V. 2, #16: April 12, 2013

If things don't change, they're going to stay the same.
Inertia's more than simple gravity--
it weighs down thought and possibility
and causes cherished dreams to pull up lame;

Resolves to ash the brightest burning flame
and drowns ambition in humility;
turns fervent hymns to sleepy homily
in which things never change, but stay the same.

Kept fed, denied the hunt and liberty,
even the wildest beast can be made tame.
And after years of toothless lethargy,
he may not even mourn what he became.
Sit still, you'll find it's true, eventually:
If things don't change, they're going to stay the same.

 

V. 2, #15: April 11, 2013

With thoughts all dandelion down, my brain
flung to the four winds like a sailor's song
I sit to wring the ink out once again,
from wrinkled sheets of poetry. All wrong,

But like the sacrifice of Isaac, asked
to test his father's heart and check his pride.
I offer to the Muse this daily task
In hopes that when She pleases, She'll provide.

So let the wretched ink flow from my pen,
in Voynich, beautiful and meaningless;
If I keep at it, maybe now and then
a little treasure will my crimes redress.

Tonight I might have nothing fine to say;
but I will live to write another day.

 

V. 2, #14: April 10, 2013

This place should not be able to contain
your loveliness within its drab, gray walls;
as soon hold back the sea or stop the rain,
catch each blue diamond drop before it falls

and weave them all together in a veil
to frame the golden glory of your face
as, if I could, I would--and for your trail
I'd knit the silver moonbeams into lace.

But here fluorescent bulbs emit a glare
devoid of warmth, and rain can't penetrate,
nor moonlight shine. And so you must stay bare
of all these ornaments I contemplate.

A shameful lack, and one I can't correct;
it's probably just as well you don't suspect.

 

V. 2, #13: April 9, 2013

Decisions made without a second thought
Change you--a million possibilities
Are born and die with "Yes" and "I Will Not,"
Provide and rob you of such liberties

As you might never dream were yours to take:
That woman from Accounting you've admired
For years, had you delayed your coffee break
A moment, might have snapped and had you fired

For making eyes--a moment earlier,
She might have noticed your designer pants,
Said so, you'd pay a compliment to her,
And soon become her lover. Wicked Chance!

To show the paths we missed while unprepared,
And kingdoms we'd have won, had we but dared.

 

V. 2, #12: April 8, 2013

Don't think about it--just look straight ahead
and jump. Anticipate the upward thrust
of air against pure gravity, and trust
the panicked voices screaming in your head

Are wrong this time. If you believe your wings
can bear your weight, are more than clumps of wax,
some feathers, and a balsa frame--relax,
and put away such fearful reasonings.

You cannot think how Death perhaps awaits
below, his claws outstretched to clasp your soul.
Think only of the glorious azure sky.
For he is surely lost who hesitates,
and should you fall, at least you'll perish whole,
not piecemeal over years. Go on now. Fly.

 

V. 2, #11: April 7, 2013

So once upon a time there was this fish
(called Glubblubdub--but friends just called him Mike)
who had the power to grant a single wish
to any fisherman come down the pike;

One day a young girl caught him, using worms
(you prolly figured such would be the case)
and Mike, to save his tail, laid out the terms
to his amazed captor (whose name was Grace).

After a moment's pause, she shook her head.
"If you could grant a wish, why would you stay
like this? Why not become a king instead,
and rule creation till your dying day?"

"By George, you're right!" Mike said. "I'll do that thing!"
And this is how a catfish became king.

 

V. 2, #10: April 6, 2013

The girl, suddenly radiant, as though
in some god's ecstasy, began to sing
with no real melody. She started low,
the soft notes disconnected, wandering,

A young child's tuneless song. And yet we all
stood still and listened. She struggled to climb
to higher notes, a strange, hypnotic call.
The way her body swayed to keep the time,

Not metronomic--rather like a blade
of grass cuaght dancing in the gentle wind
before a storm. Then her crescendo, loud
and keening--and whatever spirit played
through her brought its weird music to an end,
while she stood mute, just smiling at the crowd.

 

V. 2, #9: April 5, 2013

Look busy--someone told me our new boss
is coming round to visit. Clack those keys!
He's said to be the kind who might get cross
to find his faithful code monkeys at ease.

Pull up a spreadsheet! Maximize it fast!
The more arcane the better--that's the stuff.
With any luck he'll nod and amble past,
convinced our current workload is enough.

Let's print him out a stack of fat reports
that would make Archimedes shake his head;
then we can surf the web, talk about sports,
and catch up on our Words with Friends instead.

I mean, it's not as though we're lazy slobs--
it's damned hard work pretending we have jobs!

 

V. 2, #8: April 4, 2013

Sometimes the storm clouds roll in like a train,
with thunder like steel wheels on iron rails
that throw off lightning sparks. Sometimes the rain
falls like a judgment. Other times it hails.

Sometimes the wind feels like it wants to tear
the clothes right off your back; the dry leaves hiss
and rattle like a snake. Sometimes it's fair,
the breeze as gentle as a lover's kiss.

Sometimes the sun beats down like it's perturbed
at all us crawling creatures here below.
Sometimes it leaves us cool and undisturbed.
(Don't even get me started on the snow.)

If you don't like the weather, wait a minute.
That's how it is in Arkansas, now innit?

 

V. 2, #7: April 3, 2013

The smell of motor oil still makes me think
of fish. My uncles pulling up the drive
with river water pouring out the back
of that flat, dented boat they always took
to check their trot lines; then they'd lug the chest
of bluegill bream and channel cat on ice
into the dingy, cinder-block garage

Where old petroleum mixed with the stink
of doomed aquatic creatures, still alive,
mouths gaping as in shock. The men would smack
the catfish with a mallet. Wrenches shook
on pegboard, vicious pliers bit down to wrest
the skin from flesh. The bream they'd scale and slice,
while I crouched down beside the bench to watch.

 

V. 2, #6: April 2, 2013

A few things I can do: brew my own beer,
change out the oil and filter in my car,
cook macaroni, keep the sink drain clear
of hairballs, and play mini-golf near par;

Strum half a dozen tunes on my guitar,
hold down a barre chord, sing almost in tune,
and belt it when I can't; find the North star,
identify the phases of the moon;

Define "frugivorous" and "picayune,"
recite Macbeth's "Tomorrow" speech by heart,
refrain from drinking whiskey before noon,
and finish almost everything I start.

Which may not seem like much, but that's okay
by me. It's more than some folks, anyway.

 

V. 2, #5: April 1, 2013

We never use the back room anymore,
not since the night Dave spent there, years ago.
Just what he saw I guess we'll never know,
but I'm no longer curious. That door

will stay boarded and shut. The keening wail,
the growling thing that scratches at the jamb
on winter nights--I do not give a damn,
just so it never learns to bend a nail.

I let Dave out that morning, afterward--
his hair streaked white, the blood all down his face,
those empty eyes. That was enough for me.
There's no one in this world who needs to see
what that poor bastard saw, hear what he heard.
Whatever haunts that room can have the place.

 

V. 2, #4: March 31, 2013

Hey, pardner! You--the one with mutton chops!
The lady said get lost, so let it pass.
Don't make me come down there and kick your ass!
Somebody's sure to freak and call the cops,

And neither of us needs that--least 'ways you.
(I figure you're no stranger to the law.)
So if you like the way God made your jaw
fit in its place, take my advice: go screw.

There's always one like you, can't let it be:
some rooster thinks his tail's the best in town,
till some other old cock spurs him right down
to blood and feathers. Friend, that cock is me.

That's what I thought. See, darlin'? He's all show.
Could I buy you--goddammit, where'd she go? 

 

V. 2, #3: March 30, 2013

Now and again, a sudden shift of clouds
will let a little sunshine in to chase
the shadows from the dusty attic shrouds
that cover up my memory of your face.

I pull the sheets away, and there you lie--
so still, perfectly frozen in my mind;
Love in your smile, and mischief in the eye
that long ago to me turned cold and blind.

There was a time our days were filled with light,
and all our nights with passion, heat, and cheer;
But now it's just this half-remembered sight
of you, preserved but fading, year by year.

And I, curator to lost love and lust,
pull up the sheets to save you from the dust.

 

V. 2, #2: March 29, 2013

The aliens aint' comin'. If they was,
I figure they'd of been in touch by now.
No circled crops, no mutilated cow,
no colored lights at night, nor eerie buzz.

The lines I chalked out back, straight as a rail,
to help them land their ships, done blown away.
And if them E.T.'s got something to say,
my dish ain't picked it up. The grade is "fail."

I thought they'd come. I scrimped and saved and planned
for when they'd liberate me from this dirt,
where everything is hate, and fear, and hurt,
and nothing good can be allowed to stand.

But now I know I'm stuck here, just like you.
I don't know what in hell I'm gonna do.

 

V. 2, #1: March 28, 2013

I feel like I've been powerless for years,
Or optionless, which comes out just the same.
All rooted in routine, stock still with fears,
Till choice is even less now than a name.

I've let the things I loved go slipping though
My grasp, like water held in shaking hands;
The days pass into months, and nothing's new.
And nobody I talk to understands.

I don't know if I've been dead, or asleep--
If waking resurrection's on the card
Or not. I just know things I thought I'd keep
Have disappeared, and finding them is hard.

I'm searching, though. It's tiresome and it's tough,
But something has to change. Today. Enough.

 

"Sonnet XI" by Pablo Neruda

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

--Pablo Neruda

Where Have You Gone?

(This is one I wrote some time ago, but didn't post, for whatever reason. I found it in a notebook and thought I should put it up here before I lose it, as I don't think it's *entirely* terrible.)

Where have you gone? I've searched and searched for years
with no result. An obsolete e-mail,
an out-of-date address; the track gone stale
and no new clues. Still, no one disappears--

The world's not half as big now as it was
when Fate threw us together that first night
and we our bodies; touch and taste and sight
remain as sensual memory always does.

On college websites, Facebook--lost, I try
to find you, in my dotage looking back
to where the ghost of you burns like a flame;
I still can feel your heat, and hear your cry
of pleasure--then your form dissolves to black
and leaves me in the dark, Googling your name. 


--SS

Berta

You always kept some water by the bed
in case you woke up thirsty in the night.
I still remember that—and how the light
cut fault-lines through the glass. And once you said
you felt just like the white stray cat you fed
with scraps on paper plates you left outside.
When she stopped coming round, Lord, how you cried—
the water down your face, eyes puffed and red.

I think sometimes about the night you tried
to make me say I loved you—how the bright
blue tears stood in your eyes, where gold light bled
its heart-breaking refraction; how the sight
drew out my ugly truth; and how instead,
now knowing what I owe—I should have lied.

--SS

Happy birthday, Berta, wherever you are.

-----------------------------------
Original version on The Sonnet Project, December 29, 2006 (link)
Published at The Hypertexts, November 2008 (link)

"XVIII. Oh, when I was in love with you..." by A. E. Housman

OH, when I was in love with you,
Then I was clean and brave,
And miles around the wonder grew
How well did I behave.

And now the fancy passes by,
And nothing will remain,
And miles around they ’ll say that I
Am quite myself again.


--A. E. Housman