Friday, 31 January 2025

Five Poems by Robert Witmer

 






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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