from Prompts
“Write an ekphrastic poem about an image, object or work of art.”
— Doolin Rook
It landed brash, still young,
on the Burren limestone
by the boat to Inisheer;
its bright beady look
out of the rocks and wind
and shear of the place.
But that dead-eye stare, she thought,
a bit murderous, was it not,
under the rook's black hood
on her camera lens?
But that rogue's-gallery eye,
hung in a gallery far away,
caught another eye,
spoke to that woman infallibly
of tenderness and the great Irish hunger,
too late to be fed on the spot,
but bought and taken home
to be gazed upon, a shame that
or perhaps not; if a random thought
like that could sing and if famine
everywhere had such wings.
—<>—
"If you can't think of something to write, look out your window."
-- Campbell McGrath
— At Heaven’s Gate: 55 & Over
1
Mostly over,
mostly way over
the hill we face, most of us
who live this long while feigning
ignorance of hills, preferring
our horizons day-to-day and literal
in this vast and horizontal Sunshine State.
Unless of course we get a preview
of the downward slope,
as a guest or through a winter rental
among the 55 & over set,
which would be us, two snowbirds
late to life at Heaven’s Gate
and heretofore oblivious.
Who’s here with us was hard to say
in this invariant community
until last Friday evening, when,
from shuttered flats across the way
that rent as condominiums,
came the shut-ins out to play
once-a-week clubhouse mahjong.
O to be forever neighborly and young!
with children underfoot
and common raisings going on.
Was this the empty nesting we had wished
before we’d been cut loose
into a precarious retirement?
With all our life begat, now this?
To walk with those who navigate off gait
with their bends and bunions,
arm in arm with everyone’s
close Greek companion, Arthur Itis –
and we all know who He is --
who’s already welcomed me,
despite my lack of interest.
2
But that’s a long parade we see
out in that parking lot,
crossing the lines one by one;
limp-alongs & stabbing canes,
shufflers on their walking aids,
and wheelchairs pushed ahead
by dead-eye PCA’s.
But damnation be damned,
if these old swimmers aren’t spot on
dressed to the gills, the hilt, the nines,
for the senior gaming underway,
as they head upstream to the tables,
to show off their abilities
at matching tiles at the mahjong!
& their whisperings on the way,
naming, as we came to learn,
the widowed gentleman two doors down
and that nice lady with the cough,
both quiet masters at the game,
for whom the ambulance came today
not once but twice to spirit off.
—<>—
“Write on oblivion.” -- Robert Wrigley
— Hemingway to T. S. Eliot on Oblivion
"So this is how the world ends, not with a bang
but with a whimper." --T.S. Eliot
1
When we go, we go,
Mr. Eliot.
Who gives one jot
how the world ends
when our time comes?
Think so? I think not.
It has nothing to do
with you or me,
as we malinger on
revising ourselves,
as we’ve often done
for our posterity.
Let others judge today
what's brave or cowardly.
Cut the knot, I say,
do it stealthily,
pass quickly through
when no one's looking.
Give your end a fitting ending.
No quarter to poor health and looks.
Believe yourself immortal in your books!
2
I shall be frank, old Tom:
the words have flown,
the page and I are blank.
Four bad novels in a bank
in Havana for safe keeping.
What's left's a rotten thing in me.
So, allow me, sir, to show you
how to pull it off.
Turn your face, just so;
this shotgun in my mouth,
the drinking and the speaking part
through which we sang,
we thieves of time,
who here contrive to steal
a moment one last time.
3
Now bend down and kiss my ass,
my posteriority uncouth,
and watch my trigger finger
erase a past, its youth
vainglorious, well written,
and this sickness unto death.
Do not hesitate or linger;
above all, do not, do not
with your last breath simper!
Seize it! Carpe Diem!
Squeeze it off, old Tom, like this!
Trust to oblivion.
And regard my final show,
my last not tell,
the bloody O
of this face to the world
without a whimper,
thus:
(And Tom, do excuse the gas …)
—<>—
(July 2, 1961)