21st Century Poetry

Introduction

If you haven't arrived here by mistake (if you have, I imagine that you will be exiting shortly), I assume that you have some familiarity with contemporary poetry. I hope that this familiarity has led you to these conclusions concerning “serious” poetry, the type that appears in “important” journals and books which are not published at the authors' expense:

Nearly all serious poetry can be assigned to two categories, (1) opaque, gimmicky stream-of-consciousness squibs, which communicate nothing to readers, and (2) overtly meaningful, but monotonous works consisting of emotionally flat declarations. Both types have made serious contemporary poetry dreadful. No one reads the stuff anymore, and there is no reason why they should.

Readers should demand better. They should tell the babblers and bores that poetry is meant to be the literary form which, above all else, celebrates language for its own sake. Poetry is supposed to wallow in language, bathe in language. It's supposed to seize upon the sounds of words, and mold, and bend, and splatter them to make astounding music. It's nice when a poem makes sense, but coherence and subject are secondary. The most important thing a poem can do is to thrill the mind with what it has done with the mundane aural symbols we use to communicate.

Sometimes, it's hard to understand what Shakespeare is trying to tell us, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that his poetry surges and sizzles. We read it over and over because it sings when we say it aloud. Each stanza is equivalent to a solo by a musical instrument. Gerard Manley Hopkins' poetry has this same aspect. It's electrical. Walt Whitman's poems, snubbed by those who aspire to elevated sensibilities, has such electricity.

This is what I try to attain. It is what anyone who calls him- or herself a poet should be trying to accomplish. The sweater-clad plodders, the grad students and writers' retreat drones, should step aside. With their inability to use language artfully, and their emotional emptiness, they have come close to wrecking poetry. It is time for us to retrieve and heal it.

(This site is updated every two months. The poems which are entered onto
it first appear on www.PoemHunter.com and/or www.Poetbay.com.)

Recent Work

9/2/11
I walk in the rain. Wait for it: metaphor.
Rain equals tears. I must be sad. Maybe
A love has left, or an animal. Maybe my
My meal wasn't good, or I'm merely
Depressed. I haven't found a job.
Sun equals joy. A sky without clouds
Symbolizes life without cares, even if
I cannot find any work, but I'm tired of
Heat and knocking on doors. I'm
Actually pleased to be forced to turn back,
To plod my way home through the rain.

9/2/11
What honor the bastard purports to have
Is in the robe. It's its, not his. Look at
Him pocketing packets of cash. Hear
How he tells one with nothing to pay,
And the one who has everything,
“Have some more.” Savior of privilege,
Scourge of need, he is justice in name,
Not in deed.

9/3/11
The iron workers have the street.
I have my little piece of curb.
The bands have passed, their
Brass and drums. The songs
They played were nice enough,
But, now, the crash and clank
Of tools, hung from heavy
Leather belts, supply the
Sharp and honest music
Played each day as cities rise.
Always there, it goes unheard,
Except on Labor Day.

9/4/11
Is anything larger than us?, you ask.
I tell you, no. You see the room
The final god abandoned. It went
Off without a note. It made its bed,
And, in its bag, it took away the
Bigger things we used to see.
It took the truth with all its dangled
Baubles: justice, virtue, even art,
So we're the largest now, each of
Us a god himself, who rules a
Universe that others cannot reach
Or comprehend, but one which dies
When we are gone, and we, though
Gods, are mounds of flesh, our lives no
More than pointless motion, like
The water's slapping waves. Nothing
Changes when we come, and nothing
Changes once we leave. Is anything
Larger than us?, you ask. Is anything
Smaller?, I reply before I answer, no.

9/5/11
Doughnuts do not move my love,
Nor do those chocolates in paper
Cups, which proper lovers bring.
She isn't much for conversation,
Nodding yes or no in silence,
Growing fidgety whenever
Anybody talks too long. She
Doesn't seem to like to shop
Or dress up and go out at night.
She never wants to hold my hand
When we are walking on the street.
She is, in short, someone I never
Would have thought thought much
Of me if she had not, one moonless
Evening, told me of her love.

9/6/11
She talks. She hopes he understands.
She probes his eyes. They're brown
And blank. She lifts her hand to flip
Her hair. He's nice enough. She's
Glad she came. She thinks they
Could be friends.

He listens, trying not to stare.
She talks a lot, but that's all right.
She has a very pretty face, a body
Any healthy man would kill to see
Beneath its clothes. He's glad he
Brought her here for dinner. Now,
It's time to go to bed. He hopes
She understands.

9/9/11
There was god-damned little left on the table
When I showed up, and Claire was gone.
I stared at the faces of liquor-lit men.
One more good quarter, upstairs, it would
Seem; not so good where I'd been, on my
Ass on a chair in an ocean of chairs, every
One of them bearing a castaway, scribbling
On forms and repeating a story I'd heard.
Drifting for hours, I landed at last at the desk
Of a man with a sweat-mottled shirt, who said,
“Sorry,” and pointed me back toward the sea.
I came to find Claire, to be succored some way,
But someone said she left when she finished
Her shift. I stood by the table, and looked
At the dregs, the slices of meat, the mustard
And cheese, and I picked up a plate and
Assembled a sandwich. The men all around,
Though surprised, didn't speak. They could
See homicide in my eyes.

9/10/11
Let us grieve. That's always to fun to do,
And let us raise our faces to the sky to
Ask whatever's up there why those others
Are so mean, and let us nod our heads
And smile when we're told we're good.
They're finally filling up the hole. We're
Running out of time to grieve, but do not
Worry, little one. We've also made our
Share of holes. They're all around the
World.

9/13/11
I have the pool, out back. The water's cold.
I have the trees on the bluff below, and
The river, somewhere behind their leaves,
And a sea of corn, vast and pacific, running
West to the edge of the earth, where a
Cloudless dome of blue begins. I have
Silence and peace, though not for long.
My wife will tell me she hates her job.
My mother will say that she hates
Where she lives, and my children will
Come to me, looking for cash. I will
Savor the moments before they arrive
As the finest gifts which I'll receive.
Happy birthday to me.

9/14/11
“In my day,” he began. Then, I ceased
To listen. In his day? Did I have a day?
I do not believe that I did.

9/15/11
I am not far from the snake and apple,
As I suspect you'd put it, Eve. I mean
That I didn't come here to pray. To
Prey, perhaps, with your acquiescence,
To try to soothe a fever that has built
Throughout the summer's heat. Let us
Go lower than to our knees. Let us
Lie naked and see if it's sin, or something
We haven't encountered, as yet. God may
Be good, but he seems to be busy.
You have been pious, and I have been
Patient, but neither of us has found
The light. I believe that it flickers
Inside your eyes, though you
Labor to hide it, buttoned up primly
And always turning them from mine.
I come, once again, with hope that I'll see
It. Search with me, Eve. Have a taste
Of the apple. If you won't, I'll slither away.

9/17/11
You spoke of a breeze. Do you still feel it?
You spoke of food. Have you eaten yet?
You spoke of so much, and we watched
And applauded, but we went to bed,
And, once we were sleeping, the same
Men we'd chased off returned in their cars,
And the woman on TV said there'd be
No breeze.

9/17/11
My sort doesn't cross the globe
With the easy grace of yours.
We are the scuttling cockroach men,
Who cringe in shadows, fearing feet,
Who've known the pain of upraised
Hands, and know, as well, the times
And fares of trains and buses leaving
Town. We live where we're allowed
To live. We do whatever you want
Done, and we eat when we get the
Chance, between the pleading and
The labor which allows your sort
To pass, as if you haven't seen us,
With your customary grace.

9/20/11
I didn't come here to talk about what is lost.
I know what is. I saw it go: the hair, the
Supple skin, the fire in the eyes, the cheery
Confidence of stupid youth. And I have
Known you long enough to see the same
Decay in you, a beauty in those early
Years, but, now, like me, a wizened
Creature, noticed only when your halting
Steps have put you in the way of those
Who would have stopped before, and
Begged to spend some time with you.
I'm here. Of course; we both have time,
Though little else, and not too many
Places left we'd like to go. I take the
Chair that's next to yours, and drink
The coffee that you bring, and help
You build your lists of losts, but what
I would prefer is this: to wrap you
In these skinny arms, and feel my
Dried-out lips against those I so
Wanted once, so long ago, and seem,
Despite the decades passed, and all
That's lost, to badly want again.

9/20-2/11
What is the point of this, of pacing
Back and forth beside the settee in
This sitting room? The woman who
I sought is gone. Her parents say
She should be here, her father glumly
Watching movies, trying not to think
Of me, or her, her mother droning
On. “We thought she would be
Married now. Her sisters were,”
But are they happy? “That is
Neither here nor there. What
Matters is they've settled down,”
While she, the last (to my chagrin),
Is out all night, and doing who
Can say with who could ever know.
Her parents said she'd warm to me,
But, somehow, she is unimpressed
By where I work and what I earn.
I've come to make her life secure,
But she is bent on having fun. I
Pace. I know she won't be home.
I wish she would have taken me,
But she has learned that what I offer
Are the sorts of things her parents told
Her that she ought to have, and, she,
Without much use for those, no longer
Deigns to meet with me. She's asked
Herself, what is the point?, and sees
There isn't one.

9/22/11
Spotted, spotted, in her bed,
She frightened me. I fear
Disease. I told her that I had
To go. She snarled, “I have
Poison ivy. You are being
Rash.”

9/28/11
What the hell's “intrepid,” anyway,
Except a ship at sea? You say it's not
What I've been called. You pound
Me with your perfumed words. I seem
To suffer lassitude, and fecklessness,
And anomie. As such, I'm of no use
To you. And are you of some use to
Me? We'll see. I'm thinking that you're
Not, and, underneath those perfumed
Words, an odor wafts. It's yours, my
Love. I cannot speak the way you do,
So I'll just say you're shit.

9/30/11
Oh, Rita, yes, your garden's nice.
The sun is bright. The air is crisp,
As are these slices of the apple
You have taken from your tree,
But don't you know why I am here?
The world's dying. Look around.
The leaves are turning lurid colors,
Falling. All the birds are flying
South, and, I, in middle age, feel
Fall in summer, even spring, and
Come to you in desperation.
Could you hold me close, and keep
Away the chill and terror that grow
Deeper in these longer nights?
Could you say the world cools;
It doesn't really die, and you and
I will sleep to rise again, words
Which aren't exactly true, though
I would find them nice?

9/30/11
The plastic surgeon's second wife has had
It good. She knows that's so. She chooses
Not to tell her friends he plans to take a
Third. It's better just to meet them here,
And gossip, and to have an early Marguerita
By the pool, a final little present for the one
Whose day has passed.

10/7/11
She speaks as if there's air to breathe,
But there is not. She's far away, above,
Ashore, as I again am spinning, being
Drawn below, to drown within this
Growing darkness, octopus's ink, it
Seems. Why does it issue out of me?
Is what has passed so poisonous?
Is there some sort of chemical, which
Should be here, but isn't now? I wonder,
As I spin and fall. Would death be solace,
Final sleep? I cannot answer, cannot
Speak. I have no air to breathe.

10/8/11
We kissed at midnight, almost like a movie,
Peevish flight attendant hissing, "This is final
Call."  I felt her hands slip off of me, as I
Prepared to travel east.  She'd cross the hall
To fly out west, and I could see us phoning,
Cooling, finding ever less to say at ever
Greater intervals until we each forgot to
Call, and all the credits rolled. 

10/11/11
There was a flash, a spark in his eyes,
An ember which quickly was covered,
But not put out. Our leader had called
Us to give us his plan. “Any questions?”
He asked, expecting none, and nobody
Spoke. Everyone smiled until I said that
I had one (of many, in truth, but one
Would do), and I asked, aware that
What I was asking would pull at
A string which could have, and should have,
Unraveled his plan. Faces grew fearful.
The ember flared, but soon it was hidden.
The leader rose. He dryly chuckled,
“That's been considered. Anything else?”
Then he left.

10/11/11
Surely, you number the creatures who occupy
Hell among your closest friends, and, surely,
You hope they'll eviscerate me. What's left
To lacerate? I'd like to know. Decades of
Marriage, of endless complaints, have made
Hamburger out of what was a man. My body
Is spiritless. Flail away. It long ago entered
Their realm.

10/12/11
Idalene, the beauty queen, considered
My asides obscene. She frowned at
First, but, then, between the salad
Plates and soup tureen, she snorted.
Then, she laughed aloud, and I was
Gratified and proud, and, subsequently,
Not so cowed. I said, “I know it's
Getting late, but would you join me
On a date?” She nodded. After all
We ate, we chose to dance, and then
To mate, and, in the aftermath of
Such a wondrous night, I celebrate.

10/13/11
I call her Miss Givings. She worries a lot,
And rightfully so. The world is dangerous.
We've read the headlines. We talk on the
Bus, and she tells me she wonders if she'll
Lose her job. She tells me of aches, and of
Family disputes. I say things aren't so
Horrible. I make her laugh, poking fun
At the people who walk on the street.
She asks how I'm doing. I'd rather not
Say, as I'm riddled with misgivings, too.

10/16/11
I was shown the door by two young MFAs,
Who didn't like my work. Too direct?
They wouldn't say. Too tight-fitting?
Possibly. Their teachers told them,
“Leave some room for other students,
Like yourselves, to sprawl; the thesis is
The art.” A line of those with drippy
Noses, Kerouac apparel newly purchased
From a shopping mall, stood watching
As I went away, notebook clutched in
Every hand, and, from each issued
Blessed fog, and weariness of age
Approximated by the very young,
Useless words, but loose enough
To please the MFAs.

10/17/11
“Pleasant, isn't it?,” she says. She's being
Facetious. We fend off the rain, which
Angles at us, cruel, cold. Cars are hissing
Past and splashing water on our frozen
Feet. “Is all lost?,” I ask. We run. “No,”
She answers. She's sincere. “I see a bakery
Down the street. Let's go inside and get
Some coffee. We can warm ourselves
And eat.” “That would be pleasant,”
I say.

10/17/11
Our machines reflect what we once were,
And what we have become. They used to be
So sleek and long, the vehicles of lean and
Swiftly moving masters of the earth, and,
Now, they're bloated, blobby things,
Which ferry frightened, ancient creatures,
Far too fat and lame to hold a planet in
Their puffy hands.

10/18/11
They don't need us anymore, except to pay
The debts we've run up, buying things they
Sold to us which came from overseas.
We weren't supposed to end this way.
The prophets told us, in the future, what we'd
Need would be provided by machines.
We wouldn't work, and all, together,
Would be wealthy, all a smiling, classless
Mass. The prophesies are proven wrong.
Our lords have learned to look for people
Who will take a pittance wage. They're
Not so costly as machines, and our lords
Found they weren't so fond of others
Having what they had. How can one
Be sure one's better when there's but a
Single class? And, so, they set themselves
Apart, and say to all the rest of us, “Pay
In silence. Go away. We have no need
Of you.”

10/19/11
Daylight; awkwardness ensues.
How's your father? How's your
Mom? How long will you be in
Town before you must go back
To school? Not that I'm expecting...
We were both so drunk..., but, if
You'd care...Oh, I don't know.
I know you won't. The shower's
Yours. I'll make you breakfast.
Then, we'll get your car.

10/20/11
The air is cold, and faintly smells of diesel
Fumes and cigarettes. The motor scooters
Swarm the streets. Silent figures cross
The vast piazza. All is well enough in Rome,
But I am ill at ease. I climbed the narrow
Flights of stairs to find the one who'd said
That she would spend another week with me,
But my knock isn't answered; on the floor,
An envelope.

10/21-2/11
This one all the adolescents, and their fathers,
Want to bed was mine. She isn't anymore.
Death-camp chic revolted me. Should they
See her naked, they would run, as I have
Run to you. Daddy's money couldn't make
Her deaf to Mommy's hateful words. She
Shuttles in and out of clinics, pokes at plates
And plays at being elegant. She's called you
Fat. You shouldn't care what she has said,
A scarecrow mocking someone living. She,
Whose life is endless sorrow, lashes out at
Those who she believes still can encounter joy.
You're the one, so plush and pleasant, I have
Said I want with me. Let the adolescents dream.
Let their fathers. Let her go on starving.
I know who I need.

10/22/11
She feels me feasting on her beauty,
Something she has felt before.
She doesn't flinch. She carries on.
I must turn away.

10/25/11
She's gone. That's all, a simple fact
So stark as it is dull; and this, the poem
Of her leaving, should I try to make
Of it a monument, a Taj Mahal,
To something that had aged and
Weakened, dying finally, in its
Sleep? Should I say I'll cry myself
To raisin dryness in my grief, my
Tears a roaring waterfall? I could.
That's what some poets do, but I'm
Not very sad, it seems. I'm not so
Sorry that she's gone as sorry
That her leaving doesn't matter
Much, to her or me. It's early yet.
The weather's decent. Something
Happened, hence, the poem.
Almost nothing's changed.

10/26/11
She, without a turban or a horn,
Has made me undulate. I rise
Out of my wicker home, my eyes,
Supposed to hypnotize, instead
Cannot break free of her. She smiles,
And I smile back. She laughs,
And I become convinced that
Even one who hides in wicker,
Vicious viper others, rightly fearing
They'll be victims, shun, may
Find himself becoming happy
As he undulates.

10/28/11
These shorter days of the year's senescence
Calm. The dawn is slow to come, its cold
And fallen leaves sufficient evidence that
Summer's frantic labor's finished. What
Was done's become undone, and dusk
Arrives with cocktails, early. Darkness
Dooms us to these curtained rooms, and
Hurries us into our bed. Beneath its piled
Blankets, consciousness subsiding, we
Are calm.

10/29/11
Alexis thinks I'm queer. That's fine.
I couldn't love her any less if she was
Right (she seldom is). “You servers
All are gay,” she says, “but I don't
Mind.” I place another daiquiri
In front of her, and she, with no
One else to tell, describes the ruby
Necklace that her married daddy
Bought for her. He lives, so she
Has told me, in a part of town I've
Never been. “He keeps you very
Well, I see, but don't you find the
Way you live a little tawdry?” “No;
I don't.” The smile's left her pretty
Face. “Tawdry's living poor,” she
Sneers. Her phone is buzzing.
Daddy's free. She pays and leaves
A decent tip. I close the bar. Then,
In my home, a shabby little studio
With nothing in it I can eat, I hear
Alexis speak again, and know, this
Time, that she is right, and think
That isn't fine.

10/31/11
I remember being stranded here, almost forty
Years ago. All seems very much the same:
Still, the ring of brilliant lights, the pumps,
The battered little store, a single car, a man
Inside, the fields around in total darkness;
To the east, I think it's east, a glow, a town,
Too far away, and being frightened. Nothing's
Changed, except that then I knew that there
Were people waiting. I could call, and they
Would come to rescue me. Now, I'm here
By choice, but no one's near for me to call.

11/1/11
Warned more than once to watch my step,
I forged ahead and fell. She dazzles like
A precious stone: from far away, the
Thrilling form; up close, the facets, each
A flash, which heats and melts the one
Who looks. I puddled. We alloyed,
And, now, we travel everywhere as one,
And neither of us watches steps.
We stumble, but we do not fall. We
Rise, and I, thought so unwise, am
Happy that I chose to forge ahead.

11/2/11
As there is this, a sort of relentless downward
Pull, its genesis unknown, which leaves me
Staring at a floor, which isn't swept, and isn't
Very welcoming, I have to say that I am
Unprepared for you. What would you eat?
It doesn't matter. I have only liquor and
A bundle of asparagus, which, truth be
Known, is not erect, and cannot be. I haven't
Purchased food for you. I haven't found the
Means to be the host, so bright, you ought
To have. You are, instead, a diver plumbing
Depths you didn't plan to reach. Inert, I'll
Say, “Let's watch TV,” and you can choose
What we will view, and you can make the
Best of my unconsciousness, this dreadful
Room, and, once you've felt enough of
What I told you was this downward pull.
You'll leave. You should, and I, tomorrow,
Will be sad you did.

11/3/11
I started at the bank about a week
Before the foundry closed. I worked
In the convenience store at night,
But it was robbed. I've gone to seven
Interviews, and done my best to make
It seem to broken-down incompetents
That I should get their jobs. No one calls.
I'm stuck at home. That's why I started
When you said you think that we
Are through.

11/5/11
Has someone spoken anywhere?
Are people passing words in places
I don't see, beyond these walls?
Is there a point to getting up
And going out beyond the urge
To smoke another cigarette?
Are hours meant to linger so?
I search my forehead with my
Fingers, finding in it only a
Repeated “I don't know.”

11/7/11
What's this? For reasons so obscure
As those which stole the light, the light
Appears again, and, with it, hope.
Is this salvation, slippery words?
Is she, who's come so many times,
And gone, but said she'll come again?
Is there some odor in the air, the smell
Of fallen leaves, of cold, that reaches
That more basic me, and warms, like
Embers still unseen, the higher parts,
The fragile ones, which break with
Regularity? I cannot say. I cannot
Fix my senses on the cause of this
Most welcome change. I marvel,
Asking once more, what is this?

11/8/11
A harbinger; they couldn't know.
The last of the jam slid from the jar,
Just past his bread, to reach the
Floor. A box was on his office
Chair, an empty one. He'd lost
His job. A letter came with
Jarring news: his corpse would
Be worth more to those who needed
Him than he could be, alive.

11/9/11
Terrors, such as these, begin as tadpoles,
Then metastasize. They've gotten
Overwhelming now. Their razor teeth
Are gnashing, gnawing each of our
Extremities, and we, as prey, so ill-prepared,
Are eaten. Here, at first, then gone, we
Sink into the inky ocean. Others, out of
Reach, reach out, but we are finished.
Wave goodbye. A tadpole turns into
A whale, and we are what is dimly
Recollected on a sunny shore. The sun
Has ceased to shine for us. The teeth
Are all that flash as we drift downward,
Past them, terrorized and gone.

11/10/11
All of the words in my battered thesaurus
Were useless when she was next to me.
All of the ticks the psychology text had
Described were there: the trembling,
The sweating, the sense that, sooner or
Later, I'd faint. And the fear that I'd
Find out she wanted me only for answers
To quizzes, and money for food, proved
To be (temporarily), wrong.

11/12/11
It's just poetry, Eric. Leave it at that.
Setting's superfluous. You needn't
Bother to learn if the writer was
Handsome or gross, scarred in some
Way or blessedly affluent. Maybe
The words were composed by
Machine. What you're here for are
Sounds. They're first, then their
Meanings, and, after that, nothing.
The poet's irrelevant. Read and
React, and be done.

11/12/11
Wolves know who they are and act
Accordingly, and cattle, too, but we
Are bifurcated beasts. The most,
Those most like you, my friend,
Are quite content to bow their empty
Heads and graze upon the fields.
They're slow to move. They cannot
Think. The world, as they see it,
Must remain as it always has been,
And, if it doesn't, they are filled
With panic, and they run. The few,
Like me, are vicious, hungry, lurking
On the margins of your placid pastures,
Set to strike. The world cannot stay
The same if we're to live. We live
On blood, and, if you run, we'll chase
You, nipping at your tendons. When
You're down, we will tear your flesh
To feed, and, howling in the night,
We'll ask the arching, unforgiving sky,
Which of us is truly human? It won't
Say it knows.

11/14/11
Look how late it's gotten. Everyone's gone.
There are no cars left on the street. The
Lights are off in all the other houses, and
The serving plate between us offers only
Crumbs, but neither of us wants to go.
I feel as if I've waited all my life to hear
You tell these tales, to see the shadows
On your face, to sense that, after having
Gone so long believing that someone my
Age was doomed to live alone, I've been
Mistaken. We have met, a miracle itself,
I'd say, the lesser one, the greater being
That we cannot part.

11/18/11
This isn't what I had come here to do.
I had stopped to say, “hi,” not to hear
Reminiscing: all that went wrong, and
Who was to blame. The light of the world
Grows dim in your presence. Was
Something worth doing? Say it and
Save me. Were you ever satisfied?
Probably not, not in my presence,
Not as we speak. I grow ever more
Eager be on my way, now depressed
By what I came to do.

11/19/11
Let us make of this dull, gray sky a sky.
And say, of these trees, that they are trees.
Let us put down the burden of seeking
Significance. Surface must satisfy. Nothing
Is deep, and, if, here, without warning, I
Blurt that I need you, decide if you also
Need me.

11/20/11
The water runs fast. It roars between these
Rough, black cliffs. It splashes, smashes
Through the rocks which block its way,
And my mind, my thoughts, caught
Upon its current, also roar and smash,
And race from elsewhere, up above,
Where, until now, they seemed to
Flow by placidly, a river between wider,
Softer, grassy banks, which, she, the sun,
Had warmed and lit. But she has gone.
The chasm opened, pulling me into its
Swirling torrent, through these
Shadowed cliffs. I cannot see where we
Had been. I tumble, thoughts rubbed
Raw on rocks, descending deeper,
Roaring, but unheard.

11/21/11
She passes almost silently, a phantom
On the flags, a beauty, clearly unaware
Of me. I watch her image shrink and
Fade. The fog has come. The sun is
Weak. The lights go on in nearby buildings.
I go on. There has to be a garbage can
With things to eat. I move among them,
Lifting lids, almost in silence, within
Reach of others headed home, and
Also unaware of me.

Let them weep, boo-hoo! Such bittersweet
Sorrow. These adolescents moaning over
Candy-flavored coffee drinks. First loves
Lost; what will they do? They cannot,
Will not, ever venture past this point.
They'll tend the wound which doesn't
Heal, and live forever, shadowed, tragic,
Tearing garments, telling those who'd
Rather not be bothered of what has been
Lost, and those, who'd rather not be bothered,
Will, of course, extend their insincere
Appendages. “I care. I care. Here, take
My hand. Maybe you can lay with me,
And, maybe, once you've gotten older,
You will see that, worse than being ever
Melancholy over losing your initial love,
You'll simply grow so numb as me,
And who you loved will be forgotten.

11/23/11
She pretends to want to know
How all my empty hours passed.
“Like kidney stones,” I say and laugh.
She isn't in the mood for jokes.
She drops her jacket on the chair,
And marches off to change her clothes.
She barks, but doesn't turn her head.
“You'd better find a job.”

11/23/11
I'll live. We'd both agree to that,
And one would find it welcome news.
The other? Difficult to say. I saw
Her, bent, below. She had her
Suitcase, and she hailed a cab.
She glanced up, toward this
Darkened room, but didn't wave.
She disappeared. I returned from
Work one day to find what she
Had left behind was gone. She
Didn't leave a note. She took
The money in the jar, and
Smashed the glass that covered
That old photograph of her
And me embracing on a
Mountain peak. It's evident
Our love is dead. It doesn't
Matter. Nothing does. She'll
Be forgotten soon enough,
And, anyway, I'll live.

11/27/11
It was enough, back then, to peddle feverishness,
Given the loss of faith, peculiar thought,
In the power of reason; so much, suddenly,
Not at all what we had hoped it would be,
Our place in the universe slipping again,
Science in service to meaningless slaughter.
Measured lines of linear narrative, proven
Inadequate, frayed and fell, leaving the ones
In the water adrift, and drawn, as they shrieked,
Ever farther away. The villagers packed up
Their lunches and left. The shriekers, out of
Sight of shore, slipped under the waves, and, in
Their wakes, fakes, well taught to mimic the
Feverish. First comes tragedy, second farce;
Progress replaced by “new and improved.”
Mind your manners. Get your grant.
Peddle facsimiles. That's enough.

11/29/11
Love at first sight? Most certainly not.
Something akin to shared disdain.
She was blandly attractive, trim, a clone
Of some original mommy somewhere
In a suburb, also, I suppose, a dishwater
Blonde with a ponytail thrust through
A baseball cap, a waste of time, chipper,
Annoying, good with her kids, and
Married, or having been, to a dullard
In tortoise-shell glasses and chino
Pants, an accountant, perhaps, the
Fraternity swain, who had led her to
Leave in her junior year; and her
Tightened jaw made clear that she
Saw me as useless, a layabout, bearded,
Disheveled, a creature from somewhere
Across the way, probably dirty,
Possibly dangerous, seemingly decent
To all his kids, but where is their mother?
Doubtless, gone; no, not love at first sight,
And, stuck with each other two evenings
A week, helping our kids to prepare for some
God-awful science show, we were awkward,
At first, but slowly warmed. I watched,
Amazed by her patience, and how she
Encouraged each child, and offered ideas,
Only suggestions, never commands,
And she seemed, in time, to see that I
Had a way with words. I made little
Jokes, and I liked building mountains
Of paper mache. One night, when we'd
Finished, the kids went to play, and she
Brought out some wine. We drank it
As what had been left of the daylight
Ebbed away. She spoke of her childhood,
I of mine, and we slowly grew closer
Until the kids returned, complaining
They needed to eat. Afterward, always,
The wine after meetings. Later, I'd visit
Each night after dinner, and, now, we
Have dinners and weekends together,
And, if we're apart for more than a day,
I begin to fret, and cannot be calmed
Until she comes into sight.

12/3/11
The clocks are running backward now.
The weeds are pushing through the streets,
And all the things we used to own are in the
Hands of hucksters, who will let us use them
For a fee. The line of those who once had
Homes and jobs is long on Maple Street,
It's end: a stack of blankets and some
Shelves with battered cans of food.
We are as those who came here were,
Defeated peasants, dispossessed by
Lords, whose troops advance at us.
To New York, friends; it's time to
Turn the woman in harbor, have her
Backward, as the clocks have been,
To show that those who hope for better
Lives should plan to leave.

12/3/11
Best man in Panama, padding about by a
Pool, in doubt, disliked by bride and groom,
Too hot, not living the life the brochure had
Shown, and, here alone, I claim a slimy
Plastic chair and close my eyes. Who's
There? Surprise. A precious, coffee-colored,
Nearly naked thing, alone as I, who wisely
Will not meet my eyes. My mind assembles
Useful lies to offer her. She also lies and,
Soon unconscious, doesn't stir. Time up,
Baked, I take my leave of her. I dress,
Depressed, and grab a cab to reach the
Chapel, late. I wait, the bride and groom
Unseen. I curse them both, and priest,
And ring until I hear the doors, and turn,
And see, now dressed, said lovely thing.

12/4/11
I must wait until he's finished, which I'm finding
Very hard to do, his yabba, blobba, dobba
Free associations seeming not so much insightful
As a sign of laziness to me. My god! Another
Fifty lines. Look at the time. Look at the rain.
I wonder what they're fixing in the cafe on
The corner now. He's almost finished. She
Looks nice. I'll ask her if she'd like to eat
When we have crowded close to him to tell
Him he's a genius, though I think that he is not.

12/5/11
I do remember an exquisite night a couple
Months ago. Then, the weather still was warm.
The leaves were going gold. The river,
Running past that distant town, was
Murmuring beside us as we walked,
And I had murmured, too, into the ears
Of such a lovely woman, more a girl,
Young and sweet, who'd wandered into
View. I brought her to my motel room,
And, in the brilliance of the morning,
Promised her I'd call her soon, and quickly
Would return. I did neither. Now, the
World's cold. The leaves have left the
Trees, and she has called. She murmured
That she'll have a baby in the spring.
She said I said I'd care for her. I stammer,
At a loss for words. I don't remember that.

12/7/11
Shrimp with pasta, lemon, cream,
And liquor, at a table, set for one,
Within the final warming rays
Of the descending sun. A decent
Life, approaching fullness, missing
Only her. I do miss her.

12/9-10/11
I should paint her a picture. She'd be
Pleased. Absinthe drinker, bluish,
Bent at a plastic table, facing, what,
An empty plate? That's nearly true.
A dinner from out of the freezer, ahead
Of the restless sleep, the early rise,
And, then, the time card and the clock,
Physical labor, pittance wage, while
Lawyers write up, in their ways, the
Lists of my alleged misdeeds, and
Magistrates pronounce my guilt.
Merry Christmas, mon ami,
Your marriage and groom now
Both undone.

12/12/11
It's as if a barbarian enters a room in Rome,
And sees a queen. A man, a wretch, an hourly
Slave, among similar sorts, looks up and sees
A woman, incongruous, laboring, elegant!
Beautiful eyes; no, not quite eyes, but lines
She's drawn around them, and her hair, so
Simply styled, right, and the clothes that
She wears, and the way that she walks, and
She speaks. She's articulate, and she smiles.
The poor barbarian stammers and stares,
And the queen, his ruler, never his, begs
His pardon, and turns, and leaves.

12/14/11
The ring on her finger and other unfortunate
Facts suggest that I beware. There's no point
Pursuing what cannot be gotten, but one
Who is taken proceeds without reason. The
Moth mistakes a light for sun, or sun for
Light. It's hard to know. Should I reach
Her, would I become blissful, or would
I, instead, be burnt, and late to learn
That she, sun, shouldn't be caught?

12/15/11
How strange to see her once, and know
She was the one for me, and stranger still
To catch her, startled, looking back,
As if she'd sensed the same in me, and
Then to find her close, and both of us
So plainly pleased. We talked as if we'd
Known each other, joked, and, as we
Did, I lost myself within her face, her
Coal-dark eyes and raven hair, and,
When we had to separate, and I said
That I'd see her soon, such sadness
Pooled within those eyes. I tell you,
It was strange.

12/16/11
I've had time to think. It's done no good.
The winter morning's piercing sunlight
Shows the leafless trees, the frozen fields
So clearly. All is as it's been, familiar,
In my home, yet I'm not certain where
I am. I'm here, almost, but part of me,
The piece she kept when I was leaving,
Calls the rest to come to her, to be again
Complete, assured within her arms.
The rest should go, but it must rest.
The sun should pass more quickly, and
The home, now only mine, should be
The both of ours. In time, it will be,
I have wished. So far, that's done
No good.

12/16/11
Don't bug me, Ed. My life's a bed of roses
Now. Just let it be. The planet's other parts
Are hell. You tell me so, and that's too bad,
But roses blossom rarely here, and places
Everywhere, it seems, have suffered wars
And rotten weather since when I first learned
To read. I doubt that they will suffer more
If one who's had a little luck decides to shrug
And turn away, and, truly, Ed, my sole
Concern is she who beckons from that bed.
I'll go to her, I hope, alone. I'd rather not
Be bugged.

12/18/11
Were they good days? Jesus, I don't know.
The photos seem to say they were. We
Smiled, looking backward from our chairs,
Or fishing from the pier. The kids were
Small and, at the time, appear to not have
Had their spirits dinged, as photos show
Them now. The light seems dimmer in
Their eyes, in all our eyes, though we still
Smile, looking backward, fishing from the
Pier.

12/18/11
I could sleep again, a dead man's sleep,
And should until the hunger comes
Again. I've had to work so hard,
And, she, for whom I stay awake,
And work, remains away from me.
I see her face, but dimly now. I hear
The words she said to me. I have to
Wait. She must return. Tonight,
After I sleep?

12/19/11
Don't play that violin. It's true
A fool's been made of me, but
She who laughs was not the agent.
I, who loved her, did the deed,
So, put away the violin, and play
A penny whistle or calliope instead.

12/20/11
So sly and slender, far too young,
An actress; oh, I should have known
I'd fall. I can't be rescued now.
She'll have me as a fan, a fan!,
A captive creature, falling still,
And she, if she possessed a net,
Would slyly let it go unused.
It couldn't hurt to have a fan.
An act's an act. A meal is nice.
A graying swain's a ready fool,
I've learned. I should have known.

12/22/11
Do new loves, like starlings, chatter
Constantly? Then we're not loves.
She's nearly silent. So am I, but
Neither of us turns to go. We
Search, at times, for things to say,
A simple question, answered only
By the briefest spray of words,
And further silence, eyes of one,
Like hands of someone near to
Falling from a cliff, reach out to
Grasp the other's eyes, and do,
And, having done so, see that
Love is there, but hasn't found
Its voice.

12/23/11
Dear, though I am nearing sixty,
Though I have a cancer, I don't
Think of my mortality. I'll live
Until I die, I guess. Far more
Worrisome to me is my awareness
That the two of us are doomed to
Part, you, to stages, where you'll
Shine, and to Wyoming, so you've
Said, and marriage. I, too, have
To go; another job, another life,
The possibility of lifelong sorrow
That we had to part. Our love
Will die before I do, a love, my
Love, which I have loved, an
Image of you, standing near.
I never kissed your pretty face
Or felt the beating of your heart
Against my own. I only hoped,
But, now, such hopes are hopeless.
In a week or so, we'll say goodbye,
And I, though wounded, won't
Be dead. I may wish that I was.

12/25/11
Christmas comes, no gift. We are apart,
And, anyway, I'm sure you know I've
Nothing wrapped to bring to you.
You've seen; I am not rich, nor am I
Handsome. I can't dance. I could,
If we could find the time, prepare
A pleasant meal for you, and I could
Sit beside you as you told me how
Your day has gone, but, mostly,
What I have to give are these, just
Words with which I hope that I've
Made clear I care for you. I've tried
To make them pretty-sounding,
Sent them through the ether to you
On this Christmas morning. You
May keep them. They are yours.

12/27/11
We parted in the standard fashion,
Said “goodnight,” and left whatever else
We should have said unsaid, and she now
Makes her way out west, and I sit
At my kitchen table, slowly growing
Cognizant of all the noise, the rattle
And the grinding of the world in the daylight,
In its wretchedness, the noise that she
Had silenced in the hours she was near,
And my mind turns from tender visions,
Recollections of the way she smiled
When I called her name, and how she,
Somehow, seemed so graceful slicing open
Freight with me, to what again has filled
My eyes: the acts of war, the lying leaders,
Endless exhortations to attempt to satisfy
Oneself by buying one thing more,
The world, then, in standard fashion.
I wish she was here.

12/27/11
With the advent of evening, car-wreck splattered red,
I face the thought of being torn from you. What do
You know? I never told you of my love. I lingered.
Wasn't that enough? I stared into your depthless
Eyes, and asked you, innocently, surely innocently,
How the man you say that you will marry plans
To make a lovely life for you. He'll do his best.
I guess he will, and, even if he falters, can he
Fail, as I must do for you, a ruined man, who's
Made of lies, who's tried, but never stood a chance
Of chasing him from his appointed place, to place
Myself, however briefly, where he once had been,
And, then, to slither, as I do, a viper, saying, “Have
An apple. All is well,” as all is hell, and, if you'd
Let me kiss you, I would slide to where I have to
Go, and you would see your lover leave, and I
Would be where you would never find me. You
Are better off to do as I know you will do:
You'll smile sweetly, say you're sorry, push
Me to the margins of the life I'd wanted so to
Share, and you will thrive, and I will perish.
You will count the stars with him as I lay
Flattened on a street in car-wreck splattered red.

12/28/11
Should they find me running loose, the guardians
Of taste are apt to put me with the lunatics,
The cranks and autodidacts, Pinkham Ryder,
Whitman, Charles Ives. They'll cringe when
Someone mentions me, as they do when they're
Faced with Poe, and, when it's dark, they'll
Steal from me to vivify their sterile art,
While saying, in the daylight, I'm the sort
Who should be shunned.

12/29/11
Should she ask, I'll own up. I will
Tell her I missed her. I won't say
How badly, and I won't ask her.
If I did, she'd be forced to decide
How to answer: say that she
Didn't, which, doubtless, is true,
Or insist that she did, so I will
Not be hurt. Neither would
Please me. I'd rather continue
Pretending that, secretly, she
Also missed me, but that she's
Too shy to own up.

12/29/11
With hands turned into desperate claws,
I cling to you, a lifeboat coursing through
The waves. A mariner, an ancient one,
Is what I am, adrift millenia, it seems,
Among this crowd of fresher faces,
Half submerged within the throbbing
Amplified, electric beats, and clearly
Wholly out of place. I came because
You said I'd see you, better suited to
Another, briefer, night before TV,
A cup of tea, a crossword puzzle,
Bed alone, and useless little dreams
Of you and I in it, but, now, your eyes
Are saying you'd prefer to paddle far
From me, and would, if you could
Wriggle from these claws.

12/30-1/11
No one's here on campus now,
Except the Asian students who
Are too broke to go home.
The falling snow has hushed
The land, and, though I am alone,
I am not lonely. In the dim light
Of my room, I've spent uncounted
Minutes at the window watching
Swirling flakes. That peace on earth
The cards describe has come.