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Outside The Moon

 

moon
Upstairs springs are squeaking.
I have been listening
for some time here below,
while the overhead affair
reflects another kind
of windows, moon, and snow.
Their springs go so rapidly,
the bed must be made of iron,
pounding, pounding, pounding
my overhead floor,
her gentle moanings
embarrassing my silence.
Finally, their springs stop,
and immediately afterwards,
heavy feet and light feet
move across the upstairs floor,
toward the moonlit windows,
these windows here below,
my unavoidable listening,
two moons quite confused.
Faucets are running now.
Something drops like soap.
She gently blows her nose.
There's the sound of boots.
A door is opening. The light feet
are not the ones leaving.
They are still near, waiting
as they will be forever,
caught, barely changing
their bewildered positions.
Perhaps she glances toward the moon,
perhaps she knows, standing there,
about infinite aloneness,
about loss and final goodbyes.
Perhaps she will someday soon
descend those winding stairs
and ask some gentle question,
about this awful weather,
when will Spring be coming
or will the lilacs bloom this year?
I know the way of her hair,
the color it turns and rolls
over her shoulders, the warm
markings across the glass, her eyes
watching a desolate moon.

Flea On a Towel


 

  He doesn’t seem angry, only
overwhelmed with the vastness
of the white, the spacious place,
as he crawls back and forth,
no doubt trying to find the edge
so as to escape the creases
in the cloth, maybe to find food
or other fleas, companionship
in a world for which he didn’t ask.

  He probably doesn’t even sense
how he got in such a place, even
if other towels exist, even if
other fleas have been where he is.
No doubt he would welcome
another flea, even for a moment
to communicate his predicament,
privately, a sort of flea to flea.
It would no doubt be too much
to think he senses the futility
of his journey, the infinity of it,
that life for him is so very brief ….

  He probably doesn’t have even
the slightest inclination someone
is watching him, letting him try
to find his way, not smashing him,
however … rather indifferently.
But he’s not about to quit or rest,
until he takes his last breath …. 

  The white cloth must be daunting,
though, an endless barrier of white,
the white towel of his small world,
on which he crawls for his life,
searching for what can’t be found,
an exit moving always further
and further away, an invisible door,
with not even a crumb of hope,
and worse, he probably doesn’t
have a clue how little he matters ….


From The Tybee Island Lighthouse 



1

At the top
the light goes round
and round.
At the bottom,
there is no light
at all.
I can never go
back down,
but I wish the stairs
were not spiraled so.
They go round
and round,
and the night becomes
a few dim
consolations,
scattered over glass.
Each time the light
goes past,
it turns my face
and other people
and places
into a circle
of thin constellations.

2

After
the white light
there’s the blue light,
and after that,
there’s nothing.
The pavilion
and the ocean liner
go on
just as they did
before, waiting
for someone else
to discover them.
The slim girl,
thinking
about nothing,
keeps on swimming
out to sea,
my son
curled about her heart.
The light,
the light that searches
for the bottom,
does not replace
the dark.

3

It almost
puts one to sleep,
the turning
and turning.
I never REALLY see
anything
except the ocean liner
moving slowly across
the horizon,
the slim girl
swimming
and swimming.
I hear the sounds,
the indecipherable sounds
inside, down
the stairwell,
and I listen.
I listen to the dark,
where the center
always breaks,
and nothing ever
really
keeps.


4

I thought
there would be others
at the top.
I thought
the slim girl
could come along too.
I do not know
what I sought
up here,
the lights
having scattered so,
and all my pages
turned to glass.
And the old folks
along the shore,
who have never seen
the ruined castles
in Spain,
think everything
would change
if their only son
would only
come down to shore
again.


Blue Rain 


 
                           
                           I
Long ago this was Indian hallowed ground,
when the air was clean and water was free.
This is a place few are brave enough to go.
At times not even the mind or wind moves,
disturbingly opaque, like ice across lakes,
hard against the sky, curious tourists come
to casinos and to view hurricane remains.
Toys and linens still hang from broken oaks,
houses rest on top of cars, cemented slabs
replaced, cracked sidewalks, weeds creep.
Yet, one man, one-armed, completely alone,
ascends a telephone pole and rain to mend
my wires, as some turn their backs or burn
my flag, while some accept the sunless sky.

                          II
No secret passages, discreet messages here.
It’s bleak as the internal sounds that keep
a warrior awake, when nearby twigs break.
True Americans come with food and love,
and some meet their tailors, as their jets set.
There is a death without hope here abouts,
a kind only the few have courage to face.
Some may be laughing purely from the grave,
or say history sways like scotch on the rocks,
maybe so simple as seeing life in blue rain.
Rain like blue ice… the police are ruthless,
as scavengers sell gifts to starving men.
There is a time and place no one should miss,
saints crave, when one’s soul braves the dark.

                           III
After all, it’s how we react to life’s tragedies
that matters, as alone in windblown orchards
word musicians fashion their arid splendors.
Among the waste some are firm and overcome
the beast, when soup lines appear to be feasts.
Even scenic drive is a long, silent desolation,
not one marker, save that vast, worn ocean,
where wood and debris, like wayward women,
raise their heads, unphased to their extinction.
This is a place where bodies are still found,
where broken limbs, deserted streets confirm
the courage of despair, a city’s lifelessness. 
Many pilgrims come here, some leave in fear
they too one day may be without food or home.

                           IV
For months it has been a forsaken sanctum,
not even a sound from those nearby trees,
just mortuaries of faded, ragged greens.
The owl is gone, the doe, the bluebirds too,
as if nothing were out and nothing within.
Yet, one candle lights a room of darkness.
Nothing’s worse… to be alone in darkness.
Someone says the bodies trembled at death,
others welcome the tides of catastrophes,
while one continues to cultivate his vineyard,
another dances, welcomes a second chance.
This is where highways and gutters meet,
as the moon hides behind clouds and blue rain.
We move around ourselves to another’s pain.

                            V
Our native Indians had it right, earth and light,
and Bayou de Portage still flows from the sea,
where dolphins and pelicans make their runs,
each in magnificent flight, ways to survive,
like fish that swim deep to find their own niche.
Neither youth nor age is great for every wine,
but lies to ourselves defy our peace every time.
This blue phenomenon over the razor’s edge
and the shotgun blast into the twilight zone
leave a mess, like flying through hotel windows,
the glass, wondering where gentle pigeons go,
as if there ever was an end to self-inflicted pain.
Our native Indians with their valor are still here.
We hear drums as we plant corn and plums.

                             VI
To blend into the landscape, that’s it … at dusk
with blistered hands from planting in fertile fields,
back to the green fuse and the swaying of palms,
man has never been right since he made machines.
The comforts of conveniences clutter his mind,
and paradise sprawls with suntans, August heat,
and yachters sell romance, one million per dance.
Once there was a seaman who cursed his God,
then became the ghost for restless discontents.
So when Bayou de Portage ends way down stream,
and all my clever schemes have led to the grave,

say prayers, my name, and burn my rags for an urn.


When that sea rises, blasts Pass Christian again,
throw my ashes at sea so I sail the oceans eternally.


After The Storm


 
The postman says
he will discontinue the mail
if the tree limbs are not cut.

After the storm,
gladiolas and morning glories
cling to a dying oak.

Sparrows and seagulls
feed on crumbs
leftover by drunken seamen.

The ocean liner
is still moving slowly across
the bleak horizon.

Without saying goodbye,
the slim girl is still
swimming and swimming.

Pages of old books
turn with their marginal marks,
searching for answers.

Here on Tybee Island
tangled grape vines strangle
maples and willows.

The channel markers
and beacons are all gone,
but this salty seawall remains.

The broken screens
of these beach house windows
survive the malcontent sea.

Lean white hounds wait
near old railroad tracks
for the lights beyond the darks.

Fog horns sound up
and down the Savannah River
through the damp, dark nights.

If you ever come back,
don’t try to revive the willows.
We could … plant a few small palms.

Humpty Dumpty 


Egg
(The roses are still there,
the candle we did not burn,
the bed we did not remake,
the rivers we did not run.)

This –- is a broken shell
in a sea of weeds, and there’s
our walkway in the dark.
I search the streets nights
wondering where you are
or watch planes coming in,
remembering Chicago’s Lake
and vendors on Wells Street.
So, what if we didn’t cross
the bridge El Conquistador?
(Does man really have
his own strings to pull?)
We stood at the entrance
of fireplace and water,
calculating what we had to lose,
mine a domestic dilemma,
yours a bit of comfort,
friends and respectabilities.
If we had not met, the world
would blame ME for dying.
We’ll not see the windows
become white, you and I,
together against the night.
You’ll slumber into other arms,
I’ll go off to make another
sunset, clouds, and discover
another city, another street.
The most difficult thing
to remove won’t be the roses.
I knew They would perish,
but where you sat and turned,
the way you removed your shoes
will not be so easy.  Well…,
everybody deserves at least
… one … disaster.


The Duck Girl Of New Orleans*

      (for Giulietta Masina, Fellini’s Gelsomina)


She was never part of the script, from side streets

as in La Strada, wearing an old hat, evening dress

entirely too long, in high heels that didn’t quite fit,

pink ribbons around her wrists and waist, singing

or mumbling to herself, dwarfish and inexplicable,

though not so unlike the young girl in La Dolce Vita.

 

From Pat O’Brian’s and La Casa’s, we toasted her,

we toasted Roland, Eben Flood, Prufrock’s burdens,

as if our raison d’êtres were to sing ghostly streets,

menageries of loss in mirrors of Le Moulin Rouge,

always slightly inebriated, in the neon wilderness,

whispering lovable lies no less than Fra Lippo Lippi.

 

The ducks followed her in a marvelous procession,

her quacking choir, entourage of Orleanian indigoes.

Not once did she ever glance aside toward us, our

poetic proposals, serenades in blue, even when we

stopped traffic and followed her down Royal Street,

as now después tener en cada puerto un amor.

 

We come after nuptial plumages, thirty years later

back from the dark abyss, hole that has no bottom,

searching for her, with our fortuitous lives, dressed

in tuxedoes, smoking our cigars, inhaling our rings

of regrets, but La Casa del Marinero, Gunga Din

have gone, and Pat O’Brian’s fountain is not the same.

 

We toast the evening at dusk, as the dark comes on,

discuss old men and the sea, the causalities of flesh

near The House of Ursuline, then notice a small figure

from the North, Dauphine Street, white and angelic,

graceful as if she were on ice, gliding with the ease

of Olympian goddesses, with lovely lilacs in her hair.

 

We are still the princes of allusions, imaginary airs,

but we manage to approach and ask about her ducks.

Her eyes wander off, then back to mine, as if she sees

two of me, as if she almost remembers, or perhaps

to touch Earth one final time.  “One day,” she says,

her eyes fixed in mine, “they just stopped following.”

   .

   .

   *"Ruth Moulon, 1934-2008," Times-Picayune,
                                by
                           John Pope
http://www.nola.com/news/index.ssf/2008/09/ruthie

In Silent Rain


 

Through mist and blue rain,

streets of Venice, I chased you

until you caught me ….

 

We stood at the gates …

you sought fame instead of me,

lilacs for your hair ….

 

That night on the pier,

it was still raining …

there’s no haven for partings ….

 

There will be a time

when the lilacs will not bloom …

after I have gone ….

 

That’s when you will know

each sunset by heart …

my poems singing in silent rain ….




*How A Poem Becomes

(This is an essay about the poem "Outside the Moon")

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Lenny Emmanuel
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