Three Poems by Dennis Daly

 

Bypassing the All-Souls Lounge

 

Not tonight.  The bloody-red façade

Of daubed brick, unshakably infixed

Into a floating mercantile strip,

Which twirls forth through the constellations,

Does not appear.  The walk alone calms,

Solaces those keen ingrown hurts

That wake one from the soundest of sleeps

And nags the restive body to rise,

To pace into the small witching hours,

Devoid of superfluous noises.

 

Not tonight.  Needed wits conjure up,

Face off the abysmal denizens,

The gargoyles dimmed in opacity,

In nocturnal murk.  Here truth wills out,

Corrects courses for tomorrow’s use.

Only then will words bear strength again,

Find new bearings between slanted poles

And more temperate geographies.

Only then will occult concoctions

Lure one into another respite.

 

 

Ash Wednesday at the All-Souls Lounge

 

Dust to dust, my bar mates celebrate

This Lenten exit from life’s drama.

We wear a smudge, curb our gluttony

That would transform our natural selves,

Speed the slaughter of our fellow beasts       

And lead to further temptations.

Funereal gloom fuels this gathering

Of desperate travellers, who tip well,

Who play this singular star-crossed pause

For all it’s worth in grace and leverage.

 

Fat Tuesday’s aftermath grifts us in

To this dour conclave of sparsity,

One grade above a destitution,

A taunt of game’s end or nearly that.

The God-forsaken gall of it all

Gleans through as we drink away the night,

Lament the sins of imperfection

As we recite the priestly penance

Given us. Words change into clocks.

The shortest hand points the way back home.

 

 

Boethius Has Second Thoughts at the All-Souls Lounge

 

Self-pity by poet never sells,

Which doesn’t surprise since set meter

Feeds the attic bugs, book by sorry book.

“A double… yes, barkeep, another,”

Says Boethius, “I am banished

From my stable aspect.” At the bar’s end

A woman looks over. “Come on,” she says,

“Grief clouds your mind with doubt,

Order triumphs among us drinkers,

Justice must confound wickedness.”

 

“Confound! That’s one way of putting it,”

Answers the Consolation’s author,

“The machinery of fate grinds on,

With good outcomes and bad.” An uproar

Breaks out at one of the side tables.

A glass of ale spills. “Vice often wins

Within the mysterious wheeling

Of stars,” he continues with some bother,

“Yet happiness persists in this place

Beyond time and our understanding.”

Dennis Daly lives in Salem Massachusetts. He graduated from Boston College and earned an M.A. in English Literature from Northeastern University. He has previously published nine books of poetry and poetic translations. Two other books have been accepted for publication: Odd Man Out—MatHat Press, and Psalms Composed in Utter Darkness—Dos Madres. Please visit his blog at dennisfdaly.blogspot.com.