Posts tagged poem

2 Oct 2012

Merlin’s Youth

Not a dragon nor a princess born,
No avaricious heart within me yearns.
No object of desire am I to men.
The world’s actors’ truths instead I scry;
I detect in chat, in voice, in hands,
Ambition, motive, loyalty, and vice.
Once upon a time in far-off lands,
A kind man filled my plate and flagon full,
And asked I speak to him my thoughts upon
His magistrates, his councilors, his peons.
I told him truth, and only some of that.
He called me wizard just before he left,
Dissolving bonds of fealty with a word,
To seek his princess in another castle.

What longing is allowed a man of station,
Who, old before his time, hath ne’er engaged
The hard pursuit and conquest of a dragon,
The gentle wooing of a virgin maiden,
Nor bargained with a sharp-tongued haughty princess,
Nor led an army into foreign lands?
The idiocies of youth are not forgiv’n
In a man perceived out of his prime.
From tower window high above I watch
Hero in his youth when he has one,
Yearn anon for that which he has not.
Let dotage be the youth I never had;
Then shall I dragons slay and maidens lay,
Lest now I grieve that which I’ll never know.

(to the tune of Fly Me To The Moon)

Gag me with a spoon
You’re totally grody to the max
You’re all Mervyn’s knockoffs
I’m like 5th Avenue Sachs.

In other words, take a hike
In other words, you’re beneath me

Fill your purse with toys
Go to the Valley shopping mall
You’ve got to see the Spring collection
You’re still dressed in Fall.

In other words, go away
In other words, I don’t know you.

Why don’t you fill your purse with toys
Go to the Valley shopping mall
You have to buy the Spring collection
You’re still wearing Fall.

In other words, go away
In other words, I don’t know you.

you’ll start with champagne,
and you’ll laugh

and you’ll follow it with a margarita,
and you’ll tell stories,
maybe even some true ones

but you’ll end with Campari and cold coffee,
their bitterness paling
in the company
of your withered dreams

take an aspirin before bed;
it makes the morning easier
when you wake up alone

or don’t.
it’s not like it matters

The worm cares naught for who he eats today;
From Rudyard Kipling’s cat he learned this ‘tude.
Then how shall I conceive to feed this worm?
My critic’s corpse would ample foodstuff make.
The body of critique of me is large;
On that a worm might feed for many months.
But who should be the representative,
The proxy, scapegoat, bearer of the sin?
What person has contributed the most
To nervous tics, anxieties, and grief
Incurred by this relentless monologue
Correcting every word, each act, each thought,
Till all my being aches with doubt unchecked
And only in a dream might I be free
To truly be the hero of my tale.
In some rare restful night I find success
A poignant counterpoint to daily strife,
A glimmer that this harlequin may yet
Discover how to quell that hated voice.
But whence its source, that timbre I despise?
Of course.  I know it well; it is my own.
How can I still this part of who I am
And yet remain the one I know as me?
Who would I be if triumph of the night
Were mine to hold, to own, in light of day?
If I could kill my doubt, who would I be?
I can say only this: go ask a worm.

The teeth flash white
Bone knives in sun
Up down up down
Incising breath
To onion dice.
Such tiny words
To bring such tears.

Fistful of sorrow,
abide within me
no more.

Wither with fall’s leaves;
like dust, to four winds
disperse.

Stripped of such armor,
thou shy and skittish
nude heart

Offer a gentle
caress, the kiss of
new hope.

I have sodomized
the dinosaurs
that were in
the archives

and which
you were probably
saving
for reference

Forgive me
they were sensuous
so kinky
and so hot

Where are you now, Freeloader? Now that Uncle Mobster has reported
     Loan Shark missing
And Internet Tough Guy’s fallen asleep in the merry-go-round seats?
Where are you now that Dealer Marvel’s WHADDAYANEED! echoes
    round the street corner,
The junkies don’t hear it,
Must all be deaf … or dead …
The Bill Collector who came down from the Payment Planet
    disguised as a man
Is wandering aimlessly about the foreclosures
With no way of getting back.
Sir Prodigal’s been strangled by the Incredible Living Trust,
Check-kiter killed by his own pen.
Pawnbroker has bankrupted the last of his businesses
And has now gone off to commit suicide in the disused
    Hangars of Collections.
The Pickpocket and the Cop still fight it out on a subway
Where the walls are continually closing;
Getaway Car’s fuel tanks gave out on I-5.
Even Three-Card Monty’s lost, podgy and helpless
He wanders along the streets
Weeping over the marks he found
    Half a decade ago.
        My illustrious companions, it’s only a few
            years
Since first I knew you. Yet something in us has already faded
Has the Terrible Fiend, That Ghastly Adversary,
Mr. Conscience, Caught you in his deadly trap,
And come finally to polish you off,
His machinegun dripping with debt … ?

—with apologies to Brian Patten, Where Are You Now, Batman?

I have reread
the poems
that were in
the archives

and which
were exquisitely
preserved
for new days

Forgive me
they were pastiches
of words
and of joy