staring contemptuously
as I grow older
he hardly bothers to match my thrusts
I cannot fend him off.
Why does he wait?
for being what we need
and what we wish
nightwing
night song
forest ghosts
and family spirits
jumble in November's
northwest winds
a sudden path opens
in the forest
The bull is at his lesson
in the china shop.
As he threads the aisles
not a Wedgwood saucer
trembles.
He plucks a Limoges teacup
eggshell thin
gently in his fetlock
and politely sips
beaming ferociously
at the hostess.
He lowers massive bulk
into a spindly Chippendale
that holds his weight.
At the garden party
he is scripted with polite conversation
punctuated by bows and flourishes.
He essays the minuet.
On the prairie
ripping off starched shirt
and ascot
he bellows and roars.
Thundering across the plains
his hooves
pound boulders into gravel
and send shock waves
under continental faults.
Her glittering court arrayed upon the stair
across the halls of marble-pillared night
Diana with unfolding veil of stars
swathed in ivory, enthralling light.
Below, the King declares a royal fete
as nobles dance in dazzling disguise.
The palace pools and jardiniere reflect
The luminous epic of midsummer skies.
a crematorium of ash
and powder in a bowl
consumes the spongy forest of my thought
to draw a chemical richness from my soul
and recreate the garden I had sought
I will be here
weeding the garden
when you've flown off
on silken wings
digging turnips
mucking out stables
when you and he
dance the mosaic floor
divided by love
joined in fear
go to your suitor
in the upper air!
I have broken up with her
for the last time
at least I hope it's the last time
I think I hope
it's the last time
I hope I hope
it's the last
time
surrender is the Trojan Horse
that let's her in
a stratagem, a ruse of course
so she can win
surrender is a camouflage
in which to hide
the most effective sabotage
bores from inside
the King in all his majesty
is overthrown
his power is a travesty
she holds the throne
after the sobbing and weeping
there is chatting and eating
the family, once submerged
is lifted by malpractice millions
do you see the fine gold stitchery
beneath the blood-black splashes
in the weave
a red bird
in a silver cage
given a microphone
they accept no limits on our patience
of course, we'd love
another twenty minutes
of your utter mediocrity
sit down!
go home!
inspired by your own drivel
you think we are as well
because we sit politely
yet somehow
after your endless, hideous
repertoire
in spite of everything
we applaud
When I come home, I expect to see her.
Her perfume
still haunts the bedroom. Her clothes
still hang there in the closet. Two birds made a nest
and then there was only one;
a pair of fishes were separated
and lost in the current.
All through the night
the Autumn wind blows.
The morning is misty, with dripping eaves.
I hope the time will come when
I am calm enough to beat
on a pot like Chung Tzu did.
Adapted by Martin Abramson
stalking us
in beloved arms
when death meets us
at the source of life
we have come full circle
intruder
where flesh enfolds
in coded covenant
the Torah of the living DNA
the double-twisted rosaries of self
she is weeping
speaking quietly
about trying to live normally
after her daughter's death
we are an island of grief
her face at my ear
my large handkerchief
my eyes
1
ice-shadows in the empty town
you go unguessed
along the glossy streets
into the bronze mirrors
hat raked to crazy wind
lips wet with sea-spray
eyes colder than moons
2
in Central Park
old bags and bundles
wedged bench after bench
like knots of impulse
in a block of time
musing on life
the vacant garden
the subtle flair of lilac
in the mind
again-bird sings flurry
once
once more
3
what are these intricate constructions
shining within other exploding structures?
what liquid form
across the wall of thunder
gathers and strikes?
4
patterns elude proof
cool shadows
deflect the dancers
a net dips
through the roof
5
you waited in endless galleries
by great timetables
in the half-light
of myths and photographs
I found you
among the ghostly exiles
in green saloons
where smoke spins slowly
on stone tables
I found you
under a hundred subtle veils
pure as a pool of light
you lay
resentful
in my bed
your hair flung out
whipped out
the light
trembles
and flames
in this pool
a circle of enveloping heat
ascends
we are in the sacred places
my pulse is a drum
beating inside you
your arms the reins
of my desire
strong hands
around a table
twisting the poem like toffee
sometimes licking the sweetness
of a phrase
off the fingers
life tenses language
on a loom
cut, woven, laced
deep dyes infuse
the skeins
quarrels, laughter
off-color asides
till in the spell's
new setting
wordsmiths unveil
the jewel
© Copyright 2-2-97 Martin A. Abramson. All rights reserved.