The Migration of the Clowns

The Great Migration of the Clowns begins:
Parades with trapeze artists, acrobats,
Black bears whipped into rows, men in tall hats,
Trick riders, elephants with wrinkled skins,
Mean roustabouts, women with evil grins,
Despairing monkeys staring through thin slats,
Slack rope and tightrope walkers, feral cats
Repenting nothing, marching for our sins.

But most of all the clowns resplendent, bright
With memories of climbing up the rope
Towards a grey and empty sky, all hope
Gone, only judgment left, unending night,
The trail they followed now ashes and blight.
She asks for grace. No soap, he says, no soap.

Kisses in Deep Recesses

Keep both your feet well planted on the floor.
Mark time. There was a moment just last week
When I remembered how I kissed your cheek
While thinking how I always pined for more,
Bewitched by fingers. Standing at the door,
Enthralled by my incredible physique
(I’m made of trouble, reinforced by teak),
You offered just your cheek, and I got sore.

Abandoned in a forest of dark thoughts,
I flexed my facial muscles, planning kisses
In deep recesses. Thus love reminisces,
Recalling all my schemes, and clever plots
To delve, and span your self, tie you in knots,
And dream. My inner vision never misses.

The Criminal

I haven’t been committing crimes much, yet,
Although my mind has been preoccupied
With cabbages and kings. The oysters fried,
I ate them without zest, and on a bet
Crushed all the shells and left them sopping wet
In crackling piles two hundred metres wide,
Then I said something too mean, sort of snide,
About not robbing banks — not since we met.

A wondrous feeling, creeping over me
Like spiders on a slice of watermelon
Exploring, like the late crew of Magellan
Moving through the strait from sea to sea,
Reminded me I’ve lived life aimlessly,
An almost altogether blameless felon.

Omsk

I have never been in South Dakota.
North Dakota? Many times. Alaska?
No, nor Omsk, nor Omaha, Nebraska,
But I spent six weeks in Minnesota,
Probably more than my proper quota.
Dangerous and weird, my buddy Casca
Said he’d take me to Lake Athabasca —
Ask me, do I care? Not one iota.

I saw London Paris, and Chicago,
All without my knives, my Irish setter,
And my second cousin, the go-getter,
Made these visits with Casca, Iago,
Chanting witches, and a mad virago
Claiming loudly Singapore was better.

The True Artiste

The True Artiste, my alter ego, rises
To introduce the acts that will astound,
And educate, and thrill, and break new ground,
Leaving behind what no longer surprises
And bringing forth great giants, in new sizes.
I’ve watched you too long going round and round
With little more than sunken false hopes, drowned
In motor oil, with inexpert disguises.

I know one thing — no, more, two things at least,
Brought into this dark kingdom, built of grime
And sadder than dead land: metre and rhyme.
Respectfully, your friend, The True Artiste.
The hour has come at last, the wheels are greased,
And you will crave love when I’ve harnessed time.

When You Come over Here

The first thing that you always seem to do
When you come over here is start to talk
About the man whose heart can’t take the shock
Of loving you — which ends with losing you —
Of having all his wildest dreams come true
Only to realize there was a clock
Counting the minutes till you freeze, and balk.
I’ve been thinking you mean to hurt me, too.

Do you? Please notify me if it’s so,
To be on guard, or have I put the cart
Before the horse? I’m watching as you start
To purse your lips. You smile, your pupils grow,
And you lean in toward me, so I know —
All right. Come over here and break my heart.

Food Service

Uneaten gourmet fish sticks on my plate,
Discarded bottles of sweet prairie wine,
I chose to end the meal rather than dine
Without my own staff’s service. What I hate
Is that suggestion that another wait
On table when my footman, Gertrude Stein,
Is unavailable. What’s mine is mine;
Or else I’ll eat directly from the crate.

I had the crate delivered to my door
With sprigs of watercress and garlic buds.
The slaughtered sheep had chewed long on their cuds,
The apples had been eaten to the core
By favoured goats, who would have swallowed more
If we had let them. I won’t eat soap suds.

Of Grief’s Onset

Announcing I had suffered a contusion
Of the heart, and offered an injection,
Subject to a general inspection,
I came to the obligatory conclusion
That this would be a sad, feckless intrusion,
As I had suffered no untoward infection.
Declining, I explained the close connection
Between my bruises and your thick confusion.

The primary response to my reports
Of grief’s onset, aside from merry pickets
Exclaiming that I should be selling tickets
But curbing costs, was silence. In the courts
The judges wink. Expecting harsh retorts,
And bold suggestions, too, I listen: crickets.

Taken

You took my breath away when you walked in,
But I set that aside. I was so good
(Not clever, not untempted yet by sin,
Just somehow good), because I understood
Our borders, the one demand made by a friend
Who introduces you to some great beauty
That he’s been saving for himself: to bend
And stand back nobly. That’s your duty,
But times can change, and when he stepped away
I waited only three days — no, three years —
What was I thinking? Sorry, I can’t say,
Though I was certain it would end in tears.
Sometimes a man can’t figure out he cares;
I knew — still I was taken unawares.

Boxing Day Today!

It’s Boxing Day today! Let’s celebrate
The sweet science, and bash somebody’s head
Who’s uninhibitedly gross, ill-bred,
Diseased, his mind in a chaotic state,
Uncertain of his duty, filled with hate
For all good things, too blithely charmed by dread,
Inclined to spend his afternoons in bed
Pursued by nightmares. Bashing is his fate!

Cats love to play in cartons. Then there’s tin,
Or maybe those malt-forward German beers —
Say something extra-wonderful, like “Cheers!”
Barbarians are at the gates; they’ll win
If you insist on leading with your chin.
Get at it quickly, or I’ll box your ears!

The Handsome Man

I’ve really tried to spread myself around
Generously, as widely as I could
And, mostly, women have not understood.
I say, I never wanted to be crowned.
They know the crowd well, by the humming sound
Their rivals make, pursuing me — no good
Can come of wandering the neighbourhood
In search of love, but on they come, unbound.

I certainly appreciate their candour,
But all they ever get is what you see:
I love them, and they come expectantly —
One at a time, please. I won’t grin and pander,
And claiming that I will is simple slander.
If women like my looks, they may join me.

Saturday Morning

At ten o’clock I got up from my bed
And made myself another cup of tea.
My leg, wrapped up loosely, still hurting me,
Still healing slowly, still ugly and red,
Reminds me that I’m better off not dead.
I worry that the month (or two, or three)
That this will take (it runs on endlessly)
Will leave me stuck here, no further ahead.

It’s two weeks since the doctors let me out
And sent me home. They called the operation
A big success, a medical sensation,
But I have shpilkes, soreness, itch, and gout.
I’m drinking hard and trying not to pout
(This very nice Gewürz here is Alsatian).

What Symbol Is That?

What is that symbol? What can all this mean?
Is life an appetite, or is it stark
And meaningless, with neither form nor spark?
Will we encounter spirits on the green,
Or will the unmoored sprites remain unseen?
I am myself unmoored, like an old shark
Who cannot rest. Could I cure ash-tree bark
And make a journal? I was once sixteen.

When I was fifteen, eighteen, twenty-one,
My heart was full of wonder, but no more.
Life was a meal — I was right on that score —
But meaningless as flowers in a gun.
I had love; riches, too; all done. All done.
What symbol is that? Who cares? Close the door.

With an Axe

Sometimes I almost break, and break the backs
Of all the idiots who talk to me,
Dispose of everyone so messily
That no one figures out how the attacks
Began, or why. I’ll boil them all in wax
And send them, burning brightly, out to sea.
I’ll drag them from their homes, unskin each knee
Both front and back, and shear them with an axe.

The violence is underneath, unseen
Until the moment comes. Though overset
By terrorizing outbursts, which have met
With silence, icy laughter, grim and keen,
And thoughts about a wild threshing machine,
I haven’t murdered anybody yet.

Leech-Gathering

Correcting him about the tree, I said
The leaves were for the healing of the nations.
The rest, I pointed out, was intimations
Of immortality; but things were dead
That had been living yesterday. Ahead
Lay only dreams, heat, poison, degradations
Connected to our unexplored sensations,
And visions of that tree. Heal us instead,

Bring peace, succour from trauma, true delight
That comes from truth alone, not hope, not visions,
But in this world, based on our own decisions,
Our own plain-speaking bodies. Give us sight
So we emerge from never-ending night,
Avoiding injuries, mythic collisions.