  The Queens of
        Love. My queens, asleep.
My eyes searching the one-room hose. I see it also as a child of the
        next generation -- all of us inhabitants and guests gone, the
        contents of the cans on the awkwardly constructed shelves
        eaten, the best chairs missing or broke -- a wreck of a
        building. I see the skeletons around me, and myself so stoic
        -- all of us together here, yet separate -- exemplified
        perhaps best by Erico, who is separated from himself already	
        so vividly.  These human forms -- this
        Wednesday night potluck -- disappeared completely. Only this
        picture remains. I see Arizona, a young woman, walking
        through a place she once slept in as a child.

Still, there is delicious eating to be done, and Brett's effort is
        worthwhile -- we feast on the potatoes and guacamole -- and
        settle back into music, two drums, Kara's cello played by
        Steve as a bass, and I play a small recorder.
It grows quiet, and Kara requests we call it a night; Brett leads
        the scary Erico and myself back to another yurt, where we take
        off our shoes before entering, and fall asleep.
The next day I awake and ride my bike to Jenny's, remembering
        the quiet and desolate Wednseday yet beautiful; Live
        through Camille and Arizona, and the sudden return to the
        Skeleton House.  No two weeks are the same.  
	Sometmes I leave many mysteries behind.
        And my heart,
        With the still-sleeping ones, a babe and a mum.

Still Back In Your Bed With You (a waltz)

As the bus starts to pull away from your station    G C
I'm thinking of your eyes and lips                  Am G
My eyes are watching the city go by                 G  C
But my hands are still on your hips                 Am d7
The buildings fly by, so hard and so tall           G  C
I feel something inside of me race                  Am G
My eyes and my heart are soon miles apart           G  C
My heart is still back there with you               d7 G
 
Iowa's flatter than I ever imagined
Well, at least this part is, anyway
This old straight road that this bus is taking
Is driving me straight right away.
Away from your home, away from your company
your hands, legs, back, and eyes sometimes blue
The scenery lies to me now in this prairie
My mind's still in your shower with you

Five hours so far, Des Moines just one more.
And yes, you're still in my mind
Two big, long months til we meet again
Then maybe another 4 or then 9.
But tonight as I lie down in my bed
And till I see you again
My hands in my pants, my heart and my mind
Will still be in your bed with you.

untitled

are you the poet
whose words i found
crinkled and so it
sat (no sound)

hovering in computer worlds
worldly-bound but worldly-bound --
Is bound big or is bound small?
Is bound wide, and far, and broad?

Is the world a big nuf place
for your words to feel so good
or do they need a lot more space
The Universe, use it they would!

But my question for you is are you satisfied
with a world so small like yours like mine
Or must it be always growing, ever bigger, ever longer
Small pretty to your eyes? Or do limits you really despise?

Like words and poems so like lives, some are smaller and some are
        bigger
Your home is small your life is small your home is large your lives
        are thicker (?)
Do you need the worldy-bound, the trains that speed the speed of s--
        lights?
Or home's enough, suffice.

untitled

And so as I go to bed, I dream and think
Dream how it would be if I took her hand
and if she could really feel it
and how I could squeeze her fingers in mine
how she would squeeze back
        and smile
and I can't keep from smiling either
in this day when no dreams die
and a wink in sleep
        is an eyelash on a cheek
        and a whisper in an ear
when 
        a word in a notebook
        is ultimate communication
        a wish is all magic takes
        and fear is just a rumor
        like dreams ought to be
It's like the Christmas mornings you always remember
        endless presents to solve all the years' bored cries
        and all the other mornings
        we wish we still had coming
        in their great objectivist feeling-logic
Dreams in all their Huckleberry Finn laughing crying clarity
Like the one where Georg raced me, he on his bushwhacking skis
        through the woods as I on my super-racing machine on the road
        and beat me
        without even shifting down, or stopping at any of the 
        bathrooms
        along the way
And so I'll dream here
        under my glow-in-the-dark stars
        in my glow-in-the-dark room
        in our glow-in-the-dark world
        (because, you see, i have them on my ceiling)
Dream
        and tomorrow awake
        to the smell taste and feel
        of my still-maintained dream
        and have yet another chance
to roll box cars
        or perhaps
        (if the night was enlightened)
        and perhaps
        (if the sun shines just right)
        to find
        (once again and forever)
that it's not just me that dreams
and it's not just me whose dreams are
        alive
        every day
        with the sun.

t.a.

thank you so much (they say)
        so selfless
        helping us three
                woed physics women

but (i ought to say)
        for
                those who i teach
                        (teach:
                                let become)
                        today
                        tomorrow
                those who taught me
                                   everyday
                women who are (women!)!
                        (!), who i have not known
                             who i live to know
                        !, who i live to know
                "I AM REAL"