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.