"St. Margaret’s Hope" by me.
I’ve got a good feeling, you say
in between sips of your pink lemonade.
St. Margaret’s hope is alive and well
in the swell— no,
in the cave of my chest.
I’m not sure I know what you mean. I digress.
You temper my anger, your patience endures
as my gold and silver line your words,
What once was a prayer room is now a parking lot.
Who now will teach what we so quickly forgot?
You teach me. I reach and your hand—
gentle, kind, is there in time, safely in mine.
I’ve got a good feeling, you say.
A shipwreck shelter, begotten not made, at last
extends sandy hands to catch you: The Pearl.
You swirl your straw in your drink and laugh,
Your salt of wisdom— in spite of your youth
lives on for longer than either of us do.
I learn my name from your lips, pursed
Yours is what leaves mine last, for worse
or for better, as long as I am alive.
Now, worst: a sword that pierces the eye that beheld you,
and as for me, the man who held you—
You turn your face to the wall and weep.
I’ve got a good feeling, you say.
I can’t think of a time when I’ve felt that way—
I was born tense, it must have been built in.
You toss me an apple and I twist off the stem
You share and I separate. You are filled
with good thoughts. In three days you will die of grief.
You die tear-streaked, in defeat: you fall
into an enduring sleep, sweet relief, you yearn
For those to whom you will soon return.
Three days pass in the blink of an eye, you die,
and my love,
I’ve got a good feeling.
The Grove - Monhegan, George Bellows, 1911.
"Elm" by Sylvia Plath.
For Ruth Fainlight
I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.
Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?
Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.
All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.
Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, this big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.
I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.
Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.
The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.
I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.
I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?
I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches?——
Its snaky acids hiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That kill, that kill, that kill.
First published in Ariel, 1965.
Two Women on the Shore, Edvard Munch, 1898.
"Personals Ad" by Allen Ginsberg.
Poet professor in autumn years
seeks helpmate companion protector friend
young lover w/ empty compassionate soul
exuberant spirit, straightforward handsome
athletic physique & boundless mind, courageous
warrior who may also like women & girls, no problem,
to share bed meditation apartment Lower East Side,
help inspire mankind conquer world anger & guilt,
empowered by Whitman Blake Rimbaud Ma Rainey & Vivaldi,
familiar respecting Art's primordial majesty, priapic carefree
playful harmless slave or master, mortally tender passing swift time,
photographer, musician, painter, poet, yuppie or scholar--
Find me here in New York alone with the Alone
going to lady psychiatrist who says Make time in your life
for someone you can call darling, honey, who holds you dear
can get excited & lay his head on your heart in peace.
October 8, 1987.
"After Reading Allen Ginsberg in ENGL 357B" by me.
Poetry student in early twenties
postgraduate limbo, prime-of-life
seeks comrade confidant peer equal
spider-savior w/ holy catch-cup grail,
kind eyes & gentle hands, benevolent
bedroom border official, charitable Charon
of arachnid asylum, patient careful good
with small scared things, guardian angel
(sword not required, euphemism unintended)
to share comfortable silence space in front of
bathroom sink, smile softly into mirror
let mint-flavored fondness drip down chin
occupy empty side of unmade bed, whisper
secrets stories glories victories, swear
allegiance & promise peace, read write sing sleep-
Find me here in my cold cobwebby college apt or hiding
under the covers in my childhood bed. Recent photo/note please.
Spring 2024.
Grace at the piano, Luke Martineau, 2009.
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1925.
“Through this twilight universe Daisy began to move again with the season; suddenly she was again keeping half a dozen dates a day with half a dozen men, and drowsing asleep at dawn with the beads and chiffon of an evening dress tangled among dying orchids on the floor beside her bed. And all the time something within her was crying for a decision. She wanted her life shaped now, immediately-- and the decision must be made by some force-- of love, of money, of unquestionable practicality-- that was close at hand.”