Five Poems by R. Bremner

 

Three Personas of Twilight

1

Twilight, the seeker

sounds its bell

in soft, dark-prism’d

carousels.

 

2

Twilight,

like some skulking owl,

preens its feathers

in lustful anticipation

of  its sultry descent.

 

3

Lone survivor

of a perished kind

and child

of the last Great Wizard,

old Twilight stoops

to share with us

the tattered remains

of his ancient magic

for an hour each day.

 

Previously appeared in Poetry Breakfast, July 2016

 

 

Pyrona was always one half-step sadder

than the quickest road to town.

I wed her hoping the shock would shake

the stale dew from her crown.

 

Now the trees grow dim and the beetle drags

no weight to broaden its track.

I seem to have learned that I am no more

nor less than what I lack.

 

Pyrona no longer speaks to me

with words I can define,

yet her other voices find a way

to laugh, like wine, with mine. 

 

The roundness, first

 

At contrast to the stark, harsh

thin-lined spires straining

to a restless heaven.

Alien to the demand

of the hard-honed cannon.

 

Then a relaxation into

revelation of the calm,

the steady, the easy push.

 

All things flow from

the rhythmic warmth beneath, and

the mind rocks with tender excitement,

fuelled on by remembrance of

anticipation heartily satisfied:

the stirring melody,

sweet scent,

and luscious taste

of a life.

 

But first, the roundness.

 

Fog

this dawn is colonized

by fog.

Expansive dim subdues

the headlights.

 

Upon a steel post

a raven caws to no reply;

aloneness is signal

on a day like this.

The raven flaps its big wings

sinking

beneath the waves of mist.

 

The pre-historic fog lives on;

older than the trees it dampens,

it dates the ages of civilization,

of pre-civilization, of the dawn

of  reason, of time itself.

 

Never an anachronism,

the cool wet

conquering stranger winks;

viewpoints change on a day

like this:

          words become dragons,

breathing fire behind

every bush;

              ideas become ghosts,

sailing before our eyes

to sudden dissipation.

 

Oddness permeates the air

on a day like this,

odd thoughts seeping

through the fog by osmosis,

to be absorbed

by those who walk alone.

 

It knows, this strange fog,

it knows so much,

though it sits there staring

dumbly to deceive us.

 

Was that a wry grin

or was it

a contortion of pain,

or was it just

a fold in the wind?

 

You know, stranger, but

do not tell me; it is not

good for us to know

what you know.

Let me walk on through

the drizzle,

absorbing the ivory grey,

only guessing.

 

Shark

I

Cruise gliding.

Cruuuuuise.

Glide.

Veer.

Glide.

Scent caught.

Veer.  Dart.  Whip glide.

 

Prey.

Circle slowly.  Circular glide.

Smaller circle.  Glide.

Smaller circle.  Glide.

NOW!

Dart.  Slash.  Rip.  Glide.  Turn.

Dart.  Slash.  Gouge.  Pull.  Glide.  Turn.

Dart.  Slice.  Grip.  Pull. 

Glide.

II

Puffs of red mushroom,

thinning in the green deep,

rich, dark red grinning

to sickly pale, disappearing

in the immensity of green.

 

The form dangles,

drifting like a kite in the wind.

Floating up, down,

taken by the currents , with

no destination in mind,

no pressing need to go

anywhere.

 

A curdle in the milk,

a fly in the soup,

the body dangles,

ripped into a sick joke,

a grotesque parody of

its former simple ugliness.

 

The champion eats,

chewing as it glides,

digesting in motion.

 

The serene champion

knows no violence.

No hatred.  No venom.

Only serene, quick motion.

 

No memories screech

of vicious frenzy,

the trancelike fury

never realized.

 

So lovely as it glides,

A smooth swimmer, sleek

machine, every motion

a meaning.

 

The notion of waste

does not exit

in this world.

Accomplishing its goals

without thought,

information processed

and converted to action

without the wasteful

middle step.

It is the ultimate

living computer,

the primitive

ocean-going computer.

 

An entourage of scavengers,

leeches and parasites

accompanies, their actions

ignored, their messages

unheeded, so extraneous

to the champion.

 

III

 

It is a beast.

It is an ugly beast.

It prowls silently,

Always searching for us.

We are the objects

of its lust.

A lust for our pain.

A lust for our screams.

A lust for our misery.

A lust for our blood.

It is nothing but a

bloodthirsty, lusting killer.

It knows no love.

It knows no beauty.

It knows no poetry.

It is immorality incarnate.

Dumb, ugly eyes

always open, open for us.

Tough, slimy skin covered

with leeches and parasites,

a scabby, filthy body.

It leads an entourage of

vulturous scavengers.

It is ugliness incarnate.

It is filth.

It is immorality.

R. Bremner has been writing of incense, peppermints, and the color of time since the 1960s. He appeared in the legendary first issue of the Passaic Review in 1979, which also featured Allen Ginsberg, and has appeared in International Poetry Review, Jerry Jazz Musician, Paterson Literary Review, Red Wheelbarrow, Sigmund Freud in Poetry, and elsewhere.

Ron has published seven books of poetry, including Absurd (Cajun Mutt Press) and Hungry words (Alien Buddha Press). He has thrice won Honorable Mention in the Allen Ginsberg awards, and has featured at the Bowery Poetry Club in NYC, at Brownstone Poets, and elsewhere.