Fencing, a noble sport, of kings
and queens, or kings vs. queens
my
partners are all women, the gentle ones
who’ll
suckle you and spank you and ignore your cries
to
teach you lessons
guess
the football stars don't take this class
the
women always kick my ass
many-colored
flowers, indifferent to the Bee
one
stuck me through the padding, a sharp shot into the armpit
another
busted through my mask, no damage to the eyes
I
didn’t know they could thrust so hard
or
were they playing the men, solemn musketeers
those
flaming dandies in the billowy shirts --
as
they should
fencing
with women
does
me good.
bird baths
in
Qing land
a
man
carved
small bamboo pockets to hang
one
a cup shape one a monkey face
on
the outside walls of wooden houses
as
bird baths for bulbuls
very
intricate, expert artistry
when
he became ill
a
gweilo (foreign
devil)
took them
all
put a brass ring
through
them
carried
them all
in
one hand
to
sell
for
gold
back
home
The Graveyard Two-step
I
moved into the cemetery years ago
the
City of the Dead welcomed me
I've
eaten and slept here ever since
it's
not as bad as it sounds
I
pick up a blade of grass and break it into tiny bits
that
I toss into the wind like confetti
when
it rains the cemetery is extra lonely
I've
walked among the graves so much
that
I know most of their guests' names
but
not their stories -- I don't imagine
they
were exceptional, though I could be wrong --
wait.
I am wrong. these were loving people
who
did good works, the world
a
better and better place until
the
two-steps-back epidemic
hits
as it always does, then
it's
up the hill pushing giant stones again
the
disease hits hard as evidenced by
the
new dirt tamped rectangularly
but
I am safe here, safe from all contagion
with
the ground squirrels in the graveyard
I
have shade to sit in but no books
so
I make them up and make
the
forgotten protagonists of magical tales
I
wonder if my style is becoming out-
dated,
if I might need to renew
contact
with the town and its citizens
down
the hill yet I am afraid
afraid
they will mock me -- those
who
are left -- for my present
company
of corpses
I
don't care
I
like the silence and the springtime dandelions
and
the lack of obligations.
In the Tunnel
Where
do we go when
we
blank out driving through Nevada
waiting
for a plane suspended
turning
in the watch mechanism
in
the numbers over 1,000, sequencing
reading
a page with the back of the eyes
chewing,
chewing, swallowing
out
the window, out the window
the
girl's thin white shoe buckle over the short blue sock
copying
with mechanized finger tips in alphabetical order
a
freight train in a long tunnel
a
very long tunnel.
When
I go there to China, the in-between place,
through
the middle Earth
is
this wrong? do I long to go back there
to
that gray garden, that moth-white golden gate park
that
empty parallel universe, exaggeration unknown
where
language never existed
experience thought
souls
snap
alive back from, out of
miles
to go
and
so many
rotten
promises.
Their
seven-story apartment building
replacing
a lemon orchard,
behind the
Cathedral of Pompei,
Messina,
Sicily
In Sicily villages sit alone on
hills against foreign invaders; now one of these intrepid men has taken over
the castle, taken up residence in the black tower, the only tower stretching
tall above all, reaching out over the hill, over the city below, over the fools
and fakers, over the question: wine or beer? Is he a superman? Does he hold the
ring of power? Or just a link in a chain? The tower grows ever taller as he
acquires deep dark wisdom draining up from the bowels of the earth, from magma,
like stainless steel frozen into a glorious razor-sharp cage to keep the
philosopher-prince from polluting the populace. The rising tower challenges God
to a glory bout and crumbles speaking in tongues ecstatic and static
incomprehensible languages already dying.
Does he enjoy his high prison? Sure, because the view is awesome!
What better place
to
die
In
her arms.
E. Martin Pedersen, originally from San Francisco, has lived for over forty
years in eastern Sicily, where he taught English at the local university. His
poetry appeared most recently in Avatar Review, Canyon Voices, Slab, SurVision,
and Helix Literary Magazine, among others. Martin is an alumnus of the
Community of Writers. He has published two collections of haiku, Bitter
Pills and Smart Pills, and a chapbook, Exile's Choice, from
Kelsay Books. A full collection, Method & Madness, is forthcoming
from Odyssey Press. Martin's poem, "Gull Eggs," was nominated by
Flapper Press for the Best of the Net Award 2023.
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