Some newer poems and one from What Shines
Autumn Poem with Parakeet
Her wings were so emblazoned by early sun
that observers could easily have dreamed some prodigious creator
had blessed their sight. They’d applaud in unison.
And the glory too of the parakeet’s sea-green breast!
I was a child, yet I somehow surmised a future
in which I’d surely write– I’d have no choice –
of a brilliance I didn’t have means to describe as a boy.
Still don’t. Here, swarms of humdrum geese fly over
with their galling, hackneyed honks. They’ll babble all day.
Sicily, 1992
Etna’s lava shone against the gloom,
putting the lightning to shame.
I caught a new scent that was somehow reminiscent
of my uncle’s Guernsey stalls.
I thought that maybe I was the one it came from.
Everybody’s tainted.
Humility’s never a failing. I looked to the mountain.
I have no desire to hide
a thing from anyone. But hard as I try,
some secrets can’t be divulged–
not accurately– even to me.
I must have had some inkling
of cruelties to atone for,
because something had launched this thinking:
maybe the lizard that basked on a limestone post
that morning, its pipping throat
the very emblem of innocence– and exposure.
In school I could be a bully.
Yes, but was that old sin what started me weeping?
I noticed a kite. The raptor,
hiding away its merciless, gruesome talons,
kept up a graceful, seemingly languid wheeling.
HiFi
I think both little sisters
were still too young for school,
we brothers not many years older.
I suspect that what I say is
more than a bit sentimental
and may not have a basis
in anything real back then.
So be it. But let me keep it:
the five of us hearing the tune,
the strings and horns so alive.
It’s good to be where we are,
near our parents’ new HiFi,
which spills into every corner.
The fidelity – almost shocking.
They’ve told us about its wonders,
and now at last they own one.
Having adjusted some knob,
they stand stone-still for a moment,
as if in a sort of trance.
Of course they’re both long gone,
so of course they no longer dance,
cheeks touching– or anyhow–
but as long as I say so they do.
Indeed the song I hear now
is precisely “Cheek to Cheek.”
Now why would it talk about swimming
in a river or a creek?
Or maybe it’s actually fishing.
Who cares? Strange bliss pours forth
as long as the record keeps spinning.
Sickness, regret and death
will all arrive in time.
And rancor. I won’t forget
the rancor. This evening, however,
we brothers and sisters watch,
enchanted, five children together
on the couch with the fancy lace
while our faithful parents glide
in what looks like a fond embrace.