Five Poems by Ben Nardolilli

Passively Complementing the Natural Curve of the River

 

Walking along the Potomac in a park nestled

Against the edge of Georgetown, I wonder

What a poet could hope to do with this scene

 

Everything is clean, the river is a deep blue,

The traffic passes by in a humble roar,

And the air refreshes all who breathe it in

 

Meanwhile, the dry land in front and below

Is filled with winding paths and trees,

As if a poet already came to arrange this place

 

There is nothing to comment or dwell on,

Or to look over or under for a secret, 

The order is already here and any chaos slight

 

 

Soft Approaches

 

Get on a new level and try to get the wagon across,

The world is not a shape, but made of them,

Find a shape between the others

That is clear as a channel and lets you go through

 

No promises for a promised land, you are going

Somewhere else without me, 

So I can say little about what will be there,

Go drool over it yourself, in the wagon you brought

 

 

The Second Blockbuster

 

Beyond how I act, I must dream

Recklessly, where else

If not in dreams can I live that way?

 

What happens there? I get to fly

And be motionless too,

My decomposing biomass forgotten

 

Waking up with thorns tickling me, 

That is one way to think 

Of being happy, I think to myself

 

 

Inner Cell Loyalty

 

Everybody sits under the ship, 

And wonder why it won’t sail away, 

They say no one can be blamed

As they continue to remain in place,

Ears and hair grazing the hull

 

Rumours echo from the stern: 

New ideas to get the ship moving,

Thinking of wind is the new solution,

Masses from their thoughts 

Will help, so they imagine a breeze

 

The first dreams bring smiles,

And no wind, no waves, no coasts,

The ship remains above us all,

While the ocean begins its rise,

Because I am dreaming of a moon

 

 

The Newer Testament

 

Adopting pseudonyms to get a fresh hearing, 

The new beginning can only be found 

In imitation of the old, it seems, find the right name

From the right era and your views will bloom

 

No one may know you were the one

All along revising in the shadow of an elder god

Or saint, that will be the price, 

Humility, knowing no statue will be made for you

 

And the monuments to whoever you puppet

Will double in size and presence,

While your name will be forgotten, even though

You were the one who made the current and waves

 

Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, The Northampton Review, Local Train Magazine, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is trying to publish his novels.