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At the End
Nicholas Johnson
of this Eastern course, on deck observing
the gulls reel in the old dilemma, the tarpaulin
chafed to a shine. Through the wheel, the pull of
the sea is evident as separate vignettes appear
out of cigarette smoke. How tempting to drown
in such perceptions as you reconstruct shadow and sun
to a daze among polite trees somewhere on shore.
Coming home, it is clear the real tragedy is
dreams die too easily and the difficult country
reached via the grey ice-bound river
can never be subdued. No, there are no Roman
roads here, but on the roads by the Seaport
you can feel the warm pavement give way
under your feet, giving you a sense of your own weight
and how easy it is to make an impression. Though hungry,
the longer you go without, the less you feel like it.
So we let them sleep in the lifeboat and will not
wake them for the prize of adoration, but simply continue
all the malicious lullabyes of the fair autistic weather
and those conspiracies of the tides that let you think
you can keep the course once set, that
you will not sink or rise.
~ . ~
December Solstice
Laurel Blossom
The bright log hisses in the fire.
Let us go down to the graves again.
It's the shortest day of the year, the darkest night.
The stake sprouts in the heart.
Let us go down to the graves again.
At Selborne, the yew spreads its wings against the sky.
One by one, the women are dying.
Poisoned water, poisoned air, poisoned arrows.
It's the longest night of the year.
In the churchyard, roots and bones embrace.
Even the stone heart sprouts.
The green log hisses in a living flame.
~ . ~
The Baker
Ann Cefola
In the shop with its white newlywed figurines and red tins,
rows of dinosaur-, heart- and star-shaped cookies layered in images from Escher,
the baker crafts delicate crumb cakes, shapes chocolate rosettes
and molds macaroons into confections called Sarah Bernhardts.
On the phone, his wife: That will be 21 inches. Happy Birthday? The name?
A blonde muse, she keeps his nose in sugar and his lips dusted with flour.
Before he chose the grist, he hammered rock at the Art Students League —
a sculptor — joy in each stroke. Today, he has apprentices,
Colombians who arrive when everyone else is sleeping to turn out
coffee cakes, pies and fat-free muffins he admits come from a mix. And, he jokes,
a mistress, the young woman with red lipstick and dead gaze behind the counter,
who rolls her eyes at the suggestion, always intoning, Will that be all?
His neighbor, the Frenchman, says the baguettes aren't dry enough, as the baker
pulls out powdery singles for the baby-sitter, payment for an evening out.
I want to call him bourgeois, but his processed flour litters my desk, a rolling pin
at the ready, my fingers sticky: Like him, I ignore more wonderful hungers.
It's a life, he shrugs and disappears into the kitchen, behind the one-way mirror
where he can watch customers like me, figures who come and go unrendered.
~ .
Dance in the City
Ann Cefola
When I decided to marry you, I was in the cemetery at Montparnasse. A cloudy Paris day,
the black and white faces of the dead stared at no one under plastic sheaths.
Sartre's horizontal slab lay like a clean white page while
Baudelaire's obelisk claimed a corner: Pray for us.
I knew my muscled heart would one day be locked in this granite metropolis,
with its cobblestone paths, high walls and avenues named to direct the living to the dead.
Life suddenly seemed a slow descent to stone. But you offered a way out,
guiding me to another garden where we'd push old earth up and away.
In the abbey town of Fontevraud, we lay in the medieval night, our lune de miel,
a black so complete it masked our open eyes. In a few hours,
the baker would drive past in his wagon, baguettes sticking out the back,
bread for prisoners whose release a decade earlier transformed the abbey prison to monument,
men who chose to stay, whose bodies still wore the blue uniform, their faces their crimes.
My white tulle and satin hid the crimes familiar to me. At our wedding,
the dead, close as my lace stroking the red church aisle, chanted: Lovrien's breakdown
over grandfather's affair. Great uncle's depression-era suicide. My father soon dead from drink.
All my life, I read their lives like so many required tragedies, the twists to come or avoid.
We were like that painting by Renoir, me creamy fragile in your arms, you all black poise.
Music and color blotted out their voices and we danced. Anniversary after anniversary.
I tell the dead to return to their tombs, but they won't; they want our breath, they call it inspired.
~ . ~
In Tandem
Jay Chollick
Delirious, with horns
the city is;
but these two, fused it seems
in polished gold the sunlit
nerve that is the
crisscross of a street,
as these young women stroll
through it,
and walking tawny-skinned
identical they seem
not urban
but somehow on a transverse
plain
that stretches fanwise,
flawless in its
atmosphere which to
their blank dismissive
eyes could be
Olympus leveled for
its goddesses
or savage, through an
alleyway preserving its macadam
under glass
~ . ~
Dizzying
James Doyle
The pattern keeps coming toward me, disappears
at the corners, materializes in the center, expands.
When I married, it was for infinity. My fifth
wife spins around me till she is invisible.
A line of children with the same first name
come in the front door without knocking, climb out
through all the windows at once. The empty house
closes around the next wife and me until the only space
left is the bed, the only way out of suffocation
is the future. We conceive for the first, joyous time.
Until one day I am pulled out of the years and told:
You are getting old, grow up, lie down. But
the walls can't seem to hold on to the light.
It keeps vanishing through the cracks
every day at the same time. Try again
tomorrow,I hear a voice say out loud.
If it is mine, this must be my deathbed.
I have no fear. Everything will be familiar.
Graves can't help marrying and divorcing
the next season to come along. Nothing
keeps still. I can't repeat that often enough.
Nothing rises off my flesh like a breeze.
~ . ~
a thousand towns
Paul Espel
at least
look just like this one
unremarkable
not in the news again
two-lane highways
run to dusty places
never on the map
postcards from America
where new roads tend to
parallel the old
and conversations overheard
in barbershops and cafés
sound the same
even street names
ring familiar
the usual stars convene
~ . ~
White Sale
Penny Freeland
I had been sleeping for a while, years really.
A kind of underwater hiatus, hard to awaken
phones ringing that turn into alarms
that turn into recess.
I slept right through.
But this was not my plan:
I entered with a full supply
of theme park tickets and a cleaver.
It was forceful, March-like,
only I came out unconscious, Easter dinner.
I'm up now. Maybe a touch of groggy, but
maybe a little more edge.
I almost didn't tell you the forget-me-nots we planted
died in the garden.
Now is the time, perfect present, future conditional—
I can almost be, with a dollar's worth of provisions,
and a limp to the nearest fire exit.
Don't look back. But, remember Gomorrah.
This plateau is All. Though
heavy and brooding.
It holds the spectrum: the entrance and the lesson.
Small blossoms on a large old tree.
I water, know
the end of the rainbow
is scary.
It could have been the recent dreams
that finally shook me.
Macbethian dreams where
I'm halfway through
and going back would be just as hard.
So I go on. Steep hills
where I drop downward
in the dark and know
I can't get home.
Thin ledged bridges,
me in the middle.
Oh, but it could have been the slight hint of ocean,
the drowned, relentless stars,
Orion's belt, the moon.
It could have been the Deli Bum,
the blind man with the worn violin;
I shut off my Walkman.
I know where the wind blows;
I seize it with open fingers.
I saw the sky today, open for looking.
I shopped for cumulous, shopped for cirrus.
~ . ~
Contingencies
I. Halpern
perhaps the truth depends upon a walk around the lake—Wallace Stevens
what if I were unable to try to tell about all that's transpired
during the chances taken after dark behind closed doors
or lost interest in the act of recuperation
of waking up to relate the past
with all its buzz and sweaty lies
the interference with the flight
journey to some lightless red network of dreams
that blue-black background with gold skeins
woven of the streaks of artificial illumination
or felt I needed to keep secret all
the shared experiences of love
from first embrace that quickened
all that softly followed
one after the other in a tender dance
until now where there is no urge to tell
no volition to reveal what hands
and tongue and grace of movement
could combine to insist
upon unspeakable communion?
~ .
Questions on Homer's Personal Life
I. Halpern
was he left- or righthanded?
did he adore the view of Eleusis harbor under the oracle at Delphi?
was his cirumambulation of the Parthenon interrupted by smells
of wild roses and the sweet breath of oregano?
what sandals did he prefer to his modest ankle straps?
bold Etruscan designs that were carried from Brindisi
or the scant minimalism of Jerusalem and Damascus that tie
at the calf and remain on feet in the relentless Athenian rain?
who housed that impractical bard through Mediterranean winter chill?
who rinsed his encrusted eyes and treated his agues, fevers, gout?
did he have a cat that purred as he pondered his next line?
who brought him his fish, asparagus, spinach, and ouzo?
who played lute as the hemp pipe from Egypt was passed?
who did his laundry, washed his togas, hung them to dry in the Hellenic sun?
held him at 3 AM and encouraged him to compose?
who assured and reassured him of his place in the poetics of his day?
brushed out the stray olive leaves that clung to his hoary head of hair
which marked him when crowds gathered to listen to his metered rhymes?
who wove his laurel wreath and combed his wooly tresses?
offered him cups of wine from Crete and apples from Cypress?
who conveyed their kiss from Rome?
who listened when he needed to be heard?
~ . ~
Undertow
Maureen Holm
Can it be that I shall grieve for you,
that sorrow arrives, instant and so small,
to drown us in the very current we have plied so well,
fearless of the deep,
with a sudden bubble of too mental air?
Oh blue, my love, be blue,
knowing blood flows crimson only on the shore,
while down below
the wound I drew unwittingly
in turn has torn my gill,
and it shall weep until the wet be cobalt
over your receding fin.
(Prior publ.: Salonika)
~ . ~
Fall
Richard Levine
Here is the left turn
where the road still drops
so suddenly there is nothing
between us and the far, slow
roll of mountains, but the hollow
and the waiting.
We thought we might
disappear into the aching beauty
of that vista; and we did. Didn't we?
Didn't we fall into that exquisite
embrace with nothing to hold
us up but each other?
~ . ~
Comatose
Concettina McCauley
Neither love nor tolerance
Holds me here, between seasons,
Where boredom is worn to shadow,
The blood still licking its path of habit,
The heart holding a soul by a thin string
Like a helium balloon.
My friends divide the evening times.
My mother comes clutching her stale charms,
Her crucifix, her handkerchief
Dipped in blessings, dutifully
Anointing the already laid out,
A daughter who has simply dried up.
The mind full of names of things,
Recipes, trigonometry,
Has blackened to a thick ash
Leaving the smoke of an updraft.
Shall we discuss incessantly my bad, bad luck?
Shall we each try to guess what it is
I have become, whether I will wake up
Or walk straight into the sun?
I am drowned and bathing in slow words
Which will not sound. I am
Drowned and mouthing rescues to you
Across an empty sea. Each time I speak
It only seems to steam that plate
Of glass that stands between us.
The evening train constantly swallows its own
Departure. Lights grow dim in a distant town.
~ . ~
Eyes
Samuel Menashe
Eyes have their day
Before the tongue
That slips to say
What they see at once
Without word play,
Betraying no one
Be deaf, dumb, a dunce
With cleft palate
Bereft of speech—
Open eyes possess
That wilderness
No tongue can breach
~ . ~
My Father, the River
Corey Mesler
You, waters with no feeling,
Have you regrets as you flow east?
In my heart are things I cannot express,
Does that make me different from you?
—Yuan Chen
My father, the river,
flows through the story
of my life. A small
tinkling music is heard
at times; at times
there is the roar of wild
white water. Into those
rapids I wish to venture
now, I who have had
no flow before, I who
have come to my father's
side, longing for reflection.
~ .
The Weight
Corey Mesler
I carry your smile around
as if it were a cow's heart.
Ungainly and feral,
I am the man exposed;
they point, the settled ones.
In the quiet of my den
I lay out the desiccated husks
and detritus I collect
each day in my peregrinations.
But your smile, your
slippery smile, stays on me always.
Even as I sleep and dream
of a man with the heart
of a large animal, a man whose
pain is so noticeable no one
pities him, not in this town.
~ . ~
Ghosts of a low moon
Andrew Oldham
strippers in mid-noon bars
whisper love into five dollar bills
their jasmine nipples tassel-tight
around the neck of jack daniels
tipping dime and dollars to bus boys
and the chalk outline of forgotten lovers
that stick with sweet-sour perfume
to the edges of their tongue
and four blocks west, there are songs,
and fields of tulips with trains cutting through to nowhere.
as the drunks in downtown tanks
slash their i's, dot their t's
across the back of an empty cheque, they sing
to the low moon; the bottle that has left them.
and on fourth and main, there are angels
throwing empty buds at their wives,
as they leave with their wings and suitcases,
stapled to their sides.
and one block east, there are songs and
dreams and greyhounds going nowhere.
~ .
Sirens
Andrew Oldham
down by the causeway
the water is still, the same
candles in your hands are nothing but
wax and soot
the ash you rub beneath your dress, into exposed limbs
leave dark brown finger streaks in their wake.
I sing about how I brought you carnations,
buried each fat stem between your toes,
watched them withered by the water's edge
each petal, in turn, turning in.
sticking to your wading thighs
going in, going down, gone.
I sing about the rocks out by the headland,
and the flowers that float there,
but by the sea's edge
the footmarks are still, same
soot and wax turn in the tide
the white pearls and
petals between your blackened toes
floating away with the sound of your song.
~ . ~
The Visible Spectrum
Laura Sherwood Rudish
We sit side by side at the polished pear-wood table,
Our reflections blurred in a soft shine of knotted wood.
He wears a peach lambswool sweater and khaki pants.
This is a great room, I say. The afternoon sun slants
Through a south window and pools on the faded Persian rug.
I sit here at night, he says. In that chair by the window—
Watching. His brown eyes water.
Watching what, Dad? He looks down at his hands.
The ice melts in my glass of diet coke.
I'm being erased, he says. And not just that—
I'm erasing myself. And I'm watching.
~ . ~
Patinir's St. Jerome
Tom Savage
On the way to my St. Jerome library,
I step on red paint in the subway
And carry it a short way toward the train.
Red is the color from the sky
I remember most in Patinir's great painting
Where Jerome, who became a saint mostly
For translating the Bible, sees a rock
Which reminds one of the chest
He must have beaten endlessly in frustration.
Baring breast, beating, and shouting, "Alas."
Sounds like a chapter from my life
Which rarely ends, but has its intermissions.
Sometimes I have encountered joy
In or near the Met Museum Watson Library
Where I hunt books by title or number.
Talk of judging book by cover, this is…
There goes my internal non-saint Jerome, again,
Plainting away about what he does and doesn't have
Amidst a strangely Chinese-looking landscape
On his knees and out in the heat, as usual.
At least, the camels know how to smile.
Wake up the heart, St. Jerome. Your self-pity
Hour ended when you woke this morning and asked, "Why?"
Cover your chest again and leave that rock alone.
The sky has your number, now. So do I.
You only became a priest at others' insistence.
You said it wasn't your vocation, but obeyed.
During a four-year-long vacation from America,
I wanted to become a Theravadin Buddhist monk
And applied. I was told epileptics were barred
From all but novitiate service to the Void.
Your impasse was the reverse of mine.
But I commend your rigor
Even if it led you to this tree-y outcrop where I see you.
Your anguish looks strangely calm as you kneel.
Will you accept my hands and arms to raise you?
The sky and those camels await us. Come along.
~ . ~
Film Noir
Zach Sussman
Shuffling past the blackened storefronts,
you are the solitary man in the pictures,
the brim of your hat bleached with moonlight.
In your flat, where a glass of milk sears the darkness,
you gaze over the avenues embroidered with streetlamps,
weighing the narrative of the life you designed
against the one that's been crafted for you.
Even these thoughts, you realize,
as rain sputters over the street,
are part of it: a world you didn't create,
in which someone pictured you
as you are this moment, sunk before a window,
eyes hard in the counterfeit light.
So you descend into the street,
anchoring yourself to each tangible shape:
parking meters, hydrants, moonwashed trees.
You know this will happen again;
how the scene will stutter,
your gold watch arbitrarily ticking;
how, adjusting your tie before a busted traffic signal,
you are but a flood of light blossoming from a pinhole.
~ . ~
Poetry Reading
Aimee Walker
Where is my bride?
Where is my bride?
Up to the front
of the train
he says it.
Walking back he repeats
it backwards
edirb ym si erehw?
A fit of poetry
faster and faster
Where has she gone?
cutting the line
at odd angles
he interjects
and intercepts,
Oh dear, oh dear
the next line always there
she's gone
or some such phrase
that must follow
to avoid an ending,
twists it round to the
beginning
makes circles round the cars.
~ . ~
Lee Harvey Oswald as Springtime
Martin Willits, Jr.
Somewhere, ice melts into smooth sheen
of a woman's sweat full of new beginnings
smelling fresh as clovers and thistles.
I can only dream such a dream.
Somewhere the world begins with a kiss
or a fight, tasting of bitter oleanders and honeycombs.
Somewhere, there are dreamers dreaming of me
and it excites them to completion, their hearts miss a beat,
a momentary death, restarting as a car engine.
Somewhere a chilly morning dreams
of congested traffic, clogged as an aorta,
as a woman does the Circle Dance around my face.
Her legs are covered with yellow pollen. I pluck her
as a clover, feel her brittle thistles in red bloom,
dreaming like a stalled battery in my own ice storm dreaming.
There is always a somewhere, some
where, where dreams sputter and restart droning
and stink as clover, where sweats drips on my stamen.
A chill lodges deep in my heart, dreaming of kisses
and tasting of pollen, torn as perspiration, dripping
as sweat off your face dreaming of somewhere.
Somewhere someone will wake from a dream,
erect as a thistle, recharged as a battery, craving honey,
hearing the Queen Bee humming, ready to embrace death.
~ . ~ . ~
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