David Jackson Lord of the Castle
By Laura Greenall
He strides through the hall without a sound
Searching the corners for what can be found
Ears alert and nose a twitch
He’s the favorite of the castle’s witch
Black as coal and fleet of foot
Tail aloft with a slight little crook
He hunts for the mice with the smoothest of ease
And kills them quick without even a tease
He’s the lord of the castle, though the king unbeknown
Tis the big black cat that should sit on the throne
***
LIGHT AND FLAMES I
El Greco in Venice
Drank the wine of Titian
And, at Tintorettos table,
Next to sweet Veronese,
Tasted the cardinal points
Of iconic pinecones.
The vast kernel
Of golden ratios
Awakened in rose windows.
But I, across clepsydras
And fields where each asparagus
Was an angel,
Could no longer
Close an eye
Nor guess the second
Coming of storms.
Later, when I was pacing
Along the labyrinth of insomnia,
Across centuries
Of prayers,
I caught his Cretan moments
Of sure madness
And mad certitude.
We dont have to believe,
We know the hand of God
Is at hand and time is near:
Faith you have no other definition.
LIGHT AND FLAMES II
” Whats with the oblong face?”
Asked El Greco.
And Veronese
Quoted the Inquisitor:
“buffoons, drunkards, dwarfs,
Germans, and similar vulgarities
In your painting of the Last Supper
For that monastery in Venice”.
In their mind the high drama
Began with the lowering
Of darker clouds.
Approximations of
Greenish blues,
And bluish grays
Rose in the air
With a scent of emerald
And indigo sonatas.
That was the sign:
They were on the edge
Of new colors.
LIGHT AND FLAMES III
He must have known of men
As Rilke was to know of angels;
Known what inquisitors
Heard in the dark rumbling
Of mystic souls, those long
Faced lovers of God.
He must have considered
Across some suicidal autumn
Juan de la Cruz in dim
Toledo dungeons;
And in Valladolid
He must have felt the agony
Of gloomy penitentiaries
Where Luis de León
Burned like a humble candle
Consumed by a fever
Asymptotic to the Eternal.
Later, too proud
To dance with death
Or even prolong
The study of minor miseries,
El Greco nailed spirits
On canvas.
LIGHT AND FLAMES IV
After his quest,
After the Golden Age,
He was Toledo
And he was Spain,
This man from Crete.
He saw dead angels
And called himself
The Greek.
And like an impatient ghost
He saw the dead
As everlasting,
The stark spirit
Of his old age,
His best art.
Finally understanding
Repetition as his road
To that infinite we call aleph,
He painted St. Francis in Ecstasy
Eighty times eleven.
LIGHT AND FLAMES V
Always gathering light,
Like Theresa of Jesus
He built an Interior Castle.
Centuries before him
Pliny the Elder,
Alluded to a painting:
A young boy
Blowing at an ember.
The light reflects from the flames
And conquers the boy’s face,
Then the room. The monkey
Like me was puzzled.
Alexandre Amprimoz is a poet, critic, translator, writer and programmer. He teaches Modern Languages, Literatures and Cultures at Brock University, St. Catharines, Ontario Canada. Books include: A Season For Birds: Selected poems by Pierre Morency. Translation.Toronto: Exile Press, 1990; Venice At Her Mirror: Essay by Robert Marteau. Translation. Toronto: Exile Press, 1990 ; Nostalgies de l’ange. Ottawa: Editions du Vermillon, 1993. He has recently published poems in: Alsop Review, Antigonish Review, Octavo, The Fiddlehead, Lichen,
Take You
The pictures, and the postcards, and the people in between floating through my memory all the places that I’ve been to all the faces that I’ve seen looking back through those times that are total history
there’s one thing left on my mind that still means the most to me
I wanna take you
I wanna take you to the places that you never ever see
I wanna take you everyplace I go with you I’m meant to be
I wanna take you to the movies
I wanna take you to the show
I wanna take you so far down the road that you finally, lose control
I wanna take you, do you wanna go?
Sara L. Holt
***
Tsunami
When to look, arms outstretched and free
At the receding and beckoning arms of the sea.
When to foam at the mouth
As the meters increase,
As the dry land opens up vistas between you and me.
When to flee
Before the wall of waves lashes its fury,
While you stand there dumbstruck
By its come-hither look.
By its treachery.
Miles and miles away, the earth shook.
The waves roiled
In the doomsday book.
But all you saw was a placid sea.
***
From the Cradle
At some point every child wonders if he or she is adopted.
Those two strange creatures hovering so high above you,
Their conniving ways disgorging the sputum of your innocent
indifference.
What are they to each other?
What are they to you?
He says you’ve both got the same crooked finger on the right hand.
You must be his kid.
He’s always calling you by her name when he gets angry at you.
What of it?
She tries to protect you from him.
Shelter you under her wing.
From there you can hear her heart aflutter.
But she can’t hear you.
She knows what is best for you.
Exactly what you want and need.
Will even dip her head down to ask you
But then do exactly the opposite of what you say.
You’re too much a part of her —
Squiggling under her wing.
They both see you as her underling
And fight their battles.
Sometimes you are roused from your slumber
By their grousing and peep.
They drag you out to mediate.
It isn’t easy playing King Solomon.
Not for a little pipsqueak.
Rochelle Hope Mehr
rochellemehr@hotmail.com
***