Growing Merry

I’m growing merry, but it’s not the wine,
It's something else — it’s crampons in the mist
, It’s altitude, thin air but with a twist —
Sunlight, a breathlessness almost divine,
The mist a warning, weariness a sign,
One cheek the colour of an amethyst,
The other wrinkled like a prune. The schist
Skitters on past; I feel it on my spine.

I’ve done with mountains now. I will not climb
The stairs. I will no longer lift my knee.
I’m sitting down right here, determinedly
Unmoving, and until the end of time.
My happiness achieved, I am sublime,
Relieved at last of all necessity.

Going and Coming Back

My concentration came to be intense
As I examined what was written down:
“Watch for the oak leaves that are turning brown —
We say brown. Somewhere ages and ages hence
You’ll tell us they were yellow. For sixpence
We’d put on a bright yellow evening gown
To show off our tattoos and drive to town
On the road less traveled.” I was on the fence:

I could do something else, looking for grace
Along the better-travelled, tree-lined road.
Sometimes my concentration ebbed and flowed,
But now I focused. The whole human race
Was in my care. I chose my working face,
Thought of the seasons, and wrote this careful ode.

Truth, That Blunderer

I left too late to get there earlier,
As we had planned, and so I wasn’t able
To work out what was underneath the table.
She claimed it was a collie, but its fur
Was like a bear cub’s, so I offered her
A chance to change her story. “It’s a sable,”
She lied, so it was just another fable
Designed to stifle truth, that blunderer.

I left too late because I told the truth
When neighbours asked if I could spare a minute
To look over and repair a broken spinet.
One minute? Forty-five. Was it uncouth
To leave it after they’d broken my tooth?
I can’t fix anything with music in it.

Love Enduring

Back then, when you were almost pregnant, sure
Of me, though little else of us was known
To either of us — love had to endure,
But that’s the whole nut — I was almost grown.
Then you might have been just as unprepared
For three lives to emerge from what might be
The future. I had reasons to be scared,
But you were steadfast, level-headedly
Responding to my mix of heady joy
And empty promises — Oh, man! Oh, men! —
With logical assurance. Was I coy?
Only that once, just once and never again.
I’m ready now: let’s plan the future, coming
Too fast, relentless, thrilling, heartless, drumming.

I Find No Peace

I find no peace, and all my war is done.
My life was never loud, but now in quiet
I’ve been reduced to reading Thomas Wyatt
For comfort. Ah, but comfort there is none.
One sonnet ends, another is begun
And ends too soon, a veritable riot
Of unwashed food for thought, a rotten diet
Disgraceful, full of everything but sun.

Without eyes I see, without tongue complain,
This dank, dark place a prison of my mind,
An empty space to which I’ve been assigned
In mercy’s absence, nothing left to gain
Or lose, but only misery and pain.
I’ve been unwise, while you have been unkind.

Fools

I can’t fool you. You’re way too smart for that.
No magic here: there’s nothing up my sleeve
(And anyway, what do those tricks achieve?),
No ribbons, pulling rabbits from my hat,
Nor epic structures raised from something flat.
So let’s just take a moment as you grieve
(I do confess I practised to deceive
While I was grinning like a Cheshire Cat).

No one is smiling now. I made one quip,
And terror claimed the room. I was at fault,
But you should take me with a grain of salt
Like any prisoner under the whip.
The earth’s rotation made me lose my grip,
The more fool I; someone should call a halt.

Our Souls

Her eyes are shining like two jet-black coals
Reminding me of dark depths that I’ve known,
Having experienced the wind, been blown
Past where I’d thought I saw my proper goals.
“We should combine our open hearts, our souls
To live in harmony where we’ve been thrown,”
Her eyes say. “Come on, Babe, throw me a bone.”
I shake my head, same as the clever trolls.

“Go wave your flag at someone else,” say I,
Exhibiting both worthlessness and phlegm.
“You should know better,” I tell her, and sigh.
“I'm a lost cause, while you’re a living gem.
I’m visited each night by succubi;
I’ve sold my soul to every one of them.”

Done

I do believe I’m done, milady. Done
And done, without a qualm, a second thought
For all that, when I might have hurt someone
Because of your commands. What I was taught
Is that your comfort was my truest worth,
Your safety and your pleasure my heart’s light,
And since the pointless day of my own birth
It is your battles only that I fight.
But something more than that has been demanded:
True love, which has its own rewards, and cost.
So I leave you this way, not empty-handed —
Your name is on my lips, and never lost,
But now I cannot stay. When I was tasked
With loving you, I did as I was asked.

Again, the Great Migration of the Clowns

Again, the Great Migration of the Clowns:
The loons, the doctors of philosophy,
The fakirs and the fakers, endlessly
Debating the debates, the ups and downs
Of policy, and whether evening gowns
Should be required or — on fire — towed to sea,
Accountants, engineers come, rolling free,
And other entertainers, with their crowns.

These are the Titans, Lords of running jokes,
Big feet, and runny noses, ravishing
And humid. Love, like fear, is on the wing,
Directionless. Although one red wig smokes,
All’s well: the flooring creaks, the singer croaks,
The wolves hum, and our guides go wandering.

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.