she is explosive growth
the birth of stars
avatar of fire
fusion of gametes
hers the dense islands of the sea
fruited by equatorial heat
the hanged man swings
awaiting her pleasure
crazed dancers
clashing tambourines
she is the triple lightning
shattering the tower
the seven swords
piercing the soldier's breast
Indeed, I look too often and too long
I peek, I glance, I survey, study, stare
At breasts stressing the print of a sarong,
Heads turning in a tangle of brown hair
At thighs shading in stride to deeper dark,
Revealed, concealed by veils whipping in air.
So set the sentence for my sins
To blind, imprison, scourge or flay.
Orpheus and Lot's wife will be my friends
In Hell,
I cannot look away.
Marriage
Not for love
But for a son,
Repays him in
Compound disinterest:
Contempt, avoidance
Passion withheld.
A quarter century on
A Niagara of invective
Bursts its bounds.
She shrieks eunuch! bastard! failure!
And drenches him with shit
Before his son.
So every lie
In coin of equal weight
Is paid in full
And at the going rate.
House
Cold smoke
thickens
in the creamy light
clouds of steam
bathe the white room
hot house grapes
float in milky bowls
the TV
rains zombies
Terror
intrusions and collisions
of time
wind blows down
leaves and bricks
in the absolute city
the inhabitants lie
listening
in glass modules
a red trolley
rolls into the cobble-stone plaza
at the end of the street
beyond the jungle
they swim upward
implacable
houses lean in rows
beneath snowy skies
we are a desert people
a rock people
living in cells of light
the stone holds light
dripping
like a gourd
filling the courtyard
like a beggar
singing in a megaphone
Finale
stonefish
antelope
salesman
searching the same ground
O heroes
wading to the violet dawn
we think of you
pouring tea
in firelit rooms
grim night falling
forever
about our windmills
Beginning
Starting from here
Where the green-rustling leaves
Are almost too brilliant, the air
Almost too clear.
Where cool breezes on warm skin
Evoke an aching loneliness and need.
Starting from here
Where the machine
Replays the voices of my son, my daughter,
My lover, my ex-wife.
Where night-lights play
On moving waters.
Where gleaming pleasure yachts
Ride at anchor or chafe in their slips
Quiet voices drifting from soft-lit cabins.
Starting from here
Where I am fifty-eight
And skilled in nothing
Accomplished not at all
Still writing commonplace verse
Still falling in love,
Yet buoyed by the feeling
That it is yet the beginning,
That one can be reborn
Slay the dragon
Rescue the maiden
Cure the Fisher-King
And find the Grail.
how time
always moves
toward the consummation
of style
how words shape feelings
from the deep history
that shaped us
how they bridge the rift
between the temple of art
and the emergency room
where all the nuances of technology
glassine plasma sacs
stainless machines with glowing readouts
green screens etched with flowing graphs and numbers
serve the young woman in shock-trauma
the guy who broke his neck diving
my lover's son with torn lips
and a deep hole gouged in his back
by a convertible top
and how these poems are buried
in books
you can't even give away
Hunter
I
hunter in brake or stand
zeroing on the prey
rifle along his hand
still as the summer day
aligning in squinted eye
barrel and beating heart
a suddenly stifled cry
marriage of death and art
II
archer in darkling wood
circling on his prey
deer in the shadow stood
still as the summer day
aligned in a squinted eye
arrow and beating heart
a suddenly stifled cry
marriage of death and art
how time
always moves
toward the consummation
of style
how words shape feelings
from the deep history
that shaped us
how they bridge the rift
between the temple of art
and the emergency room
where all the nuances of technology
glassine plasma sacs
stainless machines with glowing readouts
green screens etched with flowing graphs and numbers
serve the young woman in shock-trauma
the guy who broke his neck diving
my lover's son with torn lips
and a deep hole gouged in his back
by a convertible top
and how these poems are buried
not in your speed-up time when everything must be done and won in
passionate seconds now now now and whatever beckons to go next always
frustrated and vexed on the verge of breakdown meltdown crash and smash
but normal time...
where you're not obsessed
with missing
your prime
and don't feel pressed
can let months go and flow
rhythm of roof-rain
wind-chimes
swings, hammocks
cicadas
melting snow
and other
ordinary things
Sundial
rust filigrees
frozen statuary
scarves of graffiti
trace a garden wall
we are surviving
but the clock is running
sleeping and sunning
we fear it will run out
before arriving
For Ionesco
as I speak to you
hair sprouting from scalp
beard, armpits, groin
fingernails lengthening
skin flaking like snow
I am a flowering grotesque
a mere cartoon
a mass of cells
warring, propagating, dying
so I can stand here quoting Nietzsche
who was crazy
even for a human being
Lost Destiny
I could play winged Mercury
Apollo, Jove
fight regiments, scale
stormy battlements, seduce
the coldest beauty
in the tallest tower
save for the imp that follows
taunting me
my nearest demon, my abiding fear
that I will forget my lines
Lotto
I buy a ticket
with prizes at outlandish sums
knowing that mathematicians
know nothing's truly random
in an indeterminate universe
outside Plato's Las Vegas
and if Providence rolls the dice
a dollar's still worth a dream
Gargoyle Song
I am a gargoyle
I gargle
with motor oyle
I glare from the roof
I'm missing a toof.
I'm not very social
I don't get emotion'l
but it would be cheerful
to give you an earful
so come be a star-goil
and kiss an old gargoyle
Why We Failed
we tried to climb Everest
no tent, ice-ax, or sleeping bags
in tennis shoes
struggled half-way up
before one slipped
spun into yawning blue
(or maybe just let go)
I don't know who
wet leaves pile on sidewalks
pavement reflects street lights
steam films the windshield
we are driving toward daybreak
the jet pink trails of sunrise
accompanied by the long
low notes of a cello
a blue heron's
single leg
laved by ripples
wakes of ferries
and fishing trawlers
exhausting their force
to lift a tress of eel grass
stir a stalk
at Stanford in '55
love-hate for Yvor Winters
was our bond
you bought my '47 Plymouth
when I left
in '94 I found you again
a Long Island neighbor
your presence
lofty, impressive, kindly
facilitating connections
among people
knitting the social fabric
always a Jewish joke
always genuine concern
for my welfare
when you called
often your sounding board
rapt at the telephone
as the brilliant narrative
went on and on
lately depressed by ill health
but always a friend
gentle, human
a real sweet guy
I loved you
and Richie, if you see Yvor
tell him he can still
blow it out his ass
clothed
in her spell
its limb-turned
wind-spun filaments
I can as soon escape
the envelope
of a dimension
as this clear aura
within which
I move freely
then violently
trembling with capture
You, in acceptance of the chains of love
become the sun that gives his planet light
and if he wanders from
your fixed abode
his orbit like a tether
stretches tight.
you grabbed my wrist
and held on, watching me closely
ever since we made love
I think of nothing but you
why has it taken so long
to write about you?
will I never know you?
die without knowing you?
what is knowing?
What worlds
but bi-polar?
...No more questions!
Look kid
I am what I am.
Get used to it.
if you don't exist
you won't be missed
even if you can shout
and block the light
I am no star
up on that platform
each careless word
reverenced as gospel
but
I have my own mangy muse
stubborn, abstemious
taciturn, tightwad
dumb, inarticulate
hiding
with hate.
...has plateaus
where body won't give up
another bleeding ounce
Go ahead and starve
I don't even know you.
I'm holding steady.
You may be gung-ho
But I'm not ready.
penumbras of Dionysius
swaying beneath umbrella trees
invoke the hyacinth
unlidded radiance
of golden Semele
auras of rushing purple
blur the dancers
bowers of gardenia
shower with orient light
© Copyright 2-2-97 Martin A. Abramson. All rights reserved.