Instead of praying

Instead of praying
I'm dilly-dallying and
salvation's delaying.

With poems I'm playing,
some poor and some grand,
instead of praying.

All that I'm saying,
I'm wasting my time and
salvation's delaying.

A short time we're staying
on Earth, my time's wasted
instead of praying.

With fasting and praying
I'll come close to God, but
salvation's delaying.

I'm sure to be paying
for time and life wasted
instead of praying,
salvation's delaying.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

Red Man, White Man

1. Red Man

You've stolen land
away from us
you must return.

Your dirty hand
has robbed from us.
You've stolen land.

The life is bland
you've handed us,
you must return

that sacred land
right back to us.
You've stolen land,

the crime is grande,
we've turned to dust.
You must return

the dirt, the sand.
The spirits cry for us.
You've stolen land
you must return.


2. White Man

Your precious land, to us you sold,
worth less than a handful of beads,
and now this land is ours, we hold.

The land you had, we robbed, you've told
a million times, and planted those seeds.
But precious land, to us you sold,

it was a trade most fair, though bold,
and though for this, you pine and bleed,
now this old land is ours, we hold.

Your arguments have gotten old.
If land were worth more than those beads,
your precious land, would you have sold?

Yet now a portion we have doled--
a nation--separate and freed,
from all this land that we now hold.

More sympathy you have cajoled
from bleeding hearts that run like steeds,
though precious land to us you sold
and now this land is ours, we hold.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

He left his home and moved away

He left his home and moved away.
We never see him anymore.
He had to go, he couldn't stay.

Since birth he lived, and here he stayed.
Who knew he'd walk right out the door?
He left his home and moved away.

He had no choice, the doctors say,
"Prepare his pathway, clear the floor.
He has to go, he cannot stay."

It all developed in this way,
the Grim one wrote upon his door:
"You'll never see them any more."

He left too soon, too far away.
We will not see him any more.
He had to go, he couldn't stay.

Now while he's gone, the roaches stay,
the creepers crawl up from the floor.
He left his home and moved away.
He had to go, he couldn't stay.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

A Few Wet Bars (to El Niño)

When showers pound and do not vacillate,
if invitational, there's friendly glee.
Resolve is different in liquid state.

Moods flow to peace or grow to rapid gait,
men rush or contemplate; cows find a tree
when showers pound and do not vacillate.

Plans made in dryness must or must not wait.
Tired windshield wipers blink, but cannot see
Resolve is different in liquid state.

Housepainters pace while farmers' fears abate.
Big rain comes tailored to one's frequency
when showers pound and do not vacillate.

Computer's down; deliveries are late
and it's not clear who won the lottery.
Resolve is different in liquid state.

Those not born ducks seek to procrastinate
all pleadings from responsibility
when showers pound and do not vacillate.
Resolve is different in liquid state.

---Mary Gribble, San Marino, CA

A POET'S WISH

A poet's wish is not to be thought right,
nor is it to condemn or prove a wrong,
but to provide a constant, burning light.

When millions starve to death without a fight
while governments grow fatter, waxing strong.
A poet's wish to not to be thought right,

and coming to the aid of wisdom's sight,
his end is not to write iambic song,
but to provide a constant, haunting light.

When misery, a homeless child's birthright,
makes days seem endless and nights overlong,
a poet's wish is not to be thought right

nor is his wish to overcome by might
or to incite the teaming, homeless throng,
but to provide a constant, haunting light.

When children wander streets alone at night
in desperation, begging to belong,
a poet's wish is not to be thought right,
but to provide a constant, burning light.

---Harvey E. Stanbrough, Pittsboro, IN

THEY SAID THEY WANTED IT BACK

May 2, 1803 - 203rd Anniversary -- May 2, 2006
A Villanelle to the Louisiana Purchase
Our prayers and deepest concern go to the residents of New Orleans and to those in neighboring states for their trauma and loss from the devastation of Katrina and Rita in September, 2005

For fifteen million bucks, not beads,
(Manhattan went for less this fee),
a fire sale flared beyond our needs.

Spain, England, France first sowed the seeds,
by treaties that no one could see
for fifteen million bucks, not beads.

Though not empowered for such deeds,
two statesmen mused, "a deal must be-
in our lifetime, beyond our needs!"*

Along with crocodiles and reeds,
Louisiana held the key
for fifteen million bucks, not beads.

The U.S. doubled land and weeds,
Napoleon was up a tree,
offered it all, beyond our needs.

Some days when lust and ego feeds,
the spoils of war make gold debris.
This fifteen million bucks, not beads,
bought thirteen states, beyond our needs.

---Mary Gribble, San Marino, CA

*President Jefferson sent the American statesman James Monroe to Paris to aid the American minister to France, Robert R. Livingston, in negotiating modest options. Napoleon told them, "All or nothing!"

CHAOS

Too many people in my dream last night
I lost all track of what they came to view
I welcome eagerly the morning's light.

No one apparently had any right
To make decisions based on feeble clues
Too many people in my dream last night.

Now that I have them gathered in my sight,
Perhaps, I'll give a penetrating cue
I welcome eagerly the morning's light.

At least among themselves they do not fight
Except for just a discontented few
Too many people in my dream last night.

I watch suspensefully in fear and fright
Searching the dark for things that I could do
I welcome eagerly the morning's light.

New dawn arrives and brings to me insight
There's no need now for me to follow through.
Too many people in my dream last night.
I welcome eagerly the morning's light.

---Janet Parker, Leesburg, FL

DEBITS AND CREDITS

The hour has come, all things must end;
Shut commerce down by master plan;
Our memory, your dividend.

Archangel tympanums portend
A reckoning upon the clan;
The hour has come, all things must end.

Compute the sums you had to lend,
Balance the ledger while you can;
Our memory, your dividend.

Think hard as nails and comprehend;
The glass was full but fast it ran;
The hour has come; all things must end.

Toward closing time all timers tend;
Paid up the trades you once began;
Our memory, your dividend.

You suffered rather than offend;
Took less, gave more to every man;
The hour has come, all things must end;
Our memory, your dividend.

---Troxey Kemper, Los Angeles, CA

MOON OVER ARLINGTON

As silv'ry rays intrude on silent lanes
at Arlington, the stones define the cold
and endless rows of those who died in vain.

Here lie the bold -- in death with nothing gained,
a shrouded consequence of all we dold --
as silv'ry rays intrude on silent lanes.

Here lie the gentle ones -- those whom the strain
of war so quickly turned from young to old --
and endless rows of those who died in vain.

Here lie the ones who fled -- their souls in twain,
their nerves in knots, afraid and uncontrolled --
as silv'ry rays intrude on silent lanes.

Here lie the strong -- the ones who fought the pain
in silence, family values to uphold --
and endless rows of those who died in vain.

Eternally together lie the slain --
our sons and daughters, colorless and cold --
as silv'ry rays intrude on silent lanes
and endless rows of those who died in vain.

---Harvey Stanbrough, Pittsboro, IN

I'LL GREET THE DAWN

I'LL GREET THE DAWN

When I am laid away and all is done --
my journal closed, and all my last words said --
I'll greet the dawn, and not the setting sun.

Don't grieve for me, for in the longer run,
(Though friends may softly murmur, "He is dead."
When I am laid away and all is done),

I'll find a new adventure just begun
when soul and spirit will be fin'lly wed.
I'll greet the dawn, and not the setting sun.

I can't believe I'll face oblivion
As heart beat stops, and consciousness has fled,
when I am laid away and all is done.

I'll enter the bright land of Halcyon
where all my troubles will be quieted.
I'll greet the dawn, and not the setting sun.

It is not death that robs life of its fun,
But rather darkness of the soul instead.
When I am laid away and all is done,
I'll greet the dawn, and not the setting sun.

---William J. Middleton, Ph.D.

Loving Others

Let’s grab a crystal cup and fill it full,
and drink a toast to all the friends we greet.
For loving others is the golden rule

that we all learned when we were back in school.
So let us at this table find a seat
and grab a crystal cup and fill it full

and use this celebration as a tool,
recalling that, and this I will repeat,
our loving others is the golden rule.

Now some might think that I have lost my cool,
or fallen victim of the summer heat,
but grab a crystal cup and fill it full,

I am not ready for the dunce’s stool.
From lessons learned we must not this delete,
that loving others is the golden rule.

To love is like the beauty of a pool,
in which we sit and bathe our neighbor’s feet.
Let’s grab a crystal cup and fill it full,
for loving others is the golden rule.

---Robert W. Birch

Villanelle of a retired overseas Filipino worker

Nobody is left for me to astound.
Where did all my compatriots go?
The ship of my heart has run aground.

In the spring of my life with my friends around,
we toiled on the rice fields with scythes in tow
but now nobody is left for me to astound.

Land to till and rice husks to pound
with the sky above and the sea below.
Did the ship of my heart just run aground?

The wind among the bamboos make a keening sound
as one by one, away my colleagues flow
until nobody is left for me to astound.

Left with memories haphazardly found,
I struggle to remember: friend or foe?
The ship of my heart has run aground.

In the twilight of my life the lonely waves resound
as corners warp, reflexes slow.
Nobody is left for me to astound.
The ship of my heart has run aground.

by Blesilda I. R. Carmona (copyright 2006)
First Place, 2006 International Society of Poets Competition, Las Vegas, NV
Poet of the Year

The Caged Thrush Freed and Home Again

"Men know but little more than we,
Who count us least of things terrene,
How happy days are made to be!

"Of such strange tidings what think ye,
O birds in brown that peck and preen?
Men know but little more than we!

"When I was borne from yonder tree
In bonds to them, I hoped to glean
How happy days are made to be,

"And want and wailing turned to glee;
Alas, despite their mighty mien
Men know but little more than we!

"They cannot change the Frost's decree,
They cannot keep the skies serene;
How happy days are made to be

"Eludes great Man's sagacity
No less than ours, O tribes in treen!
Men know but little more than we
How happy days are made to be."

---by Thomas Hardy

We caught him on film and there he will stay

We caught him on film and there he will stay,
frozen in time with a smile on his face,
forever and ever and that plus a day.

This brother of mine--whom Death took away,
and hid him far off in a shadowy place--
we caught him on film and there he will stay.

When Death takes his mark, it's forever, always,
replacing a mass with the void of a space,
forever and ever and that plus a day.

Though normally Death is precise in his way,
with scythe and with time leaving none of a trace,
we caught him on film and there he will stay.

I'd rather Death took all our pictures away
and left my dear brother right here in his place,
forever and ever and that plus a day.

Yet brother's now gone, he's been taken away,
and though with these pictures he can't be replaced,
we caught him on film and there he will stay,
forever and ever and that plus a day.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

Musical and sweet, the villanelle

Musical and sweet, the villanelle,
like light reflected in a gentle rhyme,
moves to the ringing of a silver bell,

its form creating soft and tender spells.
Like the singing of distant silver chimes,
musical and sweet, the villanelle

flows through the heart, and builds a magic spell
from sunlight and from shadows, and, sublime,
moves to the ringing of a silver bell.

It never arcs into the sharp loud yell
of vast pipe organs. Soft its climb.
Musical and sweet, the villanelle,

like a tiny and translucent shell
catching sunlight in the summer time,
moves to the ringing of a silver bell.

Soft and gentle, tender and so frail,
like light pouring through petals of the lime,
musical and sweet, the villanelle
moves to the ringing of a silver bell.

---Sondra Ball

Delorie

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Cat and Girl Villanelle

One slice of freshly toasted whole wheat rye,
a quarter pound of ham with honey glaze.
Beneath that two crisp leaves of lettuce lie.

Gold breaded trout made at our own fish fry,
scallpos still wet from Massachusetts' Bays.
One slice of freshly toasted whole wheat rye.

The thinnest spread of Libby's Pumpkin Pie
filling, a lone tomato by there stays,
Beneath that two crisp leaves of lettuce lie.

Thick avocado slices pile high.
The chopped red onion chili sets ablaze
one slice of freshly toasted whole wheat rye.

Above this tower one judgemental eye
of pitted olive holds us in its gaze.
Beneath that two crisp leaves of lettuce lie.

There's four great kinds of pickles, sweet to dry,
mustard, optional ketchup, mayonnaise,
one slice of freshly toasted whole wheat rye,
beneath that two crisp leaves of lettuce lie.

---Dorothy Grambell

I sat upon a Villanelle

I sat upon a Villanelle,
by choice quite naturally,
and I began to sing:

that "love's blue bonnets seem to swell
out from my heart, when you I see."
I sat upon a Villanelle,

to harness words which I could tell
'bout love so eloquently,
and I began to sing:

"The day I met you I could tell
you were the one for me."
I sat upon a Villanelle,

to speak words my heart couldn't spell,
to set my heart's song free,
and I began to sing:

"Into your eyes I quickly fell,
this aching love must be decreed
by this one way that I could tell:
I sat upon a Villanelle,
and I began to sing."

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

Because Her Heart Is Tender, for Beth

She scrawled soft words in soap: “Never Forget,”
Dove-white on her car’s window, and the wren,
because her heart is tender, might regret

it called the sun to wake her. As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.
She wrote in sidewalk chalk: “Never Forget,”

and kept her heart’s own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.
Because her heart is tender with regret,

bruised by razed towers’ glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on ...
she stitches in wet linen: “NEVER FORGET,”

and listens to her heart’s emphatic song.
The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret

when fledglings fell beyond, beyond, beyond ...
its reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.
She writes in adamant: “NEVER FORGET”
because her heart is tender with regret.

by Michael R. Burch

Villanelle (minimalist): One Drunken Night

Villanelle (minimalist): One Drunken Night

I think
she'll pour
my drink.

I wink
at more,
I think,

than minx
who pours
my drink.

I sink
to floor,
and think

she stinks!
I roar,
"My drink,

you fink!"
I snore,
and think
I drink.

---Peter Schaeffer

A Wife's Revenge

She looked at him softly and waited
an hour before she got off him,
till breath and his spirit abated.

She spent the whole hour elated,
imagining him in his coffin.
She looked at him softly and waited,

remembering women he dated,
though married, he dated them often,
till breath and his spirit abated.

Her stance he'd not anticipated
upon his throat, watching him coughing,
she looked at him softly and waited.

Her heel on his apple gyrated
and crushed it until it had softened,
till breath and his spirit abated.

He gurgled a protest unstated,
unfazed, she continued the offing.
She looked at him softly and waited
till breath and his spirit abated.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

You're just a figment in my mind

You're just a figment in my mind,
and if I close my mind, my eyes,
then I could leave you far behind.

There's no reality to bind
my heart to yours, why think it, why?
You're just a figment in my mind.

I won't feel guilty that I signed
my love to you, by oath, to tie,
'cause I could leave you far behind.

I could respect your love in kind,
but why remain with just one guy?
You're just a figment in my mind.

You don't exist, I've re-aligned
my heart to many other guys,
'cause I could leave you far behind,

and so I did, and now I find
that should you live or should you die,
you're just a figment in my mind,
and I am leaving you behind.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

Greek Fire (As I Burn with Desire)

As I burn with desire
My brain’s aflame with wantin’
For you are my Greek fire.

Your dream-form I try to capture.
Pillows breathe, sheets become skin,
As I burn with desire.

The road to a place of sulphur
I pave with thoughts forbidden,
For you are my Greek fire

A blaze that will not smother
Consumes my straw-soul with sin
As I burn with desire.

‘Lord, spare me from this danger! ’
I fall on hands and knees, prayin’,
For you are my Greek fire.

You belong to another!
Yet, Lust in the night is callin’,
As I burn with desire
For you. You: My Greek fire.

©® All rights reserved
08/27/2006


Note: from Wikipedia: 'Greek fire was a burning-liquid weapon used by the Byzantine Empire, typically in naval battles to great effect as it could continue burning even on water. '



Ronberge (anno secundo)
(Born October 26th / Montreal, Quebec, Canada)

Finally!

This villanelle is hard to write.
My rhyming skills are very weak.
I fear I’ll be at this all night.

Did other poets find delight
In repetitious double – speak?
This villanelle is hard to write.

Did Eliot find this form too trite
To frame his lines, so stern, so bleak?
I fear I’ll be at this all night.

Or Billy Collins’ pen take flight
And use three lines to show some cheek?
This villanelle is hard to write.

Dante’s terza rima might
Lend itself without a tweak –
I fear I’ll be at this all night.

This form looks simple, black and white,
And I’ve been struggling for a week.
This villanelle is hard to write.
I fear I’ll be at this all night.

---Ed Bennett

Famished

Why must I never taste you in my breath?
So miss the joy of true love’s lips to kiss.
Without you I am hungry unto death.

My heart will beat although ‘tis Eros’ death.
It’s mad to save myself without my self.
Why must I never taste you in my breath?

The world’s a dearth of nurture in its breadth,
For empty stomach match not empty arms.
Without you I am hungry unto death.

As Banquo failed the feast of King MacBeth,
I’ll never dine on love’s most true repast.
Why must I never taste you in my breath?

Lips part, our bodies gap a mere footsbreadth,
A chasm yawning we can never breach.
Without you I am hungry unto death.

A banquet laid for us, love a surfeit;
Hands tied, our cravings never to be sate.
Why must I never taste you in my breath?
Without you I am hungry unto death.

---Cynthia Huddleston

A Blue Wake For New Orleans

~ dirge villanelle in september
(~ for Gatemouth Brown)



There was a rhyming city on a blue bayoo
'Til a wicked wind laid waste —
A nothing sound in a city's soul, and a nothing you can do.

There was a windy will and a blue horn — you,
A single name that was left in haste.
There was a rhyming city on a blue bayoo.

There is a wailing city, a water high, and you,
Left amid the residues up to your waist —
A nothing sound in a city's soul, and a nothing you can do.

There was a loving city in a blue hoodoo
Through a hard-knocks school, a river's waste.
There was a rhyming city on a blue bayoo.

A full moon hue, a relation to dew
Jeweling on a spider's bed — so chaste,
A nothing sound in a city's soul, and a nothing you can do.

There is a silent city, a blue shirt crew,
The yellow vest of savior, waits.
There was a rhyming city on a blue bayoo:
A nothing sound in a city's soul: and a nothing you can do.



Lorna Dee Cervantes
9/12/05

Villanelle

(translation by Amanda French)

I have lost my turtledove:
Isn't that her gentle coo?
I will go and find my love.

Here you mourn your mated love;
Oh, God—I am mourning too:
I have lost my turtledove.

If you trust your faithful dove,
Trust my faith is just as true;
I will go and find my love.

Plaintively you speak your love;
All my speech is turned into
"I have lost my turtledove."

Such a beauty was my dove,
Other beauties will not do;
I will go and find my love.

Death, again entreated of,
Take one who is offered you:
I have lost my turtledove;
I will go and find my love.

Jean Passerat (1534-1602)

Villanelle of Spring Bells

Bells in the town alight with spring
converse, with a concordance of new airs
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.


People emerge from winter to hear them ring,
children glitter with mischief and the blind man hears
bells in the town alight with spring.


Even he on his eyes feels the caressing
finger of Persephone, and her voice escaped from tears
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.


Bird feels the enchantment of his wing
and in ten fine notes dispels twenty cares.
Bells in the town alight with spring


warble the praise of Time, for he can bring
this season: chimes the merry heaven bears
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.


All evil men intent on evil thing
falter, for in their cold unready ears
bells in the town alight with spring
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.

1940

Keith Douglas

Body of the Body of Christ

Body of the Body of Christ
voices overlap at the altar
Bread of the Body of Heaven

knees press together tight
sink into soft red leather
Body of the Body of Christ

hands spread and curve
round the wooden pew, fingers
Bread of the Body of Heaven

rub red the grain. Eyeing
bread and wine, I wonder
Body of the Body of Christ

will I have the nerve
to take, eat, and alter
Bread of the Body of Heave.

my life with a single swallow and sigh
and a vow to remember
Body of the Body of Christ
Bread of the Body of Heaven.

---Dawn Holt Lauber

COPYRIGHT 2003 The Christian Century Foundation
COPYRIGHT 2008 Gale, Cengage Learning

villanelle for a lost love

I remember your arms about me still
The way I felt as you held me tight
The memories haunt me, and always will

I remember the touch of the winter's chill
How you sheltered me from the cold wind's bite
I remember your arms about me still

I remember the moss bed on the hill
Where we lay together, while the sun shone bright
The memories haunt me, and always will

I remember how your touch could thrill
And your kiss transport me with delight
I remember your arms about me still

I remember how thoughts of you would fill
All my fantasies on a starless night
The memories haunt me, and always will

I dwell on these sweeter thoughts until
I forget the pain of our final fight
I remember your arms about me still
The memories haunt me, and always will

---Demeter

Villanelle of the Onion

The onion's just the way I've always been:
Cracked crumpled armadillo-flesh outside
the countless husks of bottle-glass green skin,

outside a hidden heart I can't begin
to sculpt a better metaphor to hide;
The onion's just. The way I've always been,

my keeping reeking layers deep within
revealed the rest. Who wouldn't weep with pride?
The countless husks of bottle-glass green skin

are bent with pent-up pungent tears again,
from days of smiling dryly while I lied.
The onion's just that way. I've always been

ashamed of that, inside--and always in-
sincere about it to myself. I tried
to count the husks of bottle-glass green skin,

and failed. I never let my friends get in,
for fear they'd flee and finally decide:
"The onion's in the way." I've always been
these countless husks of bottle-glass green skin.


--Jurph

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

Are you not weary of ardent ways,
Lure of the fallen seraphim?
Tell no more of enchanted days.

Your eyes have set man's heart ablaze
And you have had your will of him.
Are you not weary of ardent ways?

Above the flame the smoke of praise
Goes up from ocean rim to rim
Tell no more of enchanted days.

Our broken cries and mournful lays
Rise in one eucharistic hymn.
Are you not weary of ardent ways?

While sacrificing hands upraise
The chalice flowing to the brim,
Tell no more of enchanted days.

And still you hold our longing gaze
With langorous look and lavish limb!
Are you not weary of ardent ways?
Tell no more of enchanted days.

---James Joyce

A dainty thing's the Villanelle

A dainty thing's the Villanelle,
Sly, musical, a jewel in rhyme,
It serves its purpose passing well.

A double-clappered silver bell
That must be made to clink in chime,
A dainty thing's the Villanelle;

And if you wish to flute a spell,
Or ask a meeting 'neath the lime,
It serves its purpose passing well.

You must not ask of it the swell
Of organs grandiose and sublime -
A dainty thing's the Villanelle;

And, filled with sweetness, as a shell
Is filled with sound, and launched in time,
It serves its purpose passing well.

Still fair to see and good to smell
As in the quaintness of its prime,
A dainty thing's the Villanelle,
It serves its purpose passing well.

William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)

Aston Villanelle

The boys with claret chests and sleeves of blue
Have found their form, and now they're riding high.
For every goal you score, they will get two.

Results this season prove what Brummies knew.
They won't get beat, however hard you try,
The boys with claret chests and sleeves of blue.

Come Liverpool and Leeds, Chelsea, Man U!
At Villa Park your title dreams will die -
For every goal you score, they will get two.

Some silverware up here is overdue.
This season we can praise them to the sky,
The boys with claret chests and sleeves of blue.

And even if Stan Collymore gets flu,
There's Joachim and Merson (what a buy!) -
For every goal you score, they will get two.

The table tells you what I say is true,
A fact that you'd be foolish to deny:
The boys with claret chests and sleeves of blue,
For every goal you score, they will get two.

---Bob Newman

Remains

Don’t try to find somebody to blame,
pick up the pieces of yesterdays, though
only smoldering rubble will remain.

You have no one to admire. What a shame
you haven’t forgiven those you know.
Don’t try to find somebody to blame.

Attempt to use a forklift or a crane
to haul the baggage, which you cannot show:
Only smoldering rubble will remain.

Stop trying to impress her without a name
of your own. Take care, and leave slow:
Don’t try to find somebody to blame.

Hurry! Move through the town with no restrain,
you are never going to learn to let go:
Only smoldering rubble will remain.

Disregard everything that you could claim
as your own, and look in the mirror, so
don’t try to find somebody to blame,
only smoldering rubble will remain.

---Megan Wyatt

You were for us not only love, but bread

You were for us not only love, but bread,
Our source of sustenance as well as joy.
Now not grief but hunger mourns the dead.

We must content ourselves with what we beg,
The bitter gifts no kindness can alloy.
You were for us not only love, but bread.

We miss you, but our hearts have turned to lead.
We cannot one sweet pang of pain enjoy.
Now not grief but hunger mourns the dead.

Nor have we any tears that we might shed
For you, nor thoughts that might grief buoy.
You were for us not only love, but bread,

And so there are no dreams of you in bed,
Nor memories with which my mind might toy.
Now not grief but hunger mourns the dead.

No room, no room, but emptiness instead,
A need that does all other need destroy.
You were for us not only love, but bread.
Now not grief but hunger mourns the dead.

---Nicholas Gordon

You killed yourself and didn't think of me

You killed yourself and didn't think of me.
I can't blame you for that, and yet I do,
For now your pain becomes my legacy.

What agony impelled you not to be?
I loved you-wasn't that enough for you?
You killed yourself and didn't think of me,

Nor saw through my eyes what you made me see,
Nor cared about my life when yours was through.
And now your pain becomes my legacy,

And I must fight to keep my sanity,
For what you did defines what must be true:
You killed yourself and didn't think of me.

I cannot think you did it selfishly;
So great a sacrifice leaves nothing due.
But now your pain becomes my legacy,

And I must sail across that bitter sea
That leaves no trace of joy or residue.
You killed yourself and didn't think of me,
So now your pain becomes my legacy.

---Nicholas Gordon

Words can tell what hearts divine

Words can tell what hearts divine
This most romantic time of year:
So will you be my Valentine?

I'll be yours if you'll be mine
Till golden moon meets midnight drear.
For words can tell what hearts divine

When air's perfume and water's wine,
And cupids hover at one's ear:
So will you be my Valentine?

And do we feelings dare define
In phrases adamant and clear?
For words can tell what hearts divine,

And souls can step across a line
On days when angels wait to cheer:
So will you be my Valentine?

Ah, love! Let love this one day shine
On fancies lush and passions sheer!
For words can tell what hearts divine:
So will you be my Valentine?

---Nicholas Gordon

When one has reached the age of eighty-five

When one has reached the age of eighty-five,
And years, like mountains crossed, are soft with haze,
It is a triumph simply to survive.

One is where few have managed to arrive,
Where consciousness alone is cause for praise,
When one has reached the age of eighty-five.

And when one can do more than be alive,
Can cope, can comprehend, can turn a phrase,
It's still a triumph simply to survive,

To breathe, to be satiate, to desire, to derive
Solace from the lingering ends of days.
When one has reached the age of eighty-five,

And memories of infancy revive,
And faces long forgotten meet one's gaze,
It is a triumph simply to survive,

To hold together this one world, to strive
To keep what life inevitably betrays.
When one has reached the age of eighty-five,
It is a triumph simply to survive.

---Nicholas Gordon

What a puzzle Nick's poems are!

What a puzzle Nick's poems are!
I cannot grasp what he is after.
Marx is easier by far!

Why write, if one is out to bar
All comprehension? Does he hafta?
Marx is easier by far.

If only some new thought would jar
Bourgeois perception, as in Kafka!
But Nick's poems empty puzzles are.

I think I would put him on par
With Cage or Pollack: Which is dafter?
Marx is easier by far.

Under what sectarian star
Was he begat? What gnomic laughter
Twists those poems which puzzles are?

Ah me! I'll never know. A for-
Eign joke, a filial disaster!
God! Such puzzles Nick's poems are!
Marx is easier--by far!

---Nicholas Gordon

Weep, weep within me, darling

Weep, weep within me, darling. There's release
In tears, in sorrow, in love that brings such pain.
You live inside of me, so rest in peace.

I know that like a sea you cannot cease
To crash against my heart, again, again.
Weep, weep within me, darling. There's release

From all the cruelty of your short lease,
The unimagined hell of the self-slain.
You live inside of me, so rest in peace.

I was cut off from you and could not piece
Together bows that lay beyond your rain.
Weep, weep within me, darling. There's release

In knowing that your love, like magic fleece,
Will warm me through the winters that remain.
You live inside of me, so rest in peace.

My love for you, dear mother, will increase
As more and more your will I will unchain.
Weep, weep within me, darling: there's release.
You live inside of me, so rest in peace.

---Nicholas Gordon

Wedding Vows

1. Because I love and cherish you,
And want to fill your heart with grace,
These things I promise I will do:

I vow to tell you what is true
That you might touch whom you embrace
Because I love and cherish you.

I vow to put aside my view
And paint my portrait from your place:
These things I promise I will do.

And when you must your dreams renew,
I vow to give you ample space
Because I love and cherish you.

I vow to make our battles few
And love the child behind the face:
These things I promise I will do.

And that we might make one of two,
Too deep to know, too vast to trace,
Because I love and cherish you,
These things I promise I will do.

2. These things I promise I will do
That life may grant you ample grace
Because I love and cherish you:

I vow to treasure what is true
That I might touch whom I embrace:
These things I promise I will do.

I'll build a garden in your view
That with sweet fruit will stone replace
Because I love and cherish you.

I vow to love each day anew,
For love must dance through time and space:
These things I promise I will do.

I vow to make your terrors few
And then with you those demons face
Because I love and cherish you.

And now, as we make one of two,
A passage we cannot retrace,
These things I promise I will do
Because I love and cherish you.

---Nicholas Gordon

Though I chose death instead of pointless pain

Though I chose death instead of pointless pain,
Please forgive the manner of my leaving.
My love and need for all of you remain.

I could not long such suffering sustain,
Nor would it long have held you from your grieving.
Though I chose death instead of pointless pain,

I hope that choice will not my memory stain,
Nor lead you to be wroth at my deceiving.
My love and need for all of you remain.

For only in you do I live again,
Woven like a wind into your weaving.
Though I chose death instead of pointless pain,

I put to you the plea of the self-slain:
To comprehend an anguish past conceiving.
My love and need for all of you remain

That all that I have been not be in vain,
But blend into the earth of your believing.
Though I chose death instead of pointless pain,
My love and need for all of you remain.

---Nicholas Gordon

Those last few years of helpless pain

Those last few years of helpless pain,
Depression, sickness, sadness, blight:
Ah! Would I have them back again!

I could not such demand sustain
On my poor stock of love and light
Those last few years of helpless pain,

When what I had to do was plain,
And I lacked strength to do it right.
Ah! Would I have them back again

To love you better, though in vain,
And be with you with all my might!
Those last few years of helpless pain

Are now for me what must remain:
I did not your long love requite.
Ah! Would I have them back again,

I would that single chance regain
To bring you well to your good night.
Those last few years of helpless pain:
Ah! Would I have them back again!

---Nicholas Gordon

This truth is like a sea that has no shore

This truth is like a sea that has no shore,
Chaos infinite in heart and mind:
That you should once have been, and are no more.

To me you are as lovely as before:
Your voice still sings of life, your eyes still shine.
This truth is like a sea that has no shore,

An agony no reason can endure,
A knot of pain no passion can unbind:
That you should once have been, and are no more.

You died because some drunken bastard bore
Across the barrier of one thin line.
This truth is like a sea that has no shore:

That I cannot your battered face restore;
That all my love for you cannot turn time;
That you should once have been, and are no more.

We are all on a death march, numb and raw,
Driven on as loved ones fall behind.
This truth is like a sea that has no shore:
That you should once have been, and are no more.

---Nicholas Gordon

This Mother's Day without you strains belief

This Mother's Day without you strains belief
In life and love and what it means to be,
But there is beauty in my lonely grief.

Your death is like a wound without relief,
Pain on pain as far as I can see,
And so this day without you strains belief.

What's the point of living when a thief
Can break into your heart so easily?
But there is beauty in my lonely grief.

You fell away from me, a withered leaf
Twisting down to darkness, leaving me
This day without you, chilling my belief.

And yet there's beauty in this burning brief
Bright burst of light that ends in agony,
Beauty in the cause of lonely grief,

The love I have for you, a jewel-like reef
In silent prayer beneath my empty sea.
This Mother's Day without you strains belief,
But there is beauty in my lonely grief.

---Nicholas Gordon

There's no understanding what you did

There's no understanding what you did,
Or why, or what we now should think or do:
No way to see what your last sorrow hid.

What unimaginable agony amid
Our ordinary lives unraveled you?
There's no understanding what you did,

No way for you to tell us why you rid
Yourself of us and family, and . . . who?
No way to see what your last sorrow hid.

Or was it you were just a spoiled kid,
Trying to make us all feel bad for you?
There's no understanding what you did,

Whether mere curiosity had bid
You to sneak ahead a lethal view;
No way to see what your last sorrow hid,

Nor penetrate that awful, granite lid
That lies between our thoughts and what is true.
There's no understanding what you did,
No way to see what your last sorrow hid.

---Nicholas Gordon

There is no greater miracle than this

There is no greater miracle than this:
The quickening of flesh within the womb,
Summoning an angel to a kiss.

Ay, me! Again the gist of Genesis:
The gulf of light darts vast against the gloom!
There is no greater miracle than this.

Ay, me! Again the voice of the abyss,
Tailoring the temple to the tomb,
Summoning an angel to a kiss.

The paradox defies analysis:
Soul from sand, sanctity from spume.
There is no greater miracle than this.

Nor ought one such absurdity dismiss:
The rationing of reason to a room,
Summoning an angel to a kiss.

Life walks upon a sea of nothingness,
Eternal in the beauty of its bloom.
There is no greater miracle than this:
Summoning an angel to a kiss.

---Nicholas Gordon

There are mountains too beautiful to see

There are mountains too beautiful to see
And valleys far too lovely for our eyes.
Yet that is where we often want to be:

Pure and passionate, untamed and free,
Racing through a field beyond our skies
In those mountains too beautiful to see.

We hunger with a cruel intensity
That rips away the smile on our disguise.
Yet that is where we often want to be:

Impaled upon a painful ecstasy
So real that all else seems like whispered lies
In those mountains too beautiful to see.

But we must sing our lonely sanity
And dance among the ashes of our cries.
Yet that is where we often want to be:

Naked in a room that we would flee,
Defenseless in our love, if we are wise.
For those mountains are too beautiful to see,
And those valleys are too lovely far to be.

---Nicholas Gordon

The vows you have just taken, pledging love

The vows you have just taken, pledging love,
Mean far more than words can ever mean.
May their gentle spirit in you move.

May your years fulfill the beauty of
The feelings whose expression we've just seen,
The vows you have just taken, pledging love.

And may you always put these vows above
The things that make life smaller and more mean.
May their gentle spirit in you move.

May your children know the power of
These words to shape a world that's sane and clean,
These vows you have just taken, pledging love.

And if some day there is a need to prove
The strength of will that from these words you glean,
May their gentle spirit in you move.

Let no fear or pain your love remove,
Nor shallow, selfish hope your true joy screen.
Let the vows you've taken, pledging love,
In their awesome grace within you move.

---Nicholas Gordon

Talk to me as lovers do

Talk to me as lovers do,
Regardless what you have to say,
And I will gladly talk to you.

Be kind, but most of all be true:
Throw your masks and shields away.
Talk to me as lovers do,

Anger, pain, and boredom, too,
Let all that's in you come my way,
And I will gladly talk to you.

We've had rough times, but we get through:
We choose through hurricanes to stay.
So talk to me as lovers do.

Beneath the storm I will renew
My vow to love you more each day,
And I will gladly talk to you.

All darkness turns to light when you
And I can weep and touch and play.
Come talk to me as lovers do
And I will gladly talk to you.

---Nicholas Gordon

Such love of life cannot so quickly fade

Such love of life cannot so quickly fade
Or vanish like a vapor in the wind.
For it was of a lasting pleasure made,

And fierce, fierce joy too bright to turn to shade,
A sun no single moment can rescind.
Such love of life cannot so quickly fade

Or vanish from the fields on which it played
These many years so fortunate and kind.
For it was of a lasting pleasure made,

Nor can it be by time or space betrayed,
As music is immortal in the mind.
Such love of life cannot so quickly fade

Or vanish as the yearning years invade,
Sweeping 'cross the will unknowing, blind.
For it was of a lasting pleasure made,

Singing through the silence unafraid,
In beauty still sustained our hearts combined.
Such love of life cannot so quickly fade,
For it was of a lasting pleasure made.

---Nicholas Gordon

No love so strong it needs no sign

No love so strong it needs no sign,
Nor feeling deep it needs no light:
So will you be my Valentine?

Love loves the days that loves define,
When words bring souls to silent sight.
No love so strong it needs no sign,

Nor can we our own souls divine
Without the music of delight:
So will you be my Valentine?

And will you let yourself be mine
As I am yours, of need and right?
No love so strong it needs no sign,

Nor is it wrong to draw a line
And need with hungry need requite:
So will you be my Valentine?

For love grows old like sun-drenched wine
That sweetness brings to evenings bright.
No love so strong it needs no sign:
So will you be my Valentine?

---Nicholas Gordon

I'm sorry I can't be with you today

I'm sorry I can't be with you today
When all the family's gathered in one place.
But I am with you in another way,

A current in the stream of what you say,
Alive within your consciousness of grace.
I'm sorry I can't be with you today

To share your happiness and touch the clay
That once it was my fortune to embrace.
But I am with you in another way,

An intimate that time cannot betray,
With you always, unconstrained by space.
I'm sorry I can't be with you today

To watch with you the slanting sunlight play,
Casting lovely shadows through the lace.
But I am with you in another way,

Waiting for you where the shadows lay
Their darkness soft across your gentle face.
I'm sorry I can't be with you today.
But I am with you in another way.

---Nicholas Gordon

I would not be the sun to end your night

I would not be the sun to end your night,
Nor would I be the wall to turn your tears.
But I will watch with you until it's light.

Because there are no words to set things right
Nor hopes that one immersed in mourning hears,
I would not be the sun to end your night,

Offering a wisdom far too bright
To soothe your pain or put to rest your fears.
But I will watch with you until it's light.

There must be time to grieve that sorrow might
Be equal to the love of days and years.
I would not be the sun to end your night.

For grief, before it breaks, must reach its height,
And tides must turn before one homeward steers.
But I will watch with you until it's light.

There are agonies no friendship can requite,
A bitterness unstained till dawn appears.
I would not be the sun to end your night.
But I will watch with you until it's light.

---Nicholas Gordon

I want you, but I don't want you to know

I want you, but I don't want you to know.
I fear the loss more than I trust the gain.
You are my love. I will not let you go.

Nor do I have the courage to bestow
My love on you, that you might see me plain.
I want you, but I don't want you to know.

I fear your presence like an undertow
That drags me out unready, trite, inane.
You are my love. I will not let you go.

And yet when you are near I feel you glow
Like sunlight dancing through my windowpane.
I want you, but I don't want you to know.

Empty but for you, I cannot show
You anything of interest I contain.
You are my love. I will not let you go.

I am a box within a box, safe so.
Sealed from self, I hide from your disdain.
I want you, but I don't want you to know.
You are my love. I will not let you go.

---Nicholas Gordon

I think of you as watching from

I think of you as watching from
A time and space beyond the sky,
A place where we might someday come,

Alexis and I, and we three some
Sweet moments share. Though it's a lie,
I think of you as watching from

This place, and know you're gone, but numb
With grief, I cannot let you die.
There is no place where we can come

Together once again. It's dumb
To think so. Yet when I cry,
I think of you as watching from

A happiness I cannot plumb,
More real than real, more want than why,
A place where we might someday come,

Alexis and I. No heart can sum
The measurements that yield goodbye.
And so I keep you watching from
A place where we might someday come.

---Nicholas Gordon

I think about you most of every day

I think about you most of every day.
You are the gift that graces all I do,
The single star that lights my lonely way.

I miss so much what words cannot convey:
The lilt, the laugh, the smile, the savor new.
I think about you most of every day

And dream about the places where you play,
Wandering where you might wander, too,
The single star that lights my lonely way,

The happiness that haunts where I must stay,
This wilderness of soul where wounds accrue.
I think about you most of every day,

And in this cell where I am locked away,
Where no one hears my song, I sing to you,
The single star that lights my lonely way.

I sing of truth that words cannot betray
And love no harrowing can hide from view.
I think about you most of every day,
The single star that lights my lonely way.

---Nicholas Gordon

I must accept but can't what cannot be

I must accept but can't what cannot be.
I see you and my heart dissolves in pain.
You are not dead, but you are dead to me.

What happened to our love's a mystery.
I rummage through our empty past in vain.
I must accept but can't what cannot be:

That someone else now shares your off-hand "we,"
Now feels your tender tongue all feeling drain . . .
You are not dead, but you are dead to me.

I cannot lay aside my agony:
Again, again I play the same refrain.
I must accept but can't what cannot be.

And yet I know this tortured ecstasy
Is just my way of holding you again.
You are not dead, but you are dead to me,

And still I cannot bear to set you free,
That of our love some remnant might remain.
I must accept but can't what cannot be.
You are not dead, but you are dead to me.

---Nicholas Gordon

I feel as though my heart must stop with pain

I feel as though my heart must stop with pain.
I miss you so, the darkness will not pale.
My darling child, come to me again.

I know you cannot come, and still I strain
To put my arms around you through the veil.
I feel as though my heart must stop with pain.

Other lives and loves call me in vain.
I try to turn away from you and fail.
My darling child, come to me again.

You are my unendurable refrain.
Back and back I hurry to impale
My heart on you, to stop my heart with pain.

Yet nothing that I do undoes the plain
Brutal fact which always must prevail.
Ah, my darling, come to me again!

You are both my sunshine and my rain,
My dearest joy, my anguish, and my grail.
I feel as though my heart must stop with pain.
My darling child, come to me again.

---Nicholas Gordon

Foster children move from place to place

Foster children move from place to place
With memories that walk the night alone,
Nor is the love theirs that they must embrace.

Yet most survive with a peculiar grace,
Even though their hearts should turn to stone
As they move about from place to place.

Perhaps within themselves they find a space
To furnish as they would a mobile home,
Finding scraps of things they can embrace,

A memory like some much-fingered lace,
Thoughts and dreams that only they have known,
Moving as they do from place to place,

Their childhood impossible to trace
In the years of yearning after they are grown,
Filled with love they've chosen to embrace,

Yet with their losses etched upon their face,
Pain for which no penance can atone.
How can they move and move from place to place,
Surrendering the love they must embrace?

---Nicholas Gordon

Christmas is a time for love and fun

Christmas is a time for love and fun,
A time to reshape souls and roots and skies,
A time to give your heart to everyone

Freely, like a rich and lavish sun,
Like a burning star to those whose lonely sighs
Show need of such a time for love and fun.

For children first, whose pain is never done,
Whose bright white fire of anguish never dies,
It's time to give your heart to every one,

That not one angel fall, to hatred won
For lack of ears to listen to her cries,
Or arms to carry him towards love and fun,

Or friends to care what happens on the run
To adult life, where joy or sadness lies.
It's time to give your heart to everyone,

For God loves all, and turns His back on none,
Good or twisted, ignorant or wise.
Christmas is a time for love and fun,
A time to give your heart to everyone.

---Nicholas Gordon

Believe, believe in the power of love

Believe, believe in the power of love
To save us all from death and sin,
And God that way your heart will move.

Christ came to Earth to free us of
The state of vengeance we were in.
Believe, believe in the power of love

To change the heart from snake to dove,
To make dust bloom and goodness win,
And God that way your heart will move.

Christ arose from death to prove
That we a new life could begin.
Believe, believe in the power of love

To bring us to a life above,
A life of glory near to Him,
And God that way your heart will move.

Christ will all our sins remove
And make us feel His joy within.
Believe, believe in the power of love,
And God that way your heart will move.

---Nicholas Gordon

Before I was myself you made me, me

Before I was myself you made me, me
With love and patience, discipline and tears,
Then bit by bit stepped back to set me free,

Allowing me to sail upon my sea,
Though well within the headlands of your fears.
Before I was myself you made me, me

With dreams enough of what I was to be
And hopes that would be sculpted by the years,
Then bit by bit stepped back to set me free,

Relinquishing your powers gradually
To let me shape myself among my peers.
Before I was myself you made me, me,

And being good and wise, you gracefully
As dancers when the last sweet cadence nears
Bit by bit stepped back to set me free.

For love inspires learning naturally:
The mind assents to what the heart reveres.
And so it was through love you made me, me
By slowly stepping back to set me free.

---Nicholas Gordon

Because like roots we intertwine

BEST MAN*

Because like roots we intertwine,
Planted in a single place,
Your happiness is also mine,

Deep as love's first blood-borne sign
In that most intimate of space.
Because like roots we intertwine

And each for each the world design,
Wrestling towards a common grace,
Your happiness is also mine

Though shared in ways we can't define,
Too true to touch, too vast to trace.
Because like roots we intertwine,

Obliterating every line
That might divide our long embrace,
Your happiness is also mine

As you with nuptial vows combine
That love might weave its buried lace.
Like roots, your lives will intertwine.
Then let your happiness be mine!

MAID OF HONOR

Because like roots we intertwine,
Living in a long embrace,
Your happiness is also mine,

Spilling over, just as wine
Must flood the heart's too narrow space.
Because like roots we intertwine

And each for each must life define
In ways too myriad to trace,
Your happiness is also mine,

A joy that knows no boundary line,
Nor limit to its golden grace.
Because like roots we intertwine

And over years did love refine,
Planted in our single place,
Your happiness is also mine

As you with nuptial vows combine
That love might weave anew its lace.
Like roots, your lives will intertwine.
Then let your happiness be mine!

*This poem assumes that the best man is the groom's brother and the maid/matron of honor is the bride's sister. If only one of these is true, you can use either of the poems, either of which would work for the best man or the maid/matron of honor.

---Nicholas Gordon

As my debt grows, so my love does, too

As my debt grows, so my love does, too.
What you give I cannot half repay.
Your love for me enflames my love for you.

I can't help being moody, often blue,
Irritable, anxious, sad, and yet you stay.
As my debt grows, so my love does, too.

I know I'm lucky to have someone who
Will love me through this, day by troubled day.
Your love for me enflames my love for you.

Gifts like yours to me do not accrue.
Still, it's hard when giving goes one way.
As my debt grows, so my love does, too.

Yet unlike money, love is never due.
Its return is free, in just the way
Your love for me enflames my love for you,

A natural grace, making one of two.
And so this darkness has its own bright ray:
As my debt grows, so my love does, too;
Your love for me enflames my love for you.

---Nicholas Gordon

As I wait at the head of the aisle

As I wait at the head of the aisle
On Dad's arm, about to be wed,
I remember the light of your smile

In the days when I still was a child,
And you kissed me goodnight in my bed.
And I think, as I wait by the aisle,

Of an innocent world without guile,
An Eden where goodness is bred:
Lit by the light of your smile,

A place where one tarries awhile,
Sheltered from sorrow and dread.
I wait by the head of the aisle

With a gift that no years can defile,
A beauty no winter can shed.
And I walk in the light of your smile

To a life that was mine all the while,
And a love that is just as you said:
A love that waits down the aisle
For the warmth and the light of my smile.

---Nicholas Gordon

A villanelle for Mother's Day

A villanelle for Mother's Day
Should take me just about an hour:
Writing it is child's play.

Because I know just what to say,
And rhyming's quite within my power,
To write it should be child's play.

Yet plain speech is not my way:
I look for leaves to shade my flower,
This villanelle for Mother's Day.

I do not wish to sound too fey,
Obscure, mystic, gushy, sour--
Arggh! Writing's never child's play!

Yes, childish! To my dismay,
Far beyond the allotted hour,
This villanelle for Mother's Day

Dawdles on. Let me just say
It plain: I love you, and so end our
Villanelle for Mother's Day.
(Well ... writing it was child's play.)

---Nicholas Gordon

A mother casts her dreams into the sea

A mother casts her dreams into the sea;
We, the words sent bobbing towards the sun,
The eggs of stone, the shards of prophesy.

Because she must conclude her melody
And fall back to the sweet dark hush of One,
A mother casts her dreams into the sea,

Hoping to cross that wild infinity
And on some infant shore again to run,
The eggs of stone, the shards of prophesy

Outside the fiery circle of memory,
The howling surf, the incessant years undone …
A mother casts her dreams into the sea

And then dissolves into a tapestry,
Her rolling, helpless drift again begun,
The eggs of stone, the shards of prophesy

Afloat once more upon eternity,
Once more the alien fury, never done …
Again, again, her dreams into the sea,
The eggs of stone, the shards of prophesy!

---Nicholas Gordon

VILLANELLE AFTER A BURIAL

Whatever they turned into wasn't ash.
Afraid of finding teeth, or something bony,
We had to face the aftermath of flesh.

Father's looked like coral: coarse, whitish.
Mother's looked like sand, but a fine dark gray.
Whatever they turned into wasn't ash --

More like a grainy noise that rose, a shush
We buried under their willow, spilled really.
We had to face it: the aftermath of flesh

Takes just two shovelfuls of dirt to finish
Off completely. Don't expect epiphanies,
Whatever they turned into. Wasn't ash

A dusty enough word, though, for the wish
That bits of spirit settle in what we see
After we face the aftermath of flesh?

We drove off in three pairs, each astonished
By awkward living talk, jittery keys.
We had to face the aftermath of flesh
(Whatever they turned into) wasn't ash.

---Steven Cramer

Copyright © 1997 by The Atlantic Monthly Company. All rights reserved.
The Atlantic Monthly; March 1997; Villanelle After A Burial; Volume 279, No. 3; page 52.

PRE-RAPHAELITES

Beauty clouds by accident and surprise
rendering malignant flaw from images benign
like the sliver in Fra Filippo Lippi's eye.

In tempera, forms the icon we surmise
awash with cherubs on a barrel-lid of brine--
beauty clouds by accident, and surprise.

Sculpting virgins out of marble, pieces fly,
the resolute and earnest strike resigns
like the sliver in Fra Filippo Lippi's eye.

A crease, a curve, soft to sight, it lies
somewhere between a rhythm and a rhyme--
beauty clouds by accident, and surprise.

But you, bright love, who set yourself astride,
my head within your hands, you drift in kind
like the sliver in Fra Filippo Lippi's eye.

You know, too well, an artist knows he dies
in increments of stone and paint, refined--
beauty clouds by accident, and surprise
like the sliver in Fra Filippo Lippi's eye.

---W. Holman Hunt

When We Were Thirteen

Remember running wild and free
when we hung out by the river,
you and Markus and Tim and me.

We'd walk for an eternity.
We took what life could deliver
remember running wild and free.

Our voices echoed loud with glee
till it got dark and we'd shiver,
you and Markus and Tim and me.

Quite often we went absentee.
Mum got cross but we'd forgive her
remember running wild and free.

Our parents tried to oversee.
They went mad and made us quiver,
you and Markus and Tim and me.

Then we grew up. Now we're forty,
This memory is a sliver.
Remember running wild and free,
you and Markus and Tim and me.

© Copyright Suzanne Honour 2002-2003

Do You Stand Alone

Do you stand alone in a crowd
Do you always do your best
Head held high and feeling proud

Do you whisper or speak aloud
Or like a sheep go with the rest
Do you stand alone in a crowd

Straight and tall and head unbowed
Are you righteous or are you blessed
Head held high and feeling proud

Seeds of doubt we must unshroud
Are you ready to sit the test
Do you stand alone in a crowd

No matter how you are endowed
If you give when you are pressed
Head held high and feeling proud

If fruits of wisdom you have ploughed
I welcome you to be my guest
Do you stand alone in a crowd
Head held high and feeling proud
Bathe with me in candlelight.
I melt when you say my name.
Hold me close and hold me tight

Sparks we flash will soon ignite
fiery passion and delight.
Stay with me all through the night

Your golden glow makes things right,
go out, then it's not the same.
Hold me close and hold me tight

Darkness is a lonely sight,

© Copyright Suzanne Honour 2002-2003

Stay With Me

Hold me close and hold me tight
Run your fingers through my hair
Stay with me all through the night

It feels so good, it feels so right
Say you love me if you dare
Hold me close and hold me tight

Tell me it will be alright
If only we could be a pair
Stay with me all through the night

We can share in great delight
Let me love you, let me care
Hold me close and hold me tight

I pray you will, I pray you might
Be the answer to my prayer
Stay with me all through the night

Be there in the morning light
Please do not go anywhere
Hold me close and hold me tight
Stay with me all throught the night

Part II

Hold me close and hold me tight
I'm a candle. You're my flame.
Stay with me all through the night

Bathe with me in candlelight.
I melt when you say my name.
Hold me close and hold me tight

Sparks we flash will soon ignite
fiery passion and delight.
Stay with me all through the night

Your golden glow makes things right,
go out, then it's not the same.
Hold me close and hold me tight

Darkness is a lonely sight,
staring through the window frame.
Stay with me all through the night

Smoulder till the morning light.
Without you I have no aim.
Hold me close and hold me tight
Stay with me all throught the night

© Copyright Suzanne Honour 2002-2003

Only Yesterday

It seems like only yesterday
I felt your fingers tiny grip.
You smiled and laughed and loved to play

Building blocks and modeling clay.
Attached as always to my hip
It seems like only yesterday.

I lost you in the shops one day
Into the dress rack you did slip.
You smiled and laughed and loved to play

You didn't really run away.
T'was such a frightful shopping trip.
It seems like only yesterday

You brought me breakfast on a tray
Flowers, toast, and coffee to sip
You smiled and laughed and loved to play.

But growing I cannot delay
These apron strings I have to snip.
It seems like only yesterday
You smiled and laughed and loved to play.

© Copyright Suzanne Honour 2002-2003

Oh, in this way, my grief, I fight.

Oh, in this way, my grief, I fight:
with my soul's deepest groans,
I write and write and write and write.

I write all day and write all night,
in melancholy tones.
Oh, in this way, my grief, I fight:

with words that growl and snap and bite.
And, pining for those lovely bones,
I write and write and write and write,

for all that's left within my sight's
the covering of hand-placed stones.
Oh, in this way, my grief, I fight:

by sun's and candle's waning light,
expressing pain through trembling moans,
I write and write and write and write.

For brother I will grieve tonight,
he's left me all alone.
Oh, in this way, my grief, I fight:
I write and write and write and write.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

CRETE - 1941 AND 1971

CRETE - 1941 AND 1971

by J. Zimmerman.

At the village entrance, the glass casket, full
of human bones, meets the traveler to Crete.
The moon gleams like a skull upon each skull.

Fishermen (fathers, husbands, or sons of these sorrowful
fragments) ferried to ships the Allies in retreat.
At the village entrance, the glass casket, full

of ghosts of women and children torn fearful
from cottages, remembers the Nazi military elite.
The moon gleams like a skull upon each skull,

upon slim bones from arms that once could lull
babies, and upon bones from babies feet.
At the village entrance, the glass casket, full

of thighbones, commemorates those too slow to haul
themselves into the hills. In the evening heat,
the moon gleams like a skull upon each skull.

Three decades later, German sailors, dull
to history, laugh together jostling on a seat
at the village entrance - the glass casket. Full
the moon gleams like a skull upon each skull.

Copyright © 2002-2008 by J. Zimmerman.

He Said, She Said

He said
he loved her. She didn't love him,
she said.

Her love was quite dead.
She always provoked him,
he said.

He was bad in bed.
She no longer craved him,
she said.

She's sick in the head,
always belittled him,
he said.

Beginnings were painted in red,
romance was alive on a whim,
she said.

The therapist listened with dread.
He hates her, she hates him,
he said,
she said.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

A Villanelle for the Cows

The cows press muzzles to the swelling green.
Their heavy bodies carried with much grace,
scattered, they complete the pastoral scene.

They leave the pasture close-mowed when they pass
and move across the grass with steady pace.
The cows press muzzles to the swelling green.

Their printed tracks in field, wood, brook are seen.
On hills they trample paths from every trace.
Scattered, they complete the pastoral scene.

When sunset dims their range they are serene,
and standing round the hills remain in place.
The cows press muzzles to the swelling green.

The coyote calls among the hills ring keen,
but cattle, undisturbed, still hold their space.
Scattered, they complete the pastoral scene.

All day their busy mouths crop, cut, and glean,
methodically, at slow but steady pace,
the cows press muzzles to the swelling green,
and scattered, they complete the pastoral scene.

Theocritus: a Villanelle

O SINGER of Persephone!
In the dim meadows desolate
Dost thou remember Sicily?

Still through the ivy flits the bee
Where Amaryllis lies in state; 5
O Singer of Persephone!

Simætha calls on Hecate
And hears the wild dogs at the gate;
Dost thou remember Sicily?

Still by the light and laughing sea 10
Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate:
O Singer of Persephone!

And still in boyish rivalry
Young Daphnis challenges his mate:
Dost thou remember Sicily? 15

Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee,
For thee the jocund shepherds wait,
O Singer of Persephone!
Dost thou remember Sicily?

Rockin' a Man, Stone Blind

Cake in the oven, clothes out on the line,
Night wind blowin' against sweet, yellow thighs,
Two-eyed woman rockin' a man stone blind.

Man smell of honey, dark like coffee grind;
Countin' on his fingers since last July.
Cake in the oven, clothes out on the line.

Mister Jacobs say he be colorblind,
But got to tighten belts and loosen ties.
Two-eyed woman rockin' a man stone blind.

Winter becoming angry, rent behind.
Strapping spring sun needed to make mud pies.
Cake in the over, clothes out on the line.

Looked in the mirror, Bessie's face I find.
I be so down low, my man be so high.
Two-eyed woman rockin' a man stone blind.

Policemans found him; damn near lost my mind.
Can't afford no flowers; can't even cry.
Cake in the oven, clothes out on the line.
Two-eyed woman rockin' a man stone blind.



--Carolyn Beard Whitlow

Daughters, 1900

Five daughters, in the slant light on the porch,
are bickering. The eldest has come home
with new truths she can hardly wait to teach.

She lectures them: the younger daughters search
the sky, elbow each others' ribs, and groan.
Five daughters, in the slant light on the porch

and blue-sprigged dresses, like a stand of birch
saplings whose leaves are going yellow-brown
with new truths. They can hardly wait to teach,

themselves, to be called "Ma'am," to march
high-heeled across the hanging bridge to town.
Five daughters. In the slant light on the porch

Pomp lowers his paper for a while, to watch
the beauties he's begotten with his Ann:
these new truths they can hardly wait to teach.

The eldest sniffs, "A lady doesn't scratch."
The third snorts back, "Knock, knock: nobody home."
The fourth concedes, "Well, maybe not in church..."
Five daughters in the slant light on the porch.



--Marilyn Nelson Waniek

I Jokes

In Nome we say I jokes
quick and deadpan

at the end of a joke. I jokes
we say, the Eskimo
English sticky on tongue.

In Nome we say I jokes
all right. Could be a cluck or a croak.

Or shyly, mouth covered by hand

at the end of a joke. I jokes
is how we poke
fun at our people and plans.

In Nome we say I jokes
because even though broken,
we've survived, a clan

at the end of a joke. I jokes,
we say, our spoken
coda, our last proud stand.
In Nome we say I jokes
at the end of a joke. I jokes.

Chatty Cathy Villanelle

When you grow up, what will you do?
Please come to my tea party.
I'm Chatty Cathy. Who are you?

Let's take a trip to the zoo.
Tee-hee, tee-hee, tee-hee. You're silly!
When you grow up, what will you do?

One plus one equals two.
It's fun to learn your ABCs.
I'm Chatty Cathy. Who are you?

Please help me tie my shoe.
Can you come out and play with me?
When you grow up, what will you do?

The rooster says cock-a-doodle-doo.
Please read me a bedtime story.
I'm Chatty Cathy. Who are you?

Our flag is red, white and blue.
Let's make believe you're Mommy.
When you grow up, what will you do?
I'm Chatty Cathy. Who are you?



--David Trinidad

Two de Chiricos

1. The Philosopher's Content

This melancholy moment will remain,
So, too, the oracle beyond the gate,
And always the tower, the boat, the distant train.

Somewhere to the south a Duke is slain,
A war is won. Here, it is too late.
This melancholy moment will remain.

Here, an autumn evening without rain,
Two artichokes abandoned on a crate,
And always the tower, the boat, the distant train.

Is this another scene of childhood pain?
Why do the clockhands say 1:28?
This melancholy moment will remain.

The green and yellow light of love's domain
Falls upon the joylessness of fate,
And always the tower, the boat, the distant train.

The things our vision wills us to contain,
The life of objects, their unbearable weight.
This melancholy moment will remain,
And always the tower, the boat, the distant train.


2. The Disquieting Muses

Boredom sets in first, and then despair.
One tries to brush it off. It only grows.
Something about the silence of the square.

Something is wrong; something about the air,
Its color; about the light, the way it goes.
Something about the silence of the square.

The muses in their fluted evening wear,
Their faces blank, might lead one to suppose
Something about the silence of the square,

Something about the buildings standing there.
But no, they have no purpose but to pose.
Boredom sets in first, and then despair.

What happens after that, one doesn't care.
What brought one here--the desire to compose
Something about the silence of the square,

Or something else, of which one's not aware,
Life itself, perhaps--who really knows?
Boredom sets in first, and then despair...
Something about the silence of the square.


--Mark Strand

A Benevolent Villanelle

Pity the bigots who scream and yell.
They're victims of their social class
And cannot help the way they smell.

Of cheap perfume and muscatel.
They're loud and coarse and shrill and crass.
Oh, pity the bigots who scream and yell

And scribble curses they misspell,
Whose bowels are ever letting gas,
So they can't help the way they smell.

Their daily life's a form of hell
With test upon test they'll never pass.
Pity the bigots who scream and yell,

And offer them a looking glass
Inscribed, in Hebrew, I'm an ass.
Pity the bigots who scream and yell
And cannot help the way they smell.

(C)2008, Tom Disch

Villain Elle

Whenever I wake up and don't feel well,
I like to read a women's magazine.
I know that I can count on Vogue or Elle,

Cosmo or Glamour, Jane or Mademoiselle,
Instead of pills, elixirs, or caffeine,
Whenever I wake up and don't feel well.

Page eight has bathing suits that look just swell
If you're six foot and live on Lean Cuisine.
I know that I can count on Vogue or Elle.

Page nine's a list of "wardrobe musts" that sell
At reasonable prices--for a queen.
Whenever I wake up and don't feel well,

Page ten says how to age, yet stay a belle.
The photo? It's a model of eighteen.
I know that I can count on Vogue or Elle

To make my time in bed such living hell,
I'm out of there in sixty seconds clean.
Whenever I wake up and don't feel well,
I know that I can count on Vogue or Elle.

Voice Mail Villanelle

We're grateful that you called today
And sorry that we're occupied.
We will be with you right away.

Press one if you would like to stay,
Press two if you cannot decide.
We're grateful that you called today.

Press three to end this brief delay,
Press four if you believe we've lied.
We will be with you right away.

Press five to hear some music play,
Press six to speak with someone snide.
We're grateful that you called today.

Press seven if your hair's turned gray,
Press eight if you've already died.
We will be with you right away.

Press nine to hear recordings say
That service is our greatest pride.
We're grateful that you called today.
We will be with you right away.

Drawing After Summer

I saw the ruins of poetry, of a poetry
Of a parody and it was a late copy bright as candy.
I approach your metal mouth, you put it close to me.

By the long column of a summer's day
Like a pair of wild cars on the highway
I saw the ruins of poetry, of a poetry.

The doll within the doll might tell the story
Inside the store: the real estate you could not buy.
I approach your metal mouth, you put it close to me.

Violin lies on piano and makes reply.
Hunted words. Gathered sentences. Pencils too heavy to carry.
I saw the ruins of poetry, of a poetry.

The history of time-lapse photography
Is a student exercise. Throttle the sky.
I approach your metal mouth, you put it close to me.

The moon moves outward failing to grip the roadway.
I see you stuck in the ground like a dictionary.
I saw the ruins of poetry, of a poetry.
I approach your metal mouth, you put it close to me.



--David Shapiro

Villanelle on a Chinese Proverb

When the lips are gone the teeth grow cold,
They were born to be paired - only one will remain.
From the coign of an idiom our insights unfold.

As darkness draws in, who is there to hold?
Life after loss doesn't warrant the name;
When the lips are gone the teeth grow cold.

Flesh is the weaker, it yields and grows old.
Teeth persevere, yet it's they who feel pain;
From the coign of an idiom our insights unfold.

To secure more than life we must try (we are told),
to emblazon our names on the gravestones of fame -
When the lips are gone the teeth grow cold.

They treasure their relics, they entomb them in gold,
Shamans and shephards favour death for such gain -
From the coign of an idiom our insights unfold.

The rest of us live by what's told and retold:
Deprive man of language and he'll lose his domain.
When the lips are gone the teeth grow cold,
From the coign of our idioms all insights unfold.

A Fit of Form Against Form

I would rather suffer seven hells
devised by someone stranger than Dante,
than spend a weekend writing villanelles.

The teduim involved — it quickly quells
the Muse. (Already she has gone away.)
I would rather suffer seven hells,

and punishments designed for infidels –
the things that wreck a pleasant Saturday –
than spend a weekend writing villanelles.

And if I worked until I fried Intel’s
486, who’d read it anyway?
I would rather suffer seven hells

than use a form that — face it — never sells;
than write a verse with zippo chance of pay;
than spend a weekend writing villanelles.

My mercenary soul, bit-time, rebels
against non-paying work. Therefore I say,
“I would rather suffer seven hells
than spend a weekend writing villanelles.”

To Say it Using Just a Villanelle

It was a story much too long to tell.
So carefully, he chose the words to say.
To say it using just a villanelle.

He’d met her, but he didn’t know her well.
A married woman, she was known to stray.
It was a story much too long to tell.

His longing for her had begun to swell.
What phrase would bring her heart within his sway?
To say it using just a villanelle.

With eventide he heard the distant knell.
He thought he’d leave it for another day.
It was a story much too long to tell.

But offering the key to her hotel,
Smiling, she turned as if to lead the way!
To say it using just a villanelle.

So deep in love those fallen lovers fell.
Together hand in hand they walked away.
It was a story much too long to tell.
To say it using just a villanelle.



Louis William Rose
March 24, 2003

The Right Thing

Let others probe the mystery if they can.
Time-harried prisoners of Shall and Will--
The right thing happens to the happy man.

The bird flies out, the bird flies back again;
The hill becomes the valley, and is still;
Let others delve that mystery if they can.

God bless the roots!--Body and soul are one!
The small become the great, the great the small;
The right thing happens to the happy man.

Child of the dark, he can out leap the sun,
His being single, and that being all:
The right thing happens to the happy man.

Or he sits still, a solid figure when
The self-destructive shake the common wall;
Takes to himself what mystery he can,

And, praising change as the slow night comes on,
Wills what he would, surrendering his will
Till mystery is no more: No more he can.
The right thing happens to the happy man.



--Theodore Roethke

Villanelle of Change

Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935)


1Since Persia fell at Marathon,
2 The yellow years have gathered fast:
3Long centuries have come and gone.

4And yet (they say) the place will don
5 A phantom fury of the past,
6Since Persia fell at Marathon;

7And as of old, when Helicon
8 Trembled and swayed with rapture vast
9(Long centuries have come and gone),

10This ancient plain, when night comes on,
11 Shakes to a ghostly battle-blast,
12Since Persia fell at Marathon.

13But into soundless Acheron
14 The glory of Greek shame was cast:
15Long centuries have come and gone,

16The suns of Hellas have all shone,
17 The first has fallen to the last:—
18Since Persia fell at Marathon,
19Long centuries have come and gone.

Notes

1] Marathon: town on a plain in Attica north of Athens on the Aegean sea where Miltiades defeated the Persian army in 490 B.C.

7] Helicon: mountain in Greece near the Gulf of Corinth.

13] Acheron: river in Hades.

16] Hellas: Greece.

My First Villanelle

I had no feelings when I heard she’d died.
When that nail punched against my multi-ply,
It punctured neither top nor underside.

Thirty years earlier I would have cried,
As when her cold screwdriver used to pry
My heart apart. The day I heard she’d died,

wheeled my daughter’s bike out for a ride.
Along the creek I plucked two bay leaves—why?
They punctured neither top nor underside.

It wasn’t, for the record, suicide:
Two, three packs daily, and the lungs comply.
I could remember, when I heard she’d died,

Her amber fingertips and how my pride
Flagged as she scrubbed me crazy with her psy-
chiatric snake oil, top or underside,

Or both. Her influence could not be denied,
Though now it’s done, I’m tempted to deny
I had no feelings when I heard she’d died
Which punctured either top or underside.

Northampton Style

Evening falls. Someone's playing a dulcimer
Northampton-style, on the porch out back.
Its voice touches and parts the air of summer,

as if it swam to time us down a river
where we dive and leave a single track
as evening falls. Someone's playing a dulcimer

that lets us wash our mix of dreams together.
Delicate, tacit, we engage in our act;
its voice touches and parts the air of summer.

When we disentangle you are not with her
I am not with him. Redress calls for tact.
Evening falls. Someone's playing a dulcimer

still. A small breeze rises and the leaves stir
as uneasy as we, while the woods go black;
its voice touches and parts the air of summer

and lets darkness enter us; our strings go slack
though the player keeps up his plangent attack.
Evening falls. Someone's playing a dulcimer;
its voice touches and parts the air of summer.



--Marie Ponsot

Doomsday

The idiot bird leaps out and drunken leans
Atop the broken universal clock:
The hour is crowed in lunatic thirteens.

Our painted stages fall apart by scenes
While all the actors halt in mortal shock:
The idiot bird leaps out and drunken leans.

Streets crack through in havoc-split ravines
As the doomstruck city crumbles block by block:
The hour is crowed in lunatic thirteens.

Fractured glass flies down in smithereens;
Our lucky relics have been out in hock:
The idiot bird leaps out and drunken leans.

God's monkey wrench has blasted all machines;
We never thought to hear the holy cock:
The hour is crowed in lunatic thirteens.

Too late to ask if end was worth the means,
Too late to calculate the toppling stock:
The idiot bird leaps out and drunken leans,
The hour is crowed in lunatic thirteens.



--Sylvia Plath

To Eva Descending the Stair

Clocks cry: stillness is a lie, my dear;
The wheels revolve, the universe keeps running.
(Proud you halt upon the spiral stair.)

The asteroids turn traitor in the air,
And planets plot with old elliptic cunning;
Clocks cry: stillness is a lie, my dear.

Red the unraveled rose sings in your hair:
Blood springs eternal if the heart be burning.
(Proud you halt upon the spiral stair.)

Cryptic stars wind up the atmosphere,
In solar schemes the tilted suns go turning;
Clocks cry: stillness is a lie, my dear.

Loud the immortal nightingales declare:
Love flames forever if the flesh be yearning.
(Proud you halt upon the spiral stair.)

Circling zodiac compels the year.
Intolerant beauty never will be learning.
Clocks cry: stillness is a lie, my dear.
(Proud you halt upon the spiral stair.)



--Sylvia Plath

Admonitions

Oh never try to knock on rotten wood
or play another card game when you've won;
never try to know more than you should.

The magic golden apples all look good
although the wicked witch has poisoned one.
Oh never try to knock on rotten wood.

From here the moon seems smooth as angel-food,
from here you can't see spots upon the sun;
never try to know more than you should.

The suave dissembling cobra wears a hood
and swaggers like a proper gentleman;
oh never try to knock on rotten wood.

While angels wear a wakeful attitude
disguise beguiles and mortal mischief's done:
never try to know more than you should.

For deadly secrets strike when understood
and lucky stars all exit on the run:
never try to knock on rotten wood,
never try to know more than you should.



--Sylvia Plath

Villanelle of Ye Young Poet's First Villanelle to his Ladye and Ye Difficulties Thereof

To sing the charms of Rosabelle,
To pour my soul out at her feet,
I try to write this villanelle.

Now I am caught within her spell,
It seems to me most wondrous sweet
To sing the charms of Rosabelle.

I seek in vain for words to tell
My love -- Alas, my muse is weak!
I try to write this villanelle.

Would I had power to compel
The English language incomplete
To sing the charms of Rosabelle.

The ardent thoughts that in me dwell
On paper I would fair repeat
I try to write this villanelle.

My effort fruitless is. O H--l!
I'll tell her all when next we meet.
To sing the charms of Rosabelle,
I tried to write this villanelle.

Written for Maibelle Scott.

How Long Do You Think the Human Race Will Exist?

I don't worry much about humanity,
my wife replies. I think that we'll evolve.
Ecclesiastes tells me all is vanity,

that nothing new will happen for eternity,
and yet. . .I think we're starting to dissolve.
I don't worry—much. About humanity:

what will be lost, if we're lost? Not infinity.
What now revolves around us will revolve.
Ecclesiastes tells me all is vanity:

one person saves a mint, one saves a manatee,
ho-hum go on—do something, get involved,
don't worry much about humanity,

decide upon some charity, a sanity.
But there are sweet things: sex, worship, resolve. . .
Ecclesiastes tells me all is vanity.

Science predicts that bees or giant ants will be
Earth's next bigwigs. No egos, none to solve
for "I." Don't worry much about humanity,
Ecclesiastes tells me. All is vanity.



Copyright © 2004 Emily Lloyd All rights reserved
from The Most Daring of Transplants
Argonne House Press

In Hot Pursuit

across the Passaic's asphalt drawbridge into the heart of Kearny--
my cheeks flushed with wine--you the muse I did not choose
dragging danger down in chains across the hangdog face of me

as I followed you upriver, wanting you to cleanse me like a sari
fitted through a virgin's wedding band--why else would I cruise
across the Passaic's asphalt drawbridge into the heart of Kearny

still hot on your brand-new tail?--yes, you--my spanking Jersey
princess with a papa's pocketbook good for nothing but booze
and chains of smoke you'll drag across the hangdog face of me

until I cry myself to sleep in the priest's confessional, unworthy
of your whorish looks and your windows down blasting blues
across the Passaic's asphalt drawbridge into the heart of Kearny

with a fifth of Maker's Mark sloshing in your lap more empty
than the gas was ever gonna get when I got through--win or lose--
love but a daisy-chain dragged across the hangdog face of me

until crush felt more like crash upside another tab of Ecstasy
hurled overboard with seatbelts coming loose and pairs of shoes
spilled across Passaic asphalt straight into the heart of Kearny
where danger dragged its tread across the hangdog face of me.

The Nuns of Childhood: Two Views

O where are they now, your harridan nuns
who thumped on young heads with a metal thimble
and punished with rulers your upturned palms:

three smacks for failing in long division,
one more to instill the meaning of humble.
As the twig is bent, said your harridan nuns.

Once, a visiting bishop, serene
at the close of a Mass through which he had shambled,
smiled upon you with upturned palms.

"Because this is my feast day," he ended,
"you may all have a free afternoon." In the scramble
of whistles and cheers one harridan nun,

fiercest of all the parochial coven,
Sister Pascala, without preamble
raged, "I protest!" and rapping on palms

at random, had bodily to be restrained.
O God's perfect servant is kneeling on brambles
wherever they sent her, your harridan nun,
enthroned as a symbol with upturned palms.

2.

O where are they now, my darling nuns
whose heads were shaved under snowy wimples,
who rustled drily inside their gowns,

disciples of Oxydol, starch and bluing,
their backyard clothesline a pious example?
They have flapped out of sight, my darling nuns.

Seamless as fish, made all of one skin,
their language secret, these gentle vestals
were wedded to Christ inside their gowns.

O Mother Superior Rosarine
on whose lap the privileged visitor lolled
--I at age four with my darling nuns,

with Sister Elizabeth, Sister Ann,
am offered to Jesus, the Jewish child-
next-door, who worships your ample black gown,

your eyebrows, those thick mustachioed twins,
your rimless glasses, your ring of pale gold--
who can have stolen my darling nuns?
Who rustles drily inside my gown?



--Maxine Kumin

On A Line From Valerie

The whole green sky is dying. The last tree flares
With a great burst of supernatural rose
Under a canopy of poisonous airs.

Could we imagine our return to prayers
To end in time before time's final throes,
The green sky dying as the last tree flares?

But we were young in judgement, old in years
Who could make peace; but it was war we chose,
To spread its canopy of poisoning airs.

Not all our children's pleas or women's fears
Could save us from this hell. And now, God knows
His whole green sky is dying as it flares.

Our crops of wheat have turned to fields of tares.
This dreadful century staggers to its close
As the sky dies for us, its poisoned heirs.

All rain was dust. Its granules were our tears.
Throats burst as universal winter rose
To kill the whole green sky, the last tree bare
Beneath its camopy of poisoned air.



--Carolyn Kizer

Thoughtball Villanelle

Suppose we don't need sound to talk—
suppose that nutcase Swedenborg
was right that angels banter not

in language but in balls of thought
wafting about like pollen spores
because they don't need sound to talk?

Think how in dreams our dialogue
flashes from mind to mind before
it's voiced, communicated not

in language, but its building blocks:
Chinese-poem metaphors
ideogrammed to the brain, not talked.

Who needs the langue d'oeil or d'oc
when we (like modern troubadours)
strum on lutelike keyboards not

quite sentences or finished thoughts
but runic clusters, bluesy chords
understood (though apart from talk)
like angel banter they can't be not.



Copyright © 2004 Julie Kane All rights reserved from Rhythm & Booze
University of Illinois Press