Poems for Persons of Interest

  Hunger Strike Blood is on the table, the mouths are choking But I'm going hungry… —Temple of the Dog   Offer me all the blandishments of Spain, the lure             Of wine poured out like blood in gold carafes, And platters heaped with pomegranates, dates, and pure             Delicacies. Instead of epitaphs, The bitter herbs of faith and truth, let me compose             Delicious panegyrics, and report From moonlit gardens where the breath of Heaven blows             That all is well within this heathen court. Turn me aside from stricken thoughts of home, where Ruth             Once gleaned amid the rough Judean hills, As Layla's warm caresses, and the raven pith     ...

An Argument for Apocatastasis Assuming sentiment does not misplace Itself upon a sleeping infant’s face Or co-opt reason doubtfully to find Within the womb a thing of the same kind, At least it is not of the same degree, That much is clear. Having begun to be, Other things equal, we would see it live And where it fails to, spare some time to grieve, But not as much as if it had advanced As far in life as otherwise had chanced. Assuming then that which seems presupposed: That though those little eyes as yet be closed, A soul, immortal, individual Takes residence behind them, and that all The chance it has of a lifetime in our world Is actual already, lying furled, To be no more than just this once incarnate— And one more thing, as messengers will warn it, That sins it will commit right from the start Will be engraved upon its little heart In letters God has promised to erase From those hearts only that accept His grace, (Which many won’t, or won’t know how to do In this age where the ...

Polari Catullus 78B Infamy, infamy: a fragment   …………………………………... But see now, what pisses me off is you’ve soiled with yer filthy kisses the purest of the pure, my treash, my ducky. But don’t think you’re in the clear. I’ll make sure all the world will hear, make you a byword for all that’s mucky.   Polari glossary: treash – treasure [a frequent term of endearment]; ducky [a term of endearment]

Good Night This library is colder than I like. My shoulders, sore today from too much rowing, Shiver a little for dramatic effect. I have no audience, except my pen.   I want to write something about a night— Or maybe many nights—compressed in one Symbolic evening that will redefine Night in my memory. I think of you.   And then I think, this paper is too white, My line of ink inadequate, too blue. Nothing is as I remember it. Maybe It never was that way. In life or art—   Except this once. I write your name by mine. Then add, “Good Night.”                                     Then, I put down my pen.

To a Sycamore Of course, there have been times my ripples bridle Against the grip of your strong patchbark roots, Times when the litter of your rusty leaves Stymies my rush and muffles my recital Of imitation birdsong. But, in turn, You brace the bed where my curved current weaves Around you. From your rootedness, I learn To flow in channeled force by sweetspire shoots. Reach up above me with your whispering limbs. Splinter the sunlight into shafts that flash Brilliantly off my eddies when I laugh. With your night branches, cut the moon in half And drop it in my dark pool. Where it swims Unanchored, you can hear a cool, soft splash.