Friday, November 30, 2007

In Definite

My feelings were indefinite, at odds,
For nothing, to be thought of sensibly,
Of no account, on no account to be
Considered worthy of the Roman gods,
Who look askance at my life. Homer nods –
Who here among us would dare disagree?
My life is hollow, spare, cheap, fragrance-free,
Indelicate and sad, subject to frauds

Perhaps two fewer fingers in this glove
Remain to point out how the neighbourhood
Is full of thugs and poorly understood
Purveyors of some sort of shadow love.
To, in, among, without, with, for, through, of –
Make me a preposition, if you would.

Saturday, November 17, 2007


I ate the food they put in front of me,
Expecting little and receiving less,
Accepting everything. What a damn mess:
The dust mites in the oats, the roiling sea,
Our melancholy barber. Stupidly
We mocked King Henry, and jeered Good Queen Bess,
Accusing them of drowning happiness
And sucking blood from a dead maple tree.

There will be magic here. Soon. I insist.
Things vanish, and then other things appear
(I tell you, boys, there will be magic here),
And, in a weird, extraordinary twist,
I, the one man who never had been kissed,
Will find love. Magic, boys – and also fear.