Othello: Crib Sheet

 

When they say Moor, they mean a lad 

Of color.  Black like pitch or coal,
though multi-colored in his soul.
Polka dots.  Paisley.  Tartan plaid.

His wife is white.  As pale as whey.
She has a hanky bleached with salt.
The dark chap has a Tragic Fault.
(He likes to fight.)  (She likes to play

at wifery.)  His sword is keen.
His adjutant is keener still.
At peace, there's beaucoup time to kill,
and we all know what that can mean:

the blackamoor is dead as dirt.
The pale-faced squaw is stiff as stone.
The villain rules the room alone
and will not speak and will be hurt,

which he minds not.  Oh, what a waste.
The colors of our rainbow run
red everywhere, black as the sun
behind the moon, perversely placed.

The Power of the Pen

 

I sharpened my pen, attacked the bad

Bad men. They were still standing when
I finished. I would make them sad,
I thought. They would be sorry then.

They weren’t. I gave them bitter names;
I called their mamas out. They kept
On being what they were. In flames
I sent my pages. Jesus wept,

But they declined. They were afraid
Of neither noun nor nib. My room
Was lit by indignation, shade
Of Johnson’s inspissated gloom

Hooting from where the restless go
When weight has fled. They did such deeds
As penmen perish not to know
And burned the barns and ate the seeds.

Nicene You

 

When I’m a bishop, I’ll communicate

With anyone who wants a wafer, mostly

Vanilla, but not requisite. If sin,

If stainless as a watch’s crystal, same:

Remission if your substance is like mine

Or if it’s not, if con or trans or bland

As angels fallen and they can’t get up:

But not till I’m a bishop. As a dean,

An 'umble shepherd, pastorally blue,

A spelunker who lost his ball of twine,

I am not worth attending to: I bleed

And count my corpuscles. We are too few,

Too scattered, and too thick about the ears.

I’ll call some Council, maybe. But not yet.

Boyz II Men

 

They softened us up first with comic books

of Bible stories. God, our God was mad

a lot of the time—flood and frogs and plagues.

He had it all, and used it. No one said

just why a pillar of salt. When condiments

were made (on the third day?), did salt act up?

I know. I know. I missed the point again.

Today a boy becomes a man: more Jews

to keep the covenant, to pass along

the stories we cannot forget, the rules

we cannot understand or like and yet

have graven on the bedposts in our sleep,

all because in sweet Crayola colors,

the comic books were clear, He made the rainbow.

Lordy, Lordy, I

from These Denver Odes

Lordy, Lordy, I can't believe I heard
   you dredge up that old line last night.
     So, did it work?  Never mind.
I'd hate to hear an almost matron,
   almost popping her bustier, bit
     that chestnut.  Time flies, my ass.

When Quintus said it, I don't know, maybe
   it already had a Bronze Age
     sheen to it, Buck.  Antique rose
petals fell for Herrick to gather,
   and the cartwheels creaked Marvell heard.
     And this mother of three swooned?

Well, we can understand, old thing--the flat,
   bubbleless glass of warm champers,
     and the wilting gray canape,
and the laddered hose.  Women despair
   for less, have fallen far further
     than you, Buck, on a bad night.

And maybe you were right, Quintus no fool,
   and the lady's sensors wide
     and wise to pull in the last
cupidous excitement she'd ever
   glom on to, even in the arms
     of an old anthology.

How Green

 

In valley towns the elder ways

hang on like dad’s chums; they struggle

to pass their habits on, their genes

long since committed, best they can.

And if the kids, and the kids’ kids,

break out into docklands and loft

flats and little gated enclaves,

the valleys shut up.  Keep mum mum,

keep dad, too, ligature thin, hope

he doesn’t speak, he’d only cough,

a lucky strike, a lost best hope.

The kids spread, their new jeans low slung,

vaunting how they quite disavow

vernaculars, forget the terms

for tucking in.  The valley mouth

shrinks.  There are runes hidden inside

cereal boxes, bottles filled

with elderflowers.  The kids come

for funerals; haply they praise

famous men, the powerful wind.

The Boy in the Iron PJs

 

Older by seconds, thus the King of France,

A wig so big the star can’t constellate.
(He hath decreed and fears nor scorn nor sneer.)
A lettre there, a duc by title here,
Leave to wear lilies on his velvet pants:
A little one, whose priors are his fate.

Pent in a donjon, eating mexicorn
From a melmac plate, his eyes like metal dust,
His prayers bouncing off the crumbly mortar,
He waits for the interminable porter
To celebrate the day when he was born
And let him dawn the elder, only just.