WAGblog

Two New Poems

The first one is brand new, and by gutter rat I mean a person, since there ain't no such thing strictly speaking, or so far as I know, as a gutter rat rat. Though I guess a rat would do as well! The second has already appeared here, I believe, but is now in another incarnation, its nth and hopefully its last. I finally like it, I think, but time will tell. If I look at it a month from now, I may change my mind. As you will note, the first section remains the same always. BTW The Latin in the middle of the second poem translates thusly: I am poor. I have nothing. I will give my heart.

THE QUESTION

Monsoon greased the streets with wet leaves.
I came searching for a bone, an answer.
I hid behind a faceless mask.
No feeling, tears, smile.
I would not react
to any curse or blessing hurled my way.

Proud old Hindu, he squatted on the staircase
to the silken household.
He did not deign to give my question, like a counterfeit coin,
more than his teeth.

I ached and shivered. Why was this so hard?
Did I have a devil’s face?

No one I want to know
imposes, he pronounced
eyes grazing the brown oily street beyond
such inquiries as these.
Old men are old. Do not ask them.
Old women do not answer questions.

The no-mask slipped,
anger rouging my face.
My heart drooped, disconsolate.

How many rats must drown
in sacrificial gutters, I wanted to know,
before a single soul’s eyes are opened?

That was all. My question regarded the living soul.

I have traveled all around the world to find out.
Each dawn: more dead rats,
more blind souls.

-----------

COUNTERFACTUALS

“What is particularly curious about quantum theory
is that there can be actual physical effects arising from...
counterfactuals -- that is, things that might have happened
although they did not...
Roger Penrose

1

I didn’t marry the right man
for twenty years and now, see
how fat he has grown
against the sickle of my body

He knocks at my bones
asking nothing

For the rest of my life

2

Each year new death
feast and celebration

hard to swallow
as this knot of pearls
choking my throat

Ego sum pauper
nihil habeo
cor meum dabo

God’s long shadow
dogs my heels

3

Danger dances with opportunity
nothing is certain

Streams rage, cities
topple, an army drowns
in the flood

The plum-eyed girl
pursues her death
ripe within the purple muck

In spring, a child is born

4

I climb
the yellow hill
above my new house

Memory gathers shadows
three bushels
in half an hour

A swinging door sings
in the four-cornered wind

A fork I don’t remember
a cane, a coat hanger
doorless cupboard, legless chair

Posted by pamwagg at October 18, 2005 05:38 PM