Tuesday, December 27, 2016

Duck, Duck, Duck, Goose


Ducks, the feathered biped, take to the air
And are transformed. We should keep faith with dirt,
Carpets and planking our relatives; but ducks
All but turn cartwheels, launching off of sky,
Air to air missiles. We are only earthed.

You wanna buy a duck? You say, Duck, duck,
A bird. Who cares? I ain’t afraid of birds.
You say the secret word, and what you win
Is life eternal, if you’ll only die;
And who brings down the news, who marks the spot?
A duck, a duck. Your kingdom by a duck.

We lay enmeshed in eiderdown, a pair
Professing satisfaction and perplexed
Our fluid situation had been stanched
And we were now what we were going to be.
She twitched the duvet, adjusting me, and hoped
I wouldn’t take too long to be re-lit.
A fire for my fireplace, she said.
She threw the cover back; unfeathered, made
A sight an angel would have molted for.
Ducks died so you could show yourself, I said.
What a canard, she answered, moving in.

Thursday, December 22, 2016

A Sentimental Christmas Poem

A mystery play is why
We say again this year,
And me a Jew and dry
As ash on toast, Good cheer
And peace on earth. And stuff.
And, no, it’s not enough.

I never met an elf.
I fed a reindeer corn—
He picked it up himself,
In truth. When you were born,
Redemption might have been
Avowed, pomaceous sin

Cancelled. But maybe not.
The land of snow and ice,
Marprelate and marplot,
Is far from paradise.
We murder to dissect,
Said Wordsworth once. I checked.

And nevertheless we are
Together on our grounds,
Pretending yonder star
In ancient flaming Zounds!
Promises you to me.
And here we are, we three,

Wholly a family,
An hour now or two.
This is the trinity
Available to a Jew:
For this an angel came
And vouched no greater claim.

Friday, December 16, 2016

The True Meaning of Christmas

Can we expect the box of books to come,

Pat by Twelfth Night and just in time to save
The meaning of Christmas from The Tartar Kings,
The Merovingian Mayors, and The Last
Of the Mohican Princesses in a brief
Deerskin corset, stiletto moccasins,
And arrows Nessus's poison painted pink?
Lebkuchen while we wait. You watch the door.
The FedEx guy's already late. He stopped,
I'll bet you anything, to sneak a peek
At Lord Jim on the Road to Mandalay.
He's cracked the spine of Christmas, Baby J
And paper, bound to tell the death of kings,
The sport of lepers calling round the world,
The time is right for reading in the street,
And we are dead and dying for a word.

Tuesday, December 06, 2016

A Dream of Fair Women

Come winter, we shall learn the ways

Of women, young and wanton, run
Amok in books, which we shall praise
For literary merit. We
Shall substitute them for the sun
And make believe they’re history.

Juliet is not much like school,
Nor Guinevere like Mrs Beale,
Who is not golden, nor a fool
For chivalry. The cold and snow,
Unlike Isolde, is not real.
And where did all the Helens go?

Not to our school. Not then. Not yet.
I looked and then returned to read
Where princesses glittered jade and jet.
The janitor died of smoke and flame
Down in the boiler room. I need,
But cannot quite recall, his name.