Month: March 2005

Ballad for Gloom Poem by Ezra Pound

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Ballad for Gloom

FOR God, our God is a gallant foe
That playeth behind the veil.

I have loved my God as a child at heart
That seeketh deep bosoms for rest,
I have loved my God as a maid to man””
But lo, this thing is best:

To love your God as a gallant foe that plays behind the veil;
To meet your God as the night winds meet beyond Arcturus’ pale.

I have played with God for a woman,
I have staked with my God for truth,
I have lost to my God as a man, clear-eyed””
His dice be not of ruth.

For I am made as a naked blade,
But hear ye this thing in sooth:

Who loseth to God as man to man
Shall win at the turn of the game.
I have drawn my blade where the lightnings meet
But the ending is the same:
Who loseth to God as the sword blades lose
Shall win at the end of the game.

For God, our God is a gallant foe that playeth behind the veil.
Whom God deigns not to overthrow hath need of triple mail.
***

PARTY'S OVER SUN-COME-UP poem by Tony Nesca

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PARTY’S OVER SUN-COME-UP

reggae beat in background red underwear round her ankles
kiss kiss big ass full moon starvation on fire,
see you run cross my living room
bare feet dark sun like licking armpits
my face buried thighs round my head
baby baby rock and roll says easy livin’, man,
easy livin’,
guy maddin stops me on corner, got it he says?
she shakes her hips ain’t nothing but her in the world,
nothing acting like mother hipster
do you love me,
she says,
burnt alive person telling me guns everywhere, everywhere,
no business left between us I say,
none she says gray sky over her underwear in my mouth
tits gone crazy leg and haunch on my mind sharp kisses
all things must end
she walks this way,
i walk that way

***

funeral poem of lost love by Andy Derryberry

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in my time
i’ve looked a multitude of the dead
in the face
in their caskets

when i was young
the country way
said the words
under a tent

and the men
considered it an obligation
and privilege
to shovel in some of the dirt

when i was young
that’s just the way it was done
i observed and followed
the lead of my dad

now it is a matter of respect
to look on the last state
of a person who mattered
but resides there no more

today it repeated once again
after 85 years the simple end
to a child, a pretty woman,
a mother, an old friend

the talk around a casket
much like everyday talk
of not much import
mostly chatter, chirping of birds

but i did see
the lonely walk of a man
of her age
to the final box

without others
away from families
solitary there
all to himself

he silently wept
wiped away the tears
since he was not husband
and she not wife

he wept about the loss
of what was
of what had been
of what have could have been

he left a little later
not because he wasn’t known
because it wasn’t his
to officially mourn

but i suspect no one
friend, child, family
loved her
more than he

Raccoons and Black and Tan poem by Wayne Jackson

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“What’s it sound like?”
“Now that’s a hard’n”
“It’s like a half gallon of moonshine in December.”
He starts out low
real low
almost a growl
Ya know he’s gettin’ close
Ya know it won’t be long
so ya start to walk a little faster
and, God, the wind’s cold
ya gotta walk
and just stop long enough to pass around
the jug
and before long
ya hear him again
and this time ya know ya got ‘im
cause he open up
“Ya don’t say”
and he sounds mean
meaner’n death eatin’ cheese and crackers
even the wind stops
and ya look around the circle and smile
ya know that bastard raccoon ain’t got a chance
the black and tan done got ‘im

***

remembrance poem by Wayne Jackson

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In whispering moments when we are quietly drinking
amid our dreams of tree and shade
and night, the predator, with cat eyes winking
more solumn in thought than faded rock,
I sense remembrance, the silent walker,
as I prancing willfully play.
I touch the void with violent fingers
and block the path of blackness
malingering at the edge of concious thought
forgetting too soon what once I’d sought
so skillfully the musicians play.
***

Iron Worker's Dream Poem by Wayne Jackson

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I am me looking up at him.
sweat run over ribs..tickling
air liquid and choking…hot
a field with grass…tangled green
ground……friendly conspirator
a column …red and flowing
neck muscles strain to stretch…looking upward
vertical parallels…the beam
I am me looking up at him.

A stranger…sun peeking over his shoulder
the outline…indistinct because of brightness.
He is looking down at me.
He seems to know me well.
a stranger
I seem to know him well
a stranger
He knows I’m glad I’m here..
I know he wishes he weren’t.

Then
places change
people….white ants on a hill
trees…dwarfed green dots
machines…toys covered with thumbs
sun…burning back
height….fellow worker
ground….distant enemy
He is I looking up at me
I am him looking down on me
***