This week's poems seem to have a slightly dark edge to them. In the first four poems, there is a definite connection to Poe. I am fascinated anew by how he eschewed poetry for short fiction, yet how much he loved poetry. He was of course a bit of a poetry purist, the first to criticize what his contemporaries were "doing to poetry." This is a bit of a thread through the first 4 poems along with his deep criticism of war. Note also that I return to the notion of the flâneur. I am fascinated with the concept.
The final 3 poems turn a bit more inward. Sigh. Not so sure I am in love with any of these. I am on the discipline and reacting to the prompts. Maybe I got a bit tired.
Day 8
Poorer Poe
Poe had to neglect poetry
to favor commerce, to take
care of days and nights
with their demands. Not his
desire, his search
for something deep, alive
and a-fire. His talents ran amok
into dark places, sad lanes
and purloined correspondence.
No one complains. Hardly anyone
notices these days.
But we are the poorer
for his commerce, rich enough
some say to be able to hear the Raven
speak forevermore. We sigh
for the lost Lenore and for ourselves.
Day 9
What Poe Knew
Poe believed story low —
below poetry, trapped on a muddy
rung beneath the senses.
It was moody enough for him
to soar or sink in verse,
to take mankind aloft
or plunge him to despair.
On this ordinary evening,
drowned in blue so deep,
a poem rises from the page
to save me. Poe’s raven
claws at me, draws blood.
Day 10
In the Valley of Unrest
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas EA Poe
Dear Mr. Poe,
Sit with me awhile,
let me listen to your mind
whirring with plot, darkling
with mystery. Let me pour
some coffee, the kind we have
now, dark as you. After
awhile, we can stop the story
mid-plot, return to poetry.
Milton made a point to hide
beneath his lush poesy, not you.
You decry the brutal in the beautiful,
the magic isolation of the sea,
war stirred beneath mild-eyed stars,
your ire like the wind from loud Heaven,
and you must elevate the chill
of spilled blood to rouse us. Ugly
ends become ghastly beauty.
Dear Magician,
Stop being mad
and all the hidden beauty will disappear.
Day 11
Hidden City
In the hour between moonrise and daybreak
the flaneur eyes the corners, watches
for the dark figure of Poe, sweeping
along in his cloak and close-fit hat. Shadows
and ravens, pipe smoke and peppermint
populate every neighborhood tonight.
In his day, Poe wrote here, at a table
in this dank café, spittle on his chin, growl
in his throat. The flâneaur knows him,
never having met him at all, one word
from him like a knife to the throat, an axe
to his deepest thoughts. They pass,
shadow for shadow, in the world
where no one sees a thing or feels the sting
of blood upon the split cheek. Nevermore
in daylight, only under the brutal moon,
NOTE: a flâneur is defined as a lurker, a person who sees
what is hidden in the corners of the city.
Day 12
Glove
When is this glove
shut of the hand it fit
so long? Its form stays,
fingers curled as in a fist
or a summons,
every crease of the palm
tells of lifeline, heart line,
money and woe. This glove
is the story no one tells
around the breakfast table.
What it’s done
may be tragic or brave.
At the wrist, embroidered
monogram E.
It claims her even now,
even cold as she must ever be,
hands folded gloveless
over her quiet breast. The match,
the right, long gone
from the drawer, trembles
in the bin where it too will die.
Day 13
No
I am a mysterious visitor
in my family, not like anyone,
like everyone. Only child
of four. I have the nose
my father gave me, the one he lost
to war, replaced and repaired
to compensate for schrapnel.
I have my mother’s eyes, mercifully
not her reserve. What did her eyes
see that made her so afraid?
I see my Nana’s hands
at the ends of my wrists, her fingers
as they sifted flour or stirred gravy.
Her onyx ring is mine too,
given to prevent the fighting
which would ensue post mortem.
Ahhh, the fighting. I have no desire
to fight, but fight I must
to stay awake and claim what’s mine:
the mind I send to make something new
each day, the heart I prune and feed
no matter that love comes so hard
from some whose blood I share.
No. I am not them and yet I am. No
more trying to resist the map
I walk away and far, to save myself.
Day 14
If
If I had stayed
and done my part
to finish what I began,
if I had not left
in the middle
of things, I’d not be
me, but someone else.
Who would this woman
have known for years,
have loved and wed, have
borne from her body
into what kind of world?
If I had stuck it out
and kept my word
and gone down the road
I set, where would I live?
Where would I lay my head
when things get dark?
Would I miss you?
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