Diagnosis
Overture already swelling,
I am seated in the orchestra.
Soon settled, props arranged at hand—
a hanky, cough drops, tablets, water—
waiting for the curtain’s rise. Be
still anticipation, breath, thought.
Imagination, taut as tuned strings,
vibrates, tingling fingers. B note
tinnitus alerts my perfect pitch.
Ahead. Pitch forward. Fall. Suspend
my disbelief in this paltry
melodrama, commonplace end.
February 13, 2018
Bangor, Maine
MISSILES,
MISSILES BURNING BRIGHT...
The religion
among pigeons
is noble and
upright,
their souls holy
and immortal.
ANGELS OF
DARKNESS, DEMONS LIGHT...
Once every
bird’s age, they
sacrifice, to
their god’s delight,
those of most
shimmering plumage.
PASS US OVER
JUST ONE MORE NIGHT...
After the high
priest plucks their wings
in the temple,
they lie in state,
chirped over,
till wings are reclaimed,
TO BURY OUR
CHILDREN WHILE WE STILL MIGHT.
and they soar to
heaven.
February, 1988
Gorham, Maine
“When a woman lives alone, her house
should be extremely dilapidated. The mud
walls should be falling to pieces. And if
there is a pond, it should be overgrown
with water plants.”
“The Frost
Month”, Shonagon
The
Pillow Book
When I’m found, the unbearable,
hovering air will escape
through the door in a rush, as if
fleeing cremation or worse,
the hot stench of my body.
Decaying along with the trash,
half-cooked meal and sour milk, my
once startled eyes will accuse
from the floor. The discoverer,
summoned most likely by neighbours,
will clutch a clean cloth to her nose
in a panic to keep from inhaling
my death. My apologies, please,
in advance, as the glass of field flowers,
by then, will be mouldy, as well.
May 8, 2014
Bodrum, Turkey
Gifts of the Magi
An old friend
shows, direct from work,
for old times’
sake. Soviet
Champagne and
red beads—caviar,
you might say.
Speak of bygone debt,
not looming
ones. Pale tulips cup
a lavender sip,
slip of tongue.
Next, two lone
moms bear scented cream,
massage despair
in songs unsung.
Then, ready cash
is lean. A young,
dark Georgian
orders, baked and boxed,
a steaming khachapuri, bound
with string.
Enjoy, it’s on the house.
I sit, while it
browns, in my soft
Italian coat,
and apprehend
three poems by
Akhmatova.
Inclining, Peter
kissed my hand.
Birthday 2019
St. Petersburg,
Russia
Lihula Odyssey
New paint has
licked the train museum.
Fragile flowers
splash the walkway’s edge,
and
cotton-bundled clouds spread cushions
against the low
horizon. Wedged
in cracks
between rich green fields strewn with
phlox and Queen
Anne’s lace are hay rolls cheered
in pink, slick,
rain-proof coats. Fluffed firs fringe woods
and purple
lupine spires embroider
borders, doing what they can to spruce
midsummer up. Snapped trees tell winter’s
tale, and warn off veins complacent. Cranes
nest top electric power towers,
proud, uncivil. They might have sent me
word, down the line, of squatters, vandals,
thieves invading my defenseless house.
Sinister now, bottles with candles
and without are littered in the filth
and rubble that were once asylum.
No more mellow celebrations here.
Last conflagration by debauched scum
will be set in blind delirium.
July 26, 2018
Tallinn, Estonia
Diane G. Martin, disabled poet, photographer, prose writer, Russian literature specialist, translator, Willamette University graduate, Diana Woods Memorial Award CNF winner, Princemere Poetry prize runner-up has published in numerous literary journals, from the US to the West Indies. Her poetry collection A Pilgrim’s Progress was published by Purcell Press. Other work includes several collections of poetry, another of creative nonfiction, and a multi-genre memoir. Diane is working on a novel set during the Siege of Leningrad. Longtime resident of Nevada, Oregon, San Francisco, CA, Maine, St. Petersburg, Russia, Italy, her main themes are exile, disability, and displacement. She has one daughter.
No comments:
Post a Comment