Thirteen Short Prose Poems by Robert Witmer

Back to the Future 

For years I was captivated by the figure of Cassandra. And once I saw her naked, I lost my mind. She said she was a virgin, but no one would believe her. Then one day it happened. An imminent catastrophe sent stock prices through the roof. Cash in now my instincts told me, before it is too late. But there was Cassandra, in a silk chiton, reeking of cheap perfume, whispering in my ear: It’s never too late. 

Iðunn, and the Apples of Hel 

The roots of dead trees lie exposed to the sun, like snakes in suspended animation. A pretty girl stumbles on the uneven ground, and falls. The boy with a rich father happens by and helps her to her feet, and together they smile. The father is strangely displeased. He has an axe. 

Don’t Look Back 

He collected old postcards and matchboxes. Then the cost of stamps went up, and anyway, everyone had a mobile phone. You couldn’t even smoke in a bar. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew you can’t take it with you. So he struck a match – just me, my shadow, and a pillar of salt – and lit the lot on fire. 

The House on the Hill 

Who lived in that house where the lights shone all night and no one came out for the mail? We used to throw stones over the fence, and once, Larry, the crazy one, put a paper bag full of dog poop by the gate. The years flew by and we all grew up and went our separate ways. Still, I can’t help but wonder what became of that black cat that used to purr in a funny way as it paced before the door. 

And the Gates Shall Not Be Shut by Day 

I expected something more grandiose than this rusty little gate with a broken latch. Maybe not grandiose, given the early emphasis on humility, but anyway something more befitting the occasion, more … revelatory. But here I am in the altogether, naked as the day I was born, though quite a bit more … developed I should guess, wondering whether to wait for someone to let me in or a great voice calling from on high or maybe just the soft bleating of a lamb, or perhaps I am supposed to continue up the narrow lane to the Big House and announce myself to the man in charge, declaring that I am ready to serve my life sentence. Not life exactly, and rather more than a sentence. More like a tome, an opus magnum, something like one of those Victorian novels with their elaborate constructions of minutia and the omniscient narrator who knows everything about everybody, where a poor guy from the sticks gets a job in a factory and, in the end, just has to accept things as they are. I decide to wait, and time passes. And passes. And passes. And, eventually, passes me by. 

Postcards 

I listened intently to a language I couldn’t understand. They ate food I didn’t like, and things smelled funny. I preferred to stay home and watch TV, but my parents made me go. I suppose that now the farm is a housing development, similar to where I grew up. Over time, everything became more and more like me – and, slowly but surely, I wished it were different. 

The Return 

A rather ordinary butterfly, mostly black with a couple of not so pretty blue spots, lands opposite me on the table in a park where I sit reading. He, she, it – how can you tell – just rests there looking at me. The strange thing is, I know this butterfly, for over the course of three days last summer, at the same table, it came to keep me company. By the third day, I had a weird feeling that this insect knew me and, perhaps, intended to communicate something. I addressed a couple of questions his, her, its way but … nothing, at least as far as I could tell. Then, it disappeared. I thought it must have died, or been eaten by a bird. How long do butterflies live anyway? But that’s the question, because the same butterfly is back. I’m sure of it. I am not dreaming, and I sure as hell am not Chaung Tzu. For just a moment last year I wondered whether I was being visited by the spirit of someone I knew. But now …? Suddenly the butterfly wiggles its antennae and flies away. I can’t help feeling I’m going somewhere. 

The Seal of Approval 

She fans herself with a trowel she found in the basement of an old house that once belonged to Edgar Allan Poe – or so she says. I can’t really trust her, but she pays the bills, and I am just about finished with my novel. A surprise ending, a couple of edits here and there, and then I can go back to the wax museum, where they keep a candle burning in the window. I will be famous then. And once the cement dries, so will she. 

Metempsychosis 

Of course I can’t be sure, but I think I met Houdini in a previous life. He was wiggling out of a straitjacket and I was the straight man in a comedy team coming up next. Half the people in the place were drunk, and most of the others weren’t really paying attention. He pulled off the old “Shazam!” and passed us in the wings. “Don’t get too close to the bright lights, bozos,” he said as he waltzed by. He knew he was on the way up. “Now return,” says the Master, and I know it’ll be another week before I can reinhabit my past, and give old Harry Houdini a piece of my mind. 

Business 101 

When I was a kid, I built an ant house. That was before I ever saw one of those ant farm contraptions. I made everything small – the chairs, the tv, the Bible on the end table, even the room where you do number one or number two. After I finished, I showed it to my dad. He kind of laughed and said something about my mom’s goofy sister, Aunt Esther. That night, I put my ant house out on the patio. I kept looking through my bedroom window, waiting to see them arrive. First, just one or two, to check the place out. Then more. Until finally the place was on the map. Of course, we couldn’t let everyone in. We had to be selective, keep an eye on the bottom line. Reputation, after all, is everything. 

Alchemists 

Alchemists. That’s what Kyler’s friend Tucker calls them. He has a signal, so he’s online. Turning one thing into another. No wonder the country is going to pot. Something about stoned philosophers who led a better life in their golden years. We need to steal ourselves to avoid a similar fate, Kyler says, or maybe it is Tucker, because he has the smartphone. 

One Afternoon in the Agora 

They want to charge me with corrupting the youth. But I’m a fly, I inform them, with a belly full of eggs, baby flies, maggots in the vernacular. Eventually they see what I’m buzzing about – my legal buzzsaw, an appeal to nature, lex naturalis. I don’t select my hosts. Their hospitality is a matter of chance, and of course certain statistical methods known only to a small cadre of actuaries. An insurance scheme most likely, but definitely above my pay grade. Now, if you will excuse me, there’s a young fellow somewhere out on the front whom I must visit – where I lay my burden down. 

Chuang Tzu 

Just one more subscription, that’s all I need – the world’s last encyclopedia salesman, Willy Loman with an enlarged appendix. It’s already pretty dark, and every house has an imposing gate and a vicious dog. Why not just let go. Sit in the shadows and open a volume at random, maybe G. Who knows? I might just find myself close to God.

Robert Witmer has lived in Japan for the past 45 years. Now an emeritus professor, he has had the opportunity to teach courses in poetry and creative writing not only at his home university in Tokyo but also in India. His poems and prose poetry have appeared in many print and online journals and books. His first book of poetry, a collection of haiku titled Finding a Way, was published in 2016. A second book of poetry, titled Serendipity, was published earlier this year (2023).