The First And Last Time I Knew I Wanted To Be A Poet

 “At ease disease, there’s a fungus among us.” 

---childhood taunt of the 1950s in the USA

 

 

It must have been when I was still—

As they say—wet behind the ears and thought

 

It was something I could do every day

And still look at myself

 

In the mirror without turning away, how

Could I know then

 

What I sense at last is true now?

Poetry remains

 

A lingering disease

That once takes root

 

In the budding brain,

Never knows well

 

Enough to stop sprouting

Wings and dares

 

Fly away.

 

 

Grave Autumn Harbinger

After the cleansing 
Downpour, the dust- 

Free last glistening 
Raindrop left trembling 

On the leaf at the end 
Of the branch 

That will not break hesitates, 
Yet remains unwavering 

In the anticipation 
Of something clearly 

Momentous waiting 
To happen so that it can 

Let go and return—wasted?— 
To dust once more. 

Archilochos, Fragment 113, trans by Guy Davenport

 

B(l)ackwash Flash

A deus ex machina   

Out of the clear

Blue skies, a murder

 

Of Herculean proportions

Of Parnassian poison

Penned crows freed

 

Helter-skelter to rescue

A cooped up slew of most

Foully maligned ruffled brooding

 

Birds of a feather

In one darned swell poetic

Swoop together!

 

Unspeakable Progeny

Standing in awe 
Before the naked, 

Silent figures we wonder what 
The ancient artists possessed 

That clothed these statues in 
This transfixing transcendent 

Light which slowly diffused it- 
Self to posterity, 

And yet how it is we 
Ended up straightaway 

Blind, deaf, and yes— 
Dare we utter it?—so 

Stupendously, 
Spellbindingly 

Dumb. 

After Archilochos: Ball-buster

[    ] of that

[    ] [    ] [    ] she

[    ] gave so

[

[

[

[    ] [    ]

[ willingly [then?]

[

[

[    ] [    ] left

[

[

[    ] [    ] me

[

[

[

[ lame?] [    ] a limp

[

[

[    ] [    ] shaft I would

[    ] give my [right?]

[    ] [   ] [    ]

[    ] nut to get

[    ] [    ] [    ] [    ] [    ] it straight

[a way?] back

[

[

[

[    ]  [    ] a [gain?]

Minimalists' Major Plight

Where we retire to 
At night speaks volumes 
Of why 

We write small 
Poems constantly 
In search of all 

Encompassing light.

X Marks The Spot, Debaucher

Somewhere near the whereabouts 
Of the last poem 
You ravished and abandoned 
For lack of a moral compass, 
You’re sure to come across the future 
Ruins of the next one, marked 
By a small white bloody sheet 
Begging you to be oh so gentle 
This time around. 

Fait Accompli

We know all too well now 
Our precious words were 
Never really ours, no more 

Than our children were, who 
Have dutifully stolen away 
And taken what remains 

Of our past youth with them, 
While we were looking 
The other way.

Cartesian Livelihood

Trying hard 

To write 
As if 

Your life depends 
On finding 

Just the right 
Word every time 

You think you are 
Going to lose it. 

Aura Obscura

To sense the poet all

Alone and still

Around him reverberating,

A void resembling nothing

 

At odds with his ends.

Classic Tragicomical Pretext

The deus ex machina 
Driving the next 

Poem you are breathlessly 
Anticipating is waiting 

In the wings disguised 
As a winged Trojan beating 

A dead and falling horse. 

Refracted Heraclitean Song

Bend 

In the stream, the 
Dubious 

Reflection of that 
Ambivalent face swaying this 

Way and that, the beckoning
Reeds stuck in mud.

Grasping Aspirant Prestidigitation

Would that the poem suddenly 
Materialize before 

Our wondering eyes 
In its entirety so 

That we could verily 
Consume it whole, now 

. 


That would be real 
Magic working

My wannabe, 
Gullible friends. 

Oxymoronic

When 

The poem 
At last 

Arrives, you will 
Know by the deafening 

Silence it leaves 
Behind, you were never 

Here to begin with. 

Evensong In The Air

a 
round 
twi- 

light a descending 
heavy scent 
of night 

flowers 

an ascendant night 
bird’s calling 

a duet 
heaven 
sent.

Ad Infinitum In The Wide Open Spaces

Buckaroos, buck up— 

Just when 
The ditty tends 

To end, it ends up 
With plenty more 

Bloody spaces
To begin again. 

Epicurean Sardine Tin Haiku For Two Malnourished Greek Children, The Peloponnese, 1945

Dish par excellence? 
These starved tatterdemalions 
Can’t tell the difference. 

Full Material Disclosure Of An Artful Dodger

This cannot be stated strongly 
Enough or too often: 

I have a real dislike 
For things of no
Consequence and how
They are woven

Into the fabric 
Of our day-to-day 
Existence so artlessly 
We hardly notice 

We are nothing 
Save empty shirts 
With no pockets. 

Eulogy For A Poet Who Didn't Have Much To Say But

Who kept at it wholly 
Day and night 

Digging up all those bright,
Light little gems here 

And now when 
Others half- 

Heartedly shoveled 
Wheelbarrows 

Of heavy black 
Holes whole 

Light years away.