Remembering an Ancient Poet’s Words: Wait for spring to cover up bones
“There are things that are so serious that you can only joke about them.”
— Werner Heisenberg
a deep breath
in a blue balloon
big bang
starless
the cold immensity
of something’s nothingness
the rope from a bell
dangles in an empty well
listening for rain
a bloodsail
rides the waves
tomorrow’s promises
a drunken sailor
strums a ukulele
election day
polished buttons reflect
a make believe sun
ashes remembering books
travelling in the dark
a mountain forest
in a logging truck
having yielded
its shade
the tree smiles
at the axe
arriving home
bone dry
memory’s raincoat
skeletons
in the closet
natural history
neanderthals
a grave injustice
numbered skulls
a goose
in a noose
foie gras
gallows humour
a whoopee cushion
on an electric chair
blind luck
the rain tapping
on an empty hearse
a disquieting guest
in the back room
new ideas
art
official
intelligence
moonlight
on marble nipples
the watchman fast asleep
An Independent Film
casting
in a dark river
the director
and a rainbow trout
remembering that line
from Heraclitus
white water
over slippery rocks
the hunger in the belly
another take
another need to give
not long before the end
the shooting starts
the shooting stars
the one that got away
A Crippled Eagle Flaps Its Right Wing: Silk Socks at $17.50 a Week
don’t egg me on
a gun
for every chicken
smoking pot
The origin of the phrase a “chicken in every pot” can be traced back to 16th century France. However, I use it here in connection with a U.S. Republican campaign slogan from the 1928 Presidential election. It was created for an ad by a group of Republican businessmen. The Democratic candidate in the election quoted derisively from the ad, asking his audience to “just draw on your imagination for a moment, and see if you can in your mind’s eye picture a man working at $17.50 a week going out to a chicken dinner in his own car with silk socks on.”
The Grass Is Greener
I met Ponce de León by the fountain of youth. He was full of stories about Mallorca, in the old days, when only a few intrepid travellers were around. Paradise. Here it’s all about money. Gold, silver, tobacco, chocolate, the naming rights to popular venues. We wanted a life off the grid, maybe a place in Belize. Forty years later here we are. Problem is, all those intrepid travellers from Mallorca.
I think this final poem would work nicely if it were paired with Thomas Gray's poem "Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes." Since that poem was written hundreds of years ago, there shouldn't be any copyright concerns. I have copied that poem after mine.
Elegy for a Cat
My dead grey cat
Is not a feature in the daily news –
But God, I loved that cat,
Her soft steel fur on my warm lap,
Her tongue lap-lapping at the milk
I left for her.
I loved that cat.
Nor would the rat that rounded my poor flat
Begrudge her paw, her fierce red lip,
Her tongue with fibres like her claw,
The rat that fell, red, belly ripped
Apart, by God, by my grey cat.
And I, I do not care,
I loved that cat.
I loved the way she licked the blood
From the rug, the way she arched her back;
I loved the way she almost ate that rat,
Then sat, about a yard away, and mewed.
My cat, my mewling, rat-red, claw-fed,
Lisping cat –
Good God –
I loved that cat.
Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes
by Thomas Gray
’Twas on a lofty vase’s side,
Where China’s gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.
Her conscious tail her joy declared;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She saw; and purred applause.
Still had she gazed; but ’midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The genii of the stream;
Their scaly armour’s Tyrian hue
Through richest purple to the view
Betrayed a golden gleam.
The hapless nymph with wonder saw;
A whisker first and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,
She stretched in vain to reach the prize.
What female heart can gold despise?
What cat’s averse to fish?
Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Again she stretch’d, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between.
(Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled)
The slippery verge her feet beguiled,
She tumbled headlong in.
Eight times emerging from the flood
She mewed to every watery god,
Some speedy aid to send.
No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred;
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard;
A Favourite has no friend!
From hence, ye beauties, undeceived,
Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved,
And be with caution bold.
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize;
Nor all that glisters, gold.
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).
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