The Use of Weapons

I warned them, saying I could not endorse
The use of weapons in the Temple grounds,
But they were adamant, called out the hounds,
Arrested me and, with unseemly force,
They planted me face down upon the gorse
Beyond the wall. My bloodied head still pounds,
And I can hear all those uncanny sounds
The dogs and weapons made — if that’s the source.

There might be ghosts, here in the greenery;
Your weapons and the dogs are never sleeping,
Their stony beds cold, and their masters creeping.
The sharp rocks that surround the deanery
Protect nothing. There is no scenery,
Nothing but secrets, falsehoods, and rough weeping.

Again the End of Summer

Again the end of summer is in sight:
The air grows cooler and the days grow short,
The moon grows dim, the sun is down a quart
And, just before they fall, the leaves grow bright.
We’re waiting for the worst, a winter night
Dark, cold, and miserable. One sad report
Has me asleep, but with a snore and snort
I keep my love awake. She starts a fight.

The warmth is gone now, and it won’t be long
Before she turns her lovely back on me,
Insisting that I share the misery.
I try to wheedle, sing a pretty song,
Tell her she’s beautiful, tell her she’s wrong,
But winter’s coming, and that’s all we see.

Sound Investment

I made a sound investment, late last year,
Now bearing fruit — that’s money, boys, not cherries —
Allowing me to fill the reliquaries
With good bones and a proven Virgin’s Tear.
I almost bought a Roman soldier’s spear,
But this guy claimed he’d said sixteen Hail Marys
In sixteen seconds. I threw down two sherries,
Looked at the goods twice, and threw myself clear.

So now I’m still holding plenty of cash,
Debating if I’m hearing the word, “Hark!”
Or just a hopeful echo in the dark,
Sudden belief, too true or just too rash.
I want to think this bit of silver ash
Was once a Burning Bush; see this odd mark?

The One

The clutch of pills she swallowed after eight
Turned everything as orange as the sun
As it was setting, so she kissed her date
And told him she believed he was The One.
The clutch of pills she swallowed after nine
Just calmed her down, at least for half an hour,
But then she lifted up her hem. “Divine,”
He murmured. “Fragrant as a fresh-picked flower.”
The clutch of pills she swallowed after ten
Was bigger than Tyrannosaurus Rex;
So many drugs were in her system then
That he got high giving her oral sex.
Then midnight came: she slipped on leotards
And waded through the mice and pumpkin shards.

Shovel Them Under

The cemetery caretaker is lost
Among the tombstones and the mausoleums.
That is, he’s hidden by clouds of no-see-ums
And leafy ferns. We watched him as he crossed
Between the carvings and the slabs embossed
Like legends in an open-air museum.
“Look here,” he points. “This guy charged a per diem
Of what I make per month. And what the cost . . . ”

He shrugs his shoulders, grinning. “Let this pass
As all things pass.” I think I see him smirk,
But he’s too busy now for us to lurk
Productively, examining the brass
Or counting names. “I don’t just cut the grass,
I am the grass,” he murmurs. “Let me work.”

Uncle Pumblechook’s Song

Some people say I haver, flop, and bumble,
But I believe what I have always said,
And I’ll believe it when I’m stiff and dead:
A man’s entitled to endeavour, stumble,
Crumble, mumble, tumble, fumble, grumble,
Answer unasked questions, tilt his head,
Insist on larger portions of white bread,
And criticize the world’s unholy jumble.

If I have claimed that small children were vicious,
It must be true. I wouldn’t tell a lie,
No, even though the very angels cry.
This meal was excellent, the food delicious,
The conversation happy and propitious.
Let go my elbow, child. This is good-bye.

Master of Tongues

He muttered something like “ogni speranza”
(Although I couldn’t hear him properly,
It didn’t sound like French, but it could be,
In which case it might be a great bonanza —
What’s French for “who comes in”? Is Sancho Panza
The guy who roamed the countryside with me?
I’m pretty sure he said “entrate qui” —
But maybe that was in another stanza).

You know those Frenchies seek me everywhere,
But I remain elusive, which I must
Because I can’t speak French. They call it crust —
Funny, since their baguettes have crust to spare.
In fact, I think it’s only right to share
The truth: my English also is a bust.

The Dreaming Cure

I wasn’t making sense, so my friends said
I should lie down and try the dreaming cure,
And that worked well, but it could not endure:
When I woke up, the daisies had turned red
And bloody, while the roses that were dead
Were marching now. I had been immature,
And filled my days with lust, hot and impure.
Dreams disarmed us. I should have stayed in bed.

My disappointed friends cried, “Give us back
The old disease!” but though I’ve tried my best
It won’t return. I must have failed the test,
I must have given up. The night was black,
And lust prevailed, sharp as a heart attack,
Thorough and final, underpinned by zest.

Obvious

“I don’t like sex,” you offered in reply
To my importunate longing, and woe.
It was the way you’d chosen to say No,
And made completely clear your reason why.
With an eternal something in my eye,
Maybe a grain of sand, I let it go,
Taking my leave. I’m silent and I’m slow,
Which isn’t how I ought to say good-bye.

At least I wasn’t silent and so fast
You didn’t understand that I’d be gone
Once the door closed. That I was moving on
Should have been obvious. It didn’t last,
But yes, I loved you. That’s all in the past:
You knew that, certainly. Is that a yawn?

A Cold Wind

I know you like to call these stories fictions,
But let’s not lie about lies. When you start,
It puts more undue pressure on my heart,
Which only adds to my other afflictions,
Including heart contractions and constrictions,
Decay and darkness, things falling apart.
Granting exceptions for truth, love, and art,
I’ve overcome the rest of my addictions.

The stories I call fiction are all true —
Not necessarily a useful choice,
But often just the best that I could do —
While not one single word of yours springs forth
To make things clear. It seems to me your voice
Is like a cold wind, blowing from the north.

I’ve Been Enchanted

I’ve been enchanted by the untamed scene
Next door: the trees, the cries. I’ve been enchanted
By my own garden, randomly replanted.
I’ve been enchanted by the new machine,
The new intensity I feel. I’ve been
Enchanted by the mercy I was granted
And the sun’s rays so casually slanted,
Flickering through the bushes, tinted green.

Unloved reality, brought home to me
By leaves and weeping in my neighbour’s yard,
Reminds me that when I’ve been on my guard
Nothing, not mercy, not intensity,
Nothing will let me live a fantasy.
I’m disenchanted now. Yes; that was hard.

Wallawalla

“Come on and sing a sweet romantic song,”
I told her, “Music’s never out of place.”
She glared at me. I’m coming on too strong,
I thought dejectedly, and hid my face.
“We’ll sing together, then, if you prefer”
(My hope, my prayer, my mischievous design).
“You liked my singing once,” I prompted her —
Too piteously, attempting not to whine.
“No, no, I do believe I’ve had my fill
Of singing, never mind your invocation,”
She answered tartly. Nothing worked until
The wallawalla-bing-bang formulation.
When I said, “Ting tang,” she at last began to sing,
And now we entertain at every gathering.

Her Presence Everywhere

Don’t argue. Didn’t do it for the praise,
Did I? Took care of her, a goddam saint —
I never claimed I toiled without complaint,
Did I? Sometimes I yelled, and on some days
I almost — no, not that. There was always
Some other way. I acted with restraint,
Always. I know you think that love is quaint,
But true love’s not just one of those clichés.

I love her even now. Although she’s dead,
Her memory’s not fading. I took care
To understand her presence everywhere
Is meaningful only inside my head,
So please don’t argue about what I said,
Not now. Not ever. It’s a lot to bear.

Beast

The wolf is slavering, aware of you
As something tasty, a fine piece of meat
Too feeble to cause trouble. What a treat!
He’ll tear you limb from limb until he’s through,
When he might kindly leave the residue
For scavengers hoping for something sweet.
I’ll watch them grinning, gnawing on your feet
And murmuring to friends, “Pull up a pew.”

Some beast is always ready, always glad
To make a meal of any easy prey,
Good food, prepared the good old fashioned way:
Raw, torn by canines driven nearly mad
By fragrant flesh, the best they’ve ever had,
I guess that’s all I really want to say.

Danger Pay

I should get danger pay for loving you.
It’s not the thunder — I’ve been hit already
By lightning, nearly pulled down in an eddy
(Love is the undertow), and I’ve come through.
I was unconscious, but now I’ve come to,
Gawking vacantly at your mani-pedi,
And sniffing your perfume (unduly heady),
Writing mean sonnets. This is what I do.

Take this one to remember who I am:
The all-heart, no-brain, it’s-a-sunny-day
Fool optimist who got no danger pay,
Only to drown myself in blood and jam.
I’ve watched you, standing in that pentagram
Like some dark wizard, in your bright array.