Whatever You Do, Don't Let the Muse Pull the Wool over Your Eyes

Some things are better left unsaid—you know 
The dark ones that keep on coming back, 
Dragging her white-washed tales behind them. 

Composition

If the full moon were 

A poem, could anyone wait 
Another month for it 

To become marble again? 

Snow Job

Let go an avalanche 
Of words and people 
Who should know better think 
You’re a whirl-wind descending Parnassus— 

As soon as you 
Watch your white spaces, 
Right off they rightly sense 
A lull in the storm but 

Draw a blank as to why 
They’re still buried under sheets. 

Of Being Struck Dead

Corazon, lovesick old dog 
On your last legs, 
If only you could talk, 
You would tell us 
Whether the heart 
Shot through in youth 
By that piercing, fatal
Arrow still quivers
At the thought.

Capital Punishment

The Capital River’s burst 
Its banks, its topsy-turvy 
Tributaries overflowing 

Towards high ground, 
Headed for the safety 
Of the safe-deposit boxes 

Buried underground. 

Last Strand (Remembering Rachel Carson)

Let it be duly noted
In the margins—

On every grain of sand,
The edge of the sea

Remains elusive
And indefinable,

A boundary whose limits
We could not plumb.

The Miraculous Lemon Tree

Almost within reach, there 
Outside the window, 
The lemons hang 
In ones, twos and threes— 

Many an old demotic song 
Likens the twos to 
A maiden’s breasts— 
Firm, fragrant, rejuvenating. 

I bet even a dull old poet, 
Reeking of death, 
Could fall asleep here 
And wake up smelling 

Like a rose. 

Mythical Flocks of Polyphemus

Of this land, strangely naïf 

Bigger than life shepherd’s 
So far away yet so near 

Next to cyclopean walls 
Stony grey and white 

Sheep perambulating on 
Flank of olive covered hill 

No wonder all seems 
Incongruous, innocent— 

No man’s lie ends here. 

Elation

A high bluff overlooking the sea; 
You ring the bell of a solitary 

Whitewashed chapel, the blue sky swells 
With undulating tintinnabulations, 

The earth moves imperceptibly 
Under your feet. 

Invocation

Muse, don’t play with me— 
I don’t have the time 

To deal with matters 
Of the sublime— 

Just jack me off 
And get it over with. 

Found Poem: Le Mal du Pays

Dear Mr. Porchia, 

I found a copy of your Voices at the goodwill outlet 
Ready for the trash bin and rescued it 
Because it was bold enough 
To feature one of my favorite 
Magritte paintings as its cover— 
You know, the one with a man leaning 
On the edge of a bridge, looking 
At the water, with a lion behind him 
Looking the other way — 
Before then, I did not know 
Poetry could be one or two lines alone. 

I think I’ll keep it. 

Epiphany

We closed our eyes

And then the heavens 
Opened and we heard 
That unmistakable sound 

Of rain arriving hard on the wings 
Of an insistent wind, 
Our eyelids softly fluttering. 


NB: First appearance here one year ago, January 6, 2012.

  

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Keeping One's Word

My gray-haired mentor used to urge me 
When you write, write one word at a time 
But keep it under your hat, boy! 
I was a tyro and thought it strange advice 
Indeed but kept my word out of respect, 
Which is why years later I have so many 
Of his bloody little louses sucking 
My gray matter dry. 

Moderator's comments: I suspect the inspiration for this "poem" is fragment 92 of Heraclitus, to wit:

All men are equally mystified by unaccountable evidence, even Homer, wisest of the Greeks. He was mystified by children catching lice. He heard them say, What we have found and caught we throw away, what we have not found and caught we still have. 

(translated by Guy Davenport)

Crystal

Huzzah! 

Such dazzling lithesomeness 
To be taken in slow 

Sips from a long-stemmed glass! 

New Year's Resolution

One more last day of the year— 

Remember the last time 
You heard its calling 
And vowed the next time 
Would be the last time 

You did not adhere.