In Lieu of "Three Red Pigeons"

XXIV 

Here end the works of the sea, the works of love. 

Those who will some day live here where we end— 

should the blood happen to blacken in their memory and overflow— 

let them not forget us, the weak souls among the asphodels, 

let them turn towards Erebus the heads of the victims: 

We who had nothing will teach them peace. 

—George Seferis, from Mythistorema (My translation) 

(Music by Ilias Andriopoulos, sung by the late, great Nikos Xylouris)

Mythistorema

Though no past shall ever be 

Perfect, we thought we knew 

Enough about it to keep us hopeful, 

Unraveling its myriad rules, ever mindful 

Of how we were told not 

To look upon ourselves 

As exceptions, lest the sovereign sun melt 

Our golden rule. 

That’s a Tough One: The Muse Strikes Again

Where do poems come from? 

I’m not sure, 

But now that I think of it, 

Your question reminds me 

Of the time when I first asked 

Mom where babies come from 

And she said they just popped out 

Of women’s kneecaps. 

Myrtle Vinca Minor under Cross-examination

Sure, you keep repeating 

You’re not trans-gender, 

But what’s that coy chick doing hiding 

In your shrubbery 

Feeding on your seeds? 

Surreal Sleepwalker

Out of deep sleep

And rising ever so

 

Slowly and completely

Mesmerized, I see what must be 

A green cheese moon adrift and waxing

 

The blue ocean floor at my feet. 

 

 

 

 

Logorrhea

You run off at the mouth
Whenever you say whatever
You say is what you have
To say and nothing’s going stop you.

Okay, logo-masochist, have it your way but
What’re you going to say when you’re sinking
In deep shit and nobody’s going to stop you?

Ornithologists' Organic Breakfast

—for Ans and Peter 

gingerly nibbling, small feathered 

friend preening on 

a 

thin 

seedy 

stalk 

of 

sweet 

smelling 

wild 

fennel— 

early birds, 

feast your eyes

for what we have 

here is a natural, 

a real honest-to-goodness 

con 

nois 

sir. 

Last of the Adobe Kings

 

On my way, I pass by

The remnants of another day—

His weathered visage

On the knoll—I see 

He sees me not,

Nor does he look away.

Opportunity Is A Window Onto the World

The sea, the sea, who will be able to drain it dry? 
—George Seferis, from “Mythistorema” 

In this small house 
On the bluff that is being 
Inexorably eaten away,

 
In front of the large bay window
Letting in the light, 
Pray your eyes take in

 
As much as they can 
Before running out 

And down to the strand, 

 

Your hands cupped 
Round your ears so you can hear clearly 
The world’s beckoning, inexhaustible

Song.

Egocentric

On a world that turns round itself only 

Once a day, what on earth are you doing 

Turning round your self twenty-four hours a day? 

Dead End

Poem after poem after poem
Made up of one sentence—
I’m climbing up the wall.

Mnemonic: A Memento of Forgotten White House History

Can’t remember that mouth piece right 

On the tip of the tongue? 

Forget the sax, man— 

Try playing with, um,   

Harmonica!

 

This is the Color of My Dreams

(title of a painting by Miro)

I don’t paint but I know enough 

About colors to dream about them 

Painting my dreams. 

Glutted Market

The last thing we need is still 

Another poem offering 

All it has to give us 

All we need. 

Socrates the Athenian

…somewhere round about here where we’re groping— 

a little nearer or a little farther

 —George Seferis, from “Mythistorema” 

Surely 

That deviant worm’s left 

Further damning evidence 

Of our advances, let us dig 

A little deeper. 

Outline of Abstract Expressionism

• Freely created 

• Purely American

• Concrete prison

• Full of subterfuge

• Profusely colored 

• White lies

The Naked Truth

Meaning I suppose you need 

No patching up when 

It starts 

Wearing you thin. 

Hold On

Stop me if I’ve told you this before— 

Whatever you do, don’t do it 

In the spirit of one sentenced 

To listen to friends pretending

He’s interested though we know 

The minute they start talking, 

He’s miles out the door. 

On the Road

On top of blighted cypress, old crow appears 

To grow larger over centuries; 

Small figures walking by disappear 

In a minute, year after year. 

To a Friend, Unhappy with Herself

If I were you, I’d think twice about being 

Something other than you are. 

Unhappy with your present lot, 

You might be thinking of being 

A perennial flower or even a queen bee, 

Or something even more farfetched, 

Whatever that may be. 

But let’s get serious— 

We know all that’s impossible. 

So why not be yourself 

And make everything possible. 

A Plague on You, Shylock

Wishful thinking Rosy 
Rat gut package twine of course
There’s no such thing but 
Metaphorically speaking if
Bill hadn’t let the cat out of the bag 
Back in the Globe we could all be
Tying rings round parcels 
Of fat cat operators

With no strings attached, 
Sending them all packing.

Visionary

What is it with you? 

You want everything under the heavens

Even when nothing’s in view. 

Vitriol: The Plutocrat's Payback

My dearest Lady Jane, 

We know it’s a shame and rotten 
But really, there’s no need to explain the obvious 

Farewell of your well-off infamous snotty 

Obnoxious proboscis—you see, we’ve heard 

Rumors of a vicious tumor and it’s plain

As that snippet of a snub gracing your face, 

Making you now look so innocuous. 

But still we wonder 

Is this really you? If you could 

Just give us a clue, pretty 

Please with sugar on it— 

For old times’ sake, 

Before you depart 

Give us your best parting shot— 

No need for formalities, dearie 

Dispense with the snot.

One Possible Remedy for What Ails Us

Invigorating 

Scent of wild spear-

Mint meant to pierce 

The heart of all 

That has turned 

Tamed and docile 

And has stopped 

Making sense.

Mirror on Wall Street

Go on— 

Satisfy the mob 

Mentality, keep good 

Looking at yourself 

Through a glass 

Eye darkly. 

Evening, towards Night

In this mean neighborhood, 

Under the light cast by 

The streetlight opposite 

The derelict house, a lone 

White horse shining, a lamp 

In a vacant lot.