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big winds, glass mornings,
shadows cast by stars: Poems 1972 – 1980

1981, Jazz Press, New York, NY. 84 pages.

1984, 2nd Printing, Jazz Press.

1988, 3rd Printing, Brown Bear Reprints, Santa Cruz, CA.

Big Winds, Glass Mornings, Shadows Cast by Stars is a collection of miscellaneous personal lyrics written in various styles since the publication of Where the Oceans Cover Us.


Critical Comments:

"His is a special empathy. He is the poet of the simple gesture as that gesture evokes metaphysical meanings . . . (He) proffers a special communion of bread and poems—touching of an organic, elemental sort . . . Our cupped hands (souls) need more poems like his."  — Robert Peters, Kayak


"Marcus is related to Rilke, Seferis, Lorca, Pasternak, Blaga, Max Jacob, Lamantia, and a few others . . . He is the kind of priest poet who, like Peguy or Jacob, gets to the light by tearing up the universe in ecstatic dance." — Andrei Codrescu, Shocks


Poems from Big Winds, Glass Mornings, Shadows Cast by Stars



You may believe

that inside a tree

there are many voices

discussing directions,

but I say

there is silence

inside a tree,

and no matter

how loud you call

no one will answer.


And you may think

the leaves gossip,

but I tell you

they are solitary hands

unable to applaud the wind.


No, there are no sounds

inside a tree,

a tree does its work in silence;

it is a tall solitude

we all must come to.


Only the processions

swimming toward it are noisy—

slamming gongs,


shimmering into small pools near stones.

The earth is full of such noises,

of those on their journey

to the tree.





He is the bird

whose wings are always rising,

only to be held down

by the gravity of our clothes.



When we rip our coats from his shoulders

and he is suddenly naked,


spinning in the light,

he emits a small song,

a chiming cheep,

but only when he and another nude bird




For us

he dangles all day

over a precipice

by grasping a plank

with his beak.

When he has fallen,

do you lift him




Realize this:

his shape is our skeletal design.

When we load our jackets on his back,

so we can shower,


enter the lives of our lovers,

then we

are naked,


ready to fly.




I am three or four people:


the man ripping the upholstery,

slugging sofa and desk

in the study downstairs;


the woman lifting belly and back

as she opens her legs to the dark

in the upstairs' bedroom;


and the one in overcoat and hat

who stands in the rain outside

watching the house.


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