Wednesday, November 30, 2005

twilight is a time
of intermingling light
and dark where beauty
somehow
resides however unwelcome
and though the victor
is predestined by the diurnal
it is an internecine drama
beyond the reach
of shakespeare’s pen
or fellini’s lens

it is a time
that opens perception
inviting us to see
not in spite of the darkness
but because of it

it is at this moment that
a mockingbird behind me
impersonates the nightingale
and then the blackbird

which causes my mind to stumble
among tropes of emptiness and fear
and find itself alone
i look for god
in the pages of a book
and find comfort
in the longing of duino
and dover beach

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

when i sing
i often feel
like a rich old woman
with a priceless steinway
in her front parlor
that she cannot play
i possess an instrument on which
i can bang out brilliant flourishes
fleeting fragments of virtuosity
that can at times approach
the heights of placido or pavarotti
or more often those of tonic or toad
like the young guitarist
who can dazzle
with a few zeppelin riffs
but cannot play an entire song
and as i sit here in virtual quietness
serenaded by the arrhythmic
almost inaudible clicks of this keyboard
i have a similar feeling as a poet
i have stashed away
somewhere in the attic
in one of the countless
boxes of books notebooks
and other sorts of literary trinkets
an antique ticket
for the train to transcendence
but i could never use it
the bridge is out near simplon pass
broken long ago
whether by the winds of time
or nietzsche’s madman
i cannot be certain
but it is more likely that its abutments
and cross supports collapsed
under the weight of their own suppositions
or were gradually deconstructed
by internal contradictions
and faulty assumptions
and so we are left with the fragments
we can mimic the masterpieces
i have myself sung handel’s messiah
haydn’s creation and bach’s b minor mass
and while
iambics often trickle off my tongue
i can only bang out fragments
on this keyboard
there is of course brief comfort
in attempts to imagine a stairway to heaven
but it is no different than the haunting rhythms
of the ocean or even the steps
of a fool in the rain