THREE POEMS OF UNCONCERN

APPROPRIATE RESPONSES

Some meddlesome and interfering fool,
Nurtured on imagined self-importance,
Is affronted that you are not serious.

Nonchalantly smirk him into rage;
Dissolve the coating of his self-esteem
With a glance of palpable ennui.

A minister complains you are too calm;
He frets over your complacency and ease:
Comfort deadens conscience like a drug!

Stifle a softly surreptitious yawn.
Grasp the decanter. Silkily respond:
Possibly. Will you have another sherry?

Your Great Aunt, monumentally obtuse,
Laments your long and happy bachelorhood,
And wonders when you will “do the right thing.”

Smile faintly. In apologetic tones
Describe how a mistress satisfies all wants,
And is far less expensive than a wife.

A prophet, rapt with paroxysms of zeal
That burns with rage (but glows with Love for Man)
Demands what you have done to Save the World.

Now you have reached the source of human woe:
Tell him you have wished and longed and prayed
Devoutly for his quick and certain death.



TO A WOULD-BE REFORMER

Remember there is nothing in the world
Important save yourself and your own interests.
Remember that these interests may include
An undetermined number of some other
Persons, places, and far-off events.

This is the limit of all brotherhood.
These are the marches of effective love.
All further windy claims and protestations
Are traps and pitfalls meant to capture fools.

 

THE WORRIERS

Great questions hang from melancholic minds
Like stalactites in a limestone cave.
The “sensitive,” the “troubled,” the “concerned”
Meditate as earnestly as monks.

They are emphatic in their chosen mode
Of gymnastic mental exercise,
Remembering, during bouts of rumination,
The only panacea is: Think harder.

They fuss and fret and worry and find things
To grieve about for endless drawn-out hours,
To rack their consciences and bathe in guilt,
And chalk up points on score-sheets of their virtue.

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   ______________________

COOKING FOR VEGANS

Imagine a barnyard soufflé
Of chicken-feed, pig-slop, and hay.
That’s what you’d serve
(f you really had nerve)
At a banquet for vegans today.

Never a well-marbled steak,
Or nicely fried haddock and hake,
Or baked ham en croute
With champagne in a flute—
Such foodstuffs would be a mistake.

You couldn’t have lobster or veal
Or anything else at your meal
That came from poor creatures
With non-human features
(You know how these vegans would squeal).

Don’t cook for such jerks. You will fail.
Eat roast pork and cabbage or kale
Followed by biscuits
With t-bones and briskets
Washed down by a tankard of ale.

And after you’ve finished the ham,
Wind up with a nice rack of lamb,
Then an egg-custard dream
Made from butter and cream,
And slathered in apricot jam.

That’s the way humans should eat—
With plenty of dairy and meat.
Not gnawing on grasses
Like rabbits and asses
Half-starved in malnourished defeat.

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        ______________________

SEVEN LIMERICKS ON ATARAXIA

THE LILACS ON GOOD FRIDAY

Tumult of noontide long ago dismissed—
The rent veil unremembered, and the sun
Relit, though shrouded in a new eclipse
Of rainswept sky. The garden seems to shun

That spectral agony of blood and bone;
Consigns itself instead to placid sleep
Untroubled as the moss upon a stone
And heedless while the three Marias weep.

Four decades’ growth of lilac by this wall
Stretches its shallow spiral to the sky.
Clustering blossoms, soon to swell and fall,
Gather themselves like nimbuses on high

Out of my hand’s grasp, yet I still can bend
The pliant osiers downward to my face,
And sniff the buds that already distend:
Late April lilacs, delicate as lace.

Unlike that rigid tree, untenanted,
And red with memory of three hours’ grief,
The thornless lilacs summon up no dread,
Demand no witness. Flower, branch, and leaf

Are only what they are. They have no words
For us to ponder, though we sometimes feign
To speak for them, as augury of birds
Construes an omen of impending pain.

The book is shut, the candle snuffed, the bell
Rings the finale of a troubled day.
Did lilacs grace the garden where we fell,
Or scent Gethsemane? I bade you pray

And watch with me a little while this night—
Could you not watch one hour? The world’s bereft
Of that which once gave stomach for a fight
Or certitude to vision. I have left

The Office of the Holy Cross unsung
But patient on the rubricated page:
Open my lips, O Lord, and let my tongue
Announce thy praises—in some other age.

Here in this garden how could it displease
To let the lilacs offer up my prayer—
Sweet censers that, when shaken by the breeze,
Scatter their fragrance in the evening air?

And in that garden where a sepulcher
New-hewn from rock awaits the mourners’ tread,
Where cerecloths, unguent, aloes mixed with myrrh
Will soon enshroud the lacerated dead,

There is some solace from the thought of how
Late April lilacs, coming into bloom,
Shall dance the currents of the air, and bow
To shed their flowerets on an open tomb.

 

           —from Formal Complaints (Somers Rocks Press, 1996)

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THE TELEVANGELISTS

If you’re lookin’ for salvation
Prove it with a big donation.
Down in hell there’s souls a-writhin’
’Cause they didn’t do their tithin’.

Remember what is owed to Caesar—
Amex, Mastercard, and Visa
Will work fine, but cash is dandy,
Or your checkbook, if it’s handy.

Christ expelled the shekel-changers
Claimin’ they were total strangers
To the house of prayer—but honey,
Tabernacles run on money.

Send your hallelujahs over
To the throne of High Jehovah
Decked out in His lordly raiment—
He takes prayers, but we take payment.

                   —from Trinacria

           ____________

FOUR BRIEF AESTHETIC OBSERVATIONS

CRITICAL JUDGMENT

Young Wordsworth was an egotistic twit
Who thought the cosmos turned upon his soul.
I’m glad I never met the little git
But still he wrote good poetry, all told.

ALEXANDER POPE COMMENTS
          ON "BEACH BLANKET BINGO"

I wrote of man, and ravished locks,
Englished Homer’s battle-shocks,
Recording every slash and cut
And heroic outcry, but…
There’s not much chance of bedding Gidget
When you are a crippled midget.

To Dorothy Parker,
              on Behalf of Men

You’re wrong—we’ll make passes
At girls who wear glasses
As long as they’re lasses
With cute, curvy asses.
 

ABOUT SHELLEY'S "TO A SKYLARK"

If you’re gonna write an Ode
Please make sure it has a load
Of simple, plain, and common sense;
If it doesn’t, get thee hence—
I can’t stand it when you spurt
Gab of birds that “never wert.”

___________________

MYTHOLOGICAL LIMERICKS ON DEFLORATION

VENUS AND ADONIS

Adonis was cute as a berry
And Venus was sexy and merry—
The boy said “No dice”
But without thinking twice 
She jumped him and popped the kid’s cherry.

HADES AND PERSEPHONE

Hades was hot for a missus
And longed for Persephone’s kisses.
Instead of seduction
He tried straight abduction
And widened the place where she pisses.

ZEUS AND CALLISTO

Callisto flamed Zeus’ desire
Igniting a lust-driven fire—
And when she bent over 
To pluck up some clover
He thought “Well, I might as well try her.”

HERA AND ZEUS

When Hera makes love with her lord
Her husband will never be bored.
Through magical powers
Whenever she showers
Her hymen is freshly restored.

CUPID AND PSYCHE 

Psyche and amorous Cupid
Made love in a manner most stupid.
They mimicked the habits
Of oversexed rabbits
And screwed till exhausted and poopèd. 

PROFESSIONAL HANDS

The direst problem in Western culture today is the collapse of
full-blown unapologetic masculinity, and the public celebration
of that collapse.
                                       —Derek Burgoyne 

Alone and silent at his tidy desk
He serves as stopgap in the day’s routines,
Riffling through pages of a dog-eared text
With hands soft and anemic, ghostly pale.
An angled knuckle, pensively at chin,
Denotes strength held in check, or in reserve.
These hands make only necessary moves
Or—infrequently—a minor gesture.

The Spartans held Thermopylae, and died
Obedient to their orders, and repelled
Vile Persian hordes.  The hands that gripped those spears 
Saved Greece from the defilement of Asia.
The hand of Caesar, raised before the Rhine,
Sent legions into battle, slaughtered foes.
The Viking oarsmen pulled with roughened hands,
War-tempered, calloused from the axe-haft’s wood;
Such hands as held the standard when our knights
Stormed the Holy City.  Other hands
Strummed citterns in the castles of Provençe
Or limned vermilion on the vellum page.

Professors sign the papers placed before them
Without a second thought.  Their hands might well
Be mere clockwork appendages that move
Solely to the pull of puppeteers.
Who turned men into dead unthinking dolls
Devoid of will, imagination, life?
Who made their hands as limp and epicene
As broken wings on Icarus, the drowned? 

___________________

THE VIRGIN AND THE SIEVE

___________________

HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE
       Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
      Squeezed from goblin fruits for you.
                      —Christina Rossetti, “Goblin Market”

Fruits are like a Siren call
That lures me to the produce stall
Stacked with all that tree-grown stuff
Of which I cannot get enough.

I hunger after Anjou pears;
Firm apples can dispel my cares;
Citrus globes of every kind
I’ll devour to the rind.

Cantaloupe and watermelon,
Blush-red grapes with juice a-swellin’,
Mango, guava, and papaya—
Strum their praise on lute and lyre!

Figs and kiwis get my vote:
Bananas raw or in compote;
The nectarine, the quince, the damson
Leave me helpless as bald Samson.

And yet, if I could have my druthers,
There’s one more luscious than the others,
Sweeter than the peach or berry,
And that’s a nice ripe tight-skinned cherry.

A TRIBUTE TO WOMEN IN THE HAMPTONS
        Prostitution is now a major growth industry in
        some exclusive parts of Long Island.
                         —News item

I found, as I traversed New York,
That people varied in their talk.
In Queens they had a word for girls
Who rented out their public curls.
This sort of dame was called a hoo-er
To make a perfect rhyme with sewer.
In Harlem she was called a hō
(With macron on the lengthened o)
And Brooklynites, both rich and poor,
Denominated her a hoor.
I heard the same thing in the Bronx
Drawn out with aspirated honks
While Staten Island had a mix
Of labels for commercial chicks:
Ho and Hoo-er, Hoor and Hoe-er…
Some said faster, some said slower.
The double-u I never found
Except on the Long Island Sound
Where ladies of the upper classes
Get the best price for their asses.

___________________

SICK TRANSITION
         Sic transit gloria mundi.

The tended garden, where a fountain’s grace
Unfolds in shimmering crystal rivulets,
Waits upon what is highest in the soul.

Well-pruned fig trees and a lilac bush
Umbrella the baroque wrought-iron chairs
That whisper of a century long past
Tapestried in choice amenities.

Today, caged in their walls of cinderblock,
Consumers sleep through base, surrealist dreams
While cheap clocks tick like metronomes, or bombs.
Outside, on a patch of littered earth,
A mindless cricket chirps in perfect time.

 

MORTE D'ARTHUR
…and if thou hear never more of me, pray
   for my soul.
                   —Sir Thomas Mallory

I did not wait so many years, it seems;
The days and hours fell like rain and snow,
Now fast, now slow,
But ever downwards, always to one end.

Where were the swords-in-stone, the ghost-borne Grail?
I had not thought to wait so many years,
Shed misplaced tears,
Hope for the crucible, find the chamber-pot.

So many years to fill Siege Perilous…
“Come sit at the round table,” said Annette,
Savante-coquette,
And drew my portrait (pen and ink with wash).

I said “Without my glasses I am blind;
Impressions, colors, vague uncertainty
Are all I see.”
So have I been, these quickly vanished years.

                                            _____________________________________________

THE FLAYING OF MARSYAS

The satyr Marsyas was flayed alive by the god Apollo,
after  being defeated in a musical contest with the god.

THE DEATH OF SIR HENRY DE BOHUN

TEN MYTHOLOGICAL LIMERICKS

ARACHNE AND MINERVA

Arachne was proud, and a fighter
As strong as a keg of hard cider.
But it’s best with Minerva
To honor and serve her,
Or else you’ll wind up as a spider.

DEUCALION AND PYRRHA

Deucalion and Pyrrha were faced
With a world where all folks were erased.
But then they took stones
(Metaphorically, “bones”)
And raised up new people in haste.

DANAË AND ZEUS

Poor Danaë was locked in a tower
By her father, a king of vast power.
She was seen by great Zeus
Who, like rain down a sluice,
Gave Danaë a nice golden shower.

ULYSSES AND THE CYCLOPS

Ulysses, the Ithakan joker,
Took a hint from an engine-room stoker.
He didn’t need eyedrops
To blind the poor Cyclops—
He used a hot log as a poker.

DAPHNE AND APOLLO

Young Daphne was chased by Apollo—
Wherever she fled, he would follow.
To stay pure and free
She was changed to a tree,
And now she’s ensconced in a hollow.

THE TROJAN WAR

The fights for Briseis and Helen
Had the Greek army screamin’and yellin’.
The wrath of Achilles
And two stupid fillies—
Was all of this story worth tellin’?

VENUS AND VULCAN

Though Venus was married to Vulcan,
The dame preferred lovers more hulkin’.
The warrior Mars
Made the lady see stars,
And Vulcan was left behind, sulkin’.

KING OEDIPUS

The king’s fate could not have been sicker.
His troubles grew heavy and thicker.
He did stuff quite bad
To his mom and his dad,
And then lost his sight as a kicker.

ECHO AND NARCISSUS

Echo was hot for Narcissus.
She hoped that he’d make her his missus.
But when the guy found
That her voice was unsound,
She didn’t receive any kisses.

PENELOPE AND THE SUITORS

Penelope hated the suitors
Who acted like arrogant looters.
When hubby came back
He went on the attack
And used them as targets for shooters.

                                                        ____________________

SEPTEMBER 11, 1541

To the honored memory of Inés de Suárez, the Spanish woman who in 1541
saved the Chilean city and garrison of Santiago de la Nueva Estremadura
from Indian attackers by personally decapitating seven hostage chieftains,
and flinging their heads over the ramparts at the enemy. ¡Viva Inés!

The garrison and military station
Seemed on the brink of grim annihilation.
The Indians in savage howling hordes
Surrounded it. The Spaniards bared their swords,
Primed their matchlocks, whetted their long spears.
But lancers and a troop of musketeers
Could not hold off the thousands that attacked.
The soldiers retreated, yielded, slowly backed
Into the fort of Santiago, where
They crossed themselves and said a final prayer.
But then one woman, Inés de Suárez,
Speaks to them all, and here is what she says:
“We have one chance, provided by kind heaven—
These Indian chieftains. Let’s behead all seven
And fling their bloody heads into the squalls
Of native scum who dare besiege our walls.”

The men demurred. They thought her plan extreme.
“These hostages are royal, and the cream
Of their nation. Alive, they promise hope.
Inés, we’re at the end of our poor rope!”

Inés replied, “True men don’t weep and squawk.
They know that action’s stronger than mere talk!”
With that she seized a sword, and with one slash
Struck off a chieftain’s head, and from its gash
A spurt of hot blood pooled upon the ground.
Then six more times she swung the blade. Its sound
Was an invigorating rush of air
That blew away all terror and despair.
The soldiers seized the heads, and with a yell
Flung them across the ramparts, where they fell
Among the foes, whom horror struck so deep
They fled in panic like a flock of sheep.
They thought “If Spaniards do this to our kings,
Their anger may provoke them to worse things!
Better to obey our Spanish Dons
Who harness thunder into tubes of bronze
And hack off heads, and show no trace of dread.
We are defeated, and our leaders dead.”

Such is the way when savages rebel—
Give them a taste of unforgiving Hell.

                                                        ____________________

MNEMONIC DEVICE FOR MILITARY PRO-SIGNS A-Z

Pro-signs are an alphabetical coding system used by the military for radio
transmissions or for the naming of various units, to insure complete
clarity of reference.

ALPHA is a top-notch male, the chief and number one—
BRAVO is the thing you shout when arias are done.
CHARLIE is a nickname that is used quite frequently—
DELTA is a plug of land where rivers meet the sea.
ECHO is a sound that comes reverberating back—
FOXTROT is an old-time dance for couples dressed in black.
GOLF is just a boring game that Scotsmen love to play—
HOTEL is a resting place where travelers stop to stay.
INDIA is a teeming land of sacred cows and caste—
JULIET is a Capulet whose first love was her last.
KILO is a metric weight that’s somewhere near a pound—
LIMA is a city where Peruvians abound.
MIKE is short for microphone, which amplifies your voice—
NOVEMBER is a winter month when voters make their choice.
OSCAR is a name that goes with Hammerstein or Wilde—
PAPA is your father when you were a little child.
QUEBEC is up in Canada, and English it is not—
ROMEO is a lover-boy whose plans all went to pot.
SIERRA is a mountain range that rises to great heights—
TANGO is a silly dance for hot Hispanic nights.
UNIFORM is what you wear to show you’re in a team—
VICTOR is a winner who’s unbeatably supreme.
WHISKEY is a potent drink that might go to your head—
X-RAY lets you see your bones although you aren’t dead.
YANKEE is a player in the dugout or the field—
ZULU is a warrior with assegai and shield.

THE GREEN MOSS ON THE COAL

               All coal deposits were at one time living plants.

Hard anthracite, as black as jet,
Darkly lustrous gem of coal,
With live moss clinging, green and wet,

Collect the unremembered debt
That life owes, as the eons roll.
Hard anthracite, as black as jet,

Hacked out by a miner’s sweat
Expended in some shaft’s dark hole,
With live moss clinging, green and wet,

You’re bone-dry, like some old coquette
No gaudy garments can console.
Hard anthracite, as black as jet

From carbon seams compressed and set
You come to us, an ancient dole,
But live moss clinging, green and wet,

Proclaims there is no finish yet.
Both must play the selfsame role:
Hard anthracite, as black as jet,
And live moss clinging, green and wet.

The Breathers

Browning M-2 Heavy Machine Gun
                         (.50 Caliber)

A knife may open envelopes, spread butter,
Cut a length of string, carve wooden toys,
Slice meat at table, or de-bone a fish—
Serve other simple, salutary tasks.
So does a rifle, when it brings down game;
Helmets might be planters; ammo cans
Serve as convenient tool chests, and recall:
The scriptures say a sword becomes a ploughshare.
Most combat gear can be turned round and used
For purposes nonviolent and benign.

But you have one aim only: to deal death
Impartially to all within your range—
You send your heavy bullets to rip flesh
As dogs rend helpless rabbits limb from limb.
Incendiary rounds spat from your mouth
Tear vehicles apart, make them explode
In flaming fragments. Those inside are scorched
To lumps of charred and blistered meat. You smash
Great holes in concrete walls and armor plate.
Nothing withstands the hot blast of your muzzle.

Browning M-2 (called “Ma Deuce” by the troops)—
You were conceived to do this single thing:
Kill, and kill as fast and brutally
As an unthinking engine does its job
When stitching cloth, or punching index cards,
Or minting coins from rows of shiny planchets,
Or striking cancellation marks on stamps.
You swallow endless belts of ammunition
While empty cartridge cases fall in piles
As thick as corpses heaped up on the field.

You are the emblem of our modern wars:
Mechanical, impersonal, devoid
Of honor, chivalry, esprit de corps,
Or any martial swagger of beau geste.

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