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Twenty Poems / November 2019

Sunday, December 8, 2019 17:09

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McCarra/Poetry

When We Still

once upon a time, when we still

believed in happy endings, the ice

cracked beneath our boots in the

parking lot, spring still to come, those

flowers garlanded through your hair

and your voice so far, so far away

and fading away as if caught and

carried by the wind, scrambling your

syllables as the tines of the fork thrust

through the stew, vegetable matter chopped

none too fine, yet we shall not

choke, I think

the three wishes given and gone, the

finger pricked, used to pen some

scarlet script, a crimsoned syllabus

brightening her eyes, cheeks rosered

lilywhite by turns

Alpha and Omega

In the beginning, when all was new,

and you and I and the green shoots

looked up at the sun, there

was no need to jockey for position,

snarling at this one, spitting at the

other, smearing and slandering all

the day long, the hecklers from

the penny-seats, delighting in the

murky depths they could sink to, as

if a moray eel with razor-teeth, lurking

in the brackish waters, brother to that one

beneath the feet of a woman, crawling forever

upon his belly, lowest of the low, while

bully-boys clear the room with a cane,

rigging outcomes with a heavy hand,

laying the lies on, thick as buttercream

on teacakes studded with pretty pills.

still, my alpha and omega, as

the green leaves have changed to

scarlet-gold, crimsontipped, blood-orange, burning

up into the blueskies, flametrees flagrant, the

truth of the season shifting. The sky is

not black because someone says

it is so. I will believe

the evidence of

my eyes.

Triune Themed

morning, noon, and night these

three muses (Calliope, Erato, and

Thalia)

inspire new ways to utter those

three little words we let slip

after a late dinner and

too much wine, inspiring tercets in

triplicate, the three sandwiched sheets

of paper, carbon, and paper again

dusting fingers with soot, dust you are and

dust you will return to, so says Father,

Son, and Holy Ghost, the triune

God blessed when the trifecta lines

your pockets with green, triple digits this

time and you bless the gods and

the muses three, informing your words, the

beginning, middle, and end of all our histories,

the love, loyalty, and friendship gold-emblazoned

upon your hand and heart

Night Missive

written to memory, in the dark, one letter at

a time, then separating phrases like

sheep from goats, wheat from chaff,

engaging in verbal

gymnastics, the turn of phrase to turn

the eye to the next page, and the next. Is

this chatter made up of the sparks from

stars? More likely from the thin strip of

gold where the door (nearly)

closes, a glimmer of brilliance, words, like pearls,

strung, one after another, amidst the

slumping shadows of upholstery, curtains,

clothing, the

clobber of an acquisitive nature.

tomorrow: to seek out the blue box

mushroomed at a corner, or mid-block,

brighter than their green, stolid cousins,

squat above a slab of concrete.

see here: the rain, puddled, magnifies the

words, those restrictions on weighty

prattle, tied in brown paper and twine,

destined for pawing by a thick-fingered

clerk in baby blue, hazardous words indeed

At Sixes and Sevens

ah, the rivulets of tea streaming from

upended crockery, the jam

smeared, half upon the toast

and half upon the cloth, the boiled

eggs ill-timed and runny,

all at sixes and sevens, both as

cross as two sticks, so she says

let’s close our eyes, dear,

and start again, afresh,

before we espy the

sun peering through those

bare branches, spindly and austere

in silent disapproval

The Orchestra Tunes Up

discordant tones merge into

one seamless melody, the

pitching strains

woven together tightly, stitches

in a jumper, head pushed through

the neckhole as if being

born again, hair askew, tempest

tossed as if blown by sea

winds, the melodies borne

along by night air, buffeted

and shaped by darkening clouds,

rough to make smooth

Herringbone Dyed and Spun

flecked with the colors of seafoam and

darkening skies, herringbone dyed and spun,

capacious pockets that held

sweets, before they were scattered, like

rain, for grandchildren to find (what wonders that

coat held) redolent of pipe smoke twisting

up on chill afternoons, fragrant-sweet,

blue furled up to cloud-thick skies.

buttons, like eyes, glint, a

winking as he walked the miles to town, hard

to keep up with his long stride, though

they did their best,

fabric tightly woven, stamped with orb

and cross, edges bound fast,

shield against cold and damp,

surely magical, even in frightening the

scavengers of the field, this

scarecrow in his Sunday best

Mirrored

perched on an indigo banquette in a

mirrored corner, a neat figure

is reflected multiply as

she peers into the oval

of a smoothgold compact, sees the

strangeness, the sleek whorls of

a new coiffure, medusa-like, heavily

lacquered, and jewellery

jangles as she paws through

her handbag for match and

cigarette, inhales, exhales,

looks through the looking-glass

into worlds ever receding away,

distant reflections, so many of

her, so many it tires her,

it tires her,

the same face, the self-same words,

over

may I take your order?

Heel of the Loaf

smeared with clots of

blackcurrant, riven by

silvered flash of butter

knife dragged across

this odd endment, the

heel of the loaf, least

preferred of all, square

of sustenance, staff of

life, give to us our

daily

bread, not the stones

we choke on, or those

beneath thin-soled shoes,

navigating the gravel of a

driveway as the music

dies down, picking steps

carefully in moonlight, belle

of the ball no longer, the

clock gone twelve and

that ancient moon looming down

Billet-doux

bundled into a packet,

ribbon-tied, my worn edges

bump up against some neatly folded

patterned squares of silk

I imagine unfurled,

knotted round her neck,

a thin (but surprisingly warm),

barrier against the cold.

I warmed her, once, on the

coldest days she endured, her

eyes alight as they traced

each word, whispering them

aloud so that I, too, could

hear them, the sloping scripts,

the twists and curlicues in

black on white as ink

on snow and my words wait,

for her,

forever

Golden Apples

three golden apples gleaming

on their silver bough

weigh him down, lighter, still,

than his usual, worldly burden

gods or men, the

tasks set to us are

to be completed, even

as we fly straight for the sun,

slaughter some beast, or

navigate some pitching sea, you—

tossed, a cork upon

waters thick with trouble—what

can we do, sometimes, except make

burnt offerings of the dinner and

light candles the next day?

Free As A

bird on a wire

chirping cheerily, oh

so cheerily through

the morning routines

espied through her

beadlike eyes glittering

over the yellow ribs

of the bus-tops gliding past

broken branches, the

sedans streaking past the

STOP signs, grinding against

the first frost—

with a free leg and a

fine day

shanks mare into town

Green, In Spite Of

at the edge of the

boneyard

green grows up,

unimpeded

unencouraged except

by occasional rains,

dew damping down those

stringy roots, the

shoots reflecting back

dullness of oxidation, redbrown

as bloodstains

vigorous, thickening, seeking

out the rays of the

sun, spreading out in

rude health, thriving amidst

a steady decrepitude,

breaking down, dying

all around, signage worn

away to a tracing, sun-

bleached

Turn the Page

turn the page and there

he is, eternal wunderkind,

all mouth and no trousers, in

a four-color spread tipped into

the Sunday magazine,

declaiming over his collection

of antique silver salad forks, Adonis,

he of the chiseled brow and

blue eyes, head yet unbowed

turn.the.page

here she’s been since

six, juggling those golden apples

in some sort of circus act

approximating life—shot through,

like a Swiss cheese, Peckinpah-

style. she uses the streams to

write everything down, an

undercurrent of voice below the

others, narrator

keeping everything aloft in spite of

(because of?) her increasing

invisibility (her next power) as

she sees all

she hears all

and

writes it all down

Light on Bloodorange

light strains through

a pane onto the

bloodorange, smoothed

wheat colors, sleek grains, sun

magnifying head through

transparency, and we

ants under the curving glass,

enlarged, our mandibles

grasping and reflexing over

crumbs, watching the play of

shadows (while

one wrenches one of their six legs off and

uses it to beat another,

all the while howling “I

am the most virtuous ant

of all!) grimacing at the

most recent stain upon the

sidewalk, hoisting glasses to

our lips, brushing a spray

of sandy sweet grains from

wood bleached pale

and he calls her by the name of another

and she starts and says—yes,

love comforteth like sunshine

after rain and light

streams

in silent confirmation

Plain Oatmeal Porridge

(Not Oatmeal Deluxe)

half-cup measure old-fashioned

cut oats, one tablespoon of

fine white sugar into the steaming

copper-bottomed pot (one cup water)

splash of milk

stir-STIR-stir,

brisk tines beating through

the thickness of it,

crown with brown

sugar to melt into

puddles of sweet

one once penned

an oatmeal poem—

creating a woman of

the stuff—I have not

his mystical

magic, alas and alack,

with cereal grains

but mine will yet

warm the core, to

be sure a

coarser trick

Mudlarks at Midday

incidental music of cutlery

upon china, we trawl through

our meal, speaking of the

history buried in riverbeds,

thick sediments unearthed by

mudlarks, the particular resonance of

some items, some

words,

reverberating within the

hush of just-afternoon,

white-aproned waiters preparing

for the caterwauling evening

to come, everlastingly arranging glassware

(chink, clink, chink)

each memory an artifact

safely stowed away, a

polished stone, the green jagged

glass, the dagger obscured

by rust, the curved tab from a

fizzy drink, fit to slice a finger

gleam of silverware against

hemstitched squares in the half-light,

condensation beading upon the glass, the

insistent writing upon the world, I,

once was here

A Withering

too soon, too soon, the bloom shrivels

on the bough,

icy breath of winter

sending a chill down

the spine, longing for

the warming green of

long May days entwined, sinuous,

heat of June wreathing

round, the conflagrations

of July compete with

fireflies darting

through the sweet fug of

honeysuckle thick along

the road, fragrance, in memory,

forever, though

the flower withers

What Words, These

what words, these, emblazoned

upon cardstock or upon

muslin, framed and hung

what happy we, what

thankful we, holding

hands beneath garlanded

tables, unseen, surprised

by joy, shocked at that

this world may yet reveal

In Every End

in every end some

beginning, the boots forced

across the threshold,

hayfoot, strawfoot, all

the way into town, the

trees receding behind

one until, in caverns

of brick and cement

an end plonked on

a chair, better to

survey the scene while

coffee-drinking,

words thrust through the

air as arrows, some

missing their target

entirely. No matter.

in the end what will

remain of us except the

rapid-fire of synapses, one

after the other, an endless

looping of recollection

Source: http://mccarra--poetry.blogspot.com/2019/12/twenty-poems-november-2019.html

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