February Light

 

Two months from the lamplit darkness that was December,

wrapped in a delicious affair with books, and poetry,

when I lamented the stubborn snow's refusal, once again, to visit,

February has arrived, changing the game, wanting everything its way.

This month has been as cold and severe as the lover who leaves

in the morning, after a thousand others, transfigured behind a screen

of secrets and silence. New snow is peaceful, people say, but no one

volunteers to go out and live in it, lie down in it, die in it.

Sometimes one wakes up confused, as if animated from inside

a capsule, with no history, no map, no landmarks. What then?

Maybe clarity comes with the next breath--or, everything remains

foreign, multiplying itself obscenely, crowded to bursting with horrors.

Sun on snow has the brightness of surgical lights to a person tied

down and drugged. The sun is the optometrist's penlight aimed

at an infected eye hardly able to bear it. It is February and the new way,

a cold intensity that can't be stopped, ravenous, stronger every day.

___________________

for What's Going On? --Light.

Music: Tears For Fears Pale Shelter

Dear Reader

 

There you are, dear reader, demanding that I account for both myself and my famous affair with Basil Pennington III, father of the English Haiku-Sonnet. 

Nosy little parker, aren't you? Hmph. My air of mystery is positively in tatters.

You'll have read, I'm sure, my first published volume, Cargo of the Heart (1905), a collection of some two-thousand love poems, all of them concerning my furious devotion to Bazzy (as I called him privately). Tiresomely, most people only know the opening poem, Honeymoon In Hell, which was written shortly after I had sustained a closed head injury. 

My Arrow-collared Adonis stands in fading dusk-light

your chin tipped down, lighter flaring up,

capturing my heart as your pince-nez does your nose

while on Love's nectar'd wine we sup!

Yes, well. My early efforts were heartfelt if a trifle lacking in restraint. But you want to hear about Bazzy (as I called him privately)! You may not know that Basils senior and junior were fierce tyrants, captains of industry, and both afflicted with a ferocious case of skin blemishes in their youth. Imagine their chagrin at the arrival of this perfect, square-jawed, wavy-haired, strapping example of manhood amongst them. Imagine further his utter disinterest in the family undergarment empire. 

Undergarment wizards, bitter devils dancing lugubriously on Profit's stage,

Blind behemoths blundering benightedly

Dismissive of Delight, scornful of sage

poring over ledger books, squalling, squealing and squinting short-sightedly!

I guess I told them ! For months in 1911 we closed ourselves off in a lovely seaside cottage, seeing no one but each other, except for the odd Ouija manifestation or mushroom hallucination, as one will. 

Love! Bliss! Oh Rapture!

the wet raindrop on the stalk

that grows proud and tall!

Of course, my volume of erotic haiku entitled Cherry Blossom Lobotomy was seized by the port authorities in Boston and ultimately banned as both pornographic and jejune. "Everyone's a critic," I lamented to Bazzy (as I called him privately). We were both convinced that Basils senior and junior had had a hand in that nasty bit of business, but we could never prove it, and besides, I was occupied with my hybrid petunias and Bazzy (as I called him privately) was shortly off in France fighting in some silly war. If you like, pick up a copy of my collection of war poetry entitled Ka-Boom! The New York Times reviewer wrote that the collection convinced him that there are worse things than death, but I never understood what he meant. When Bazzy (as I called him privately) was killed, I couldn't imagine anything worse than his having been run over by a Paris taxi while on leave from the Army Bureau of Statistics located behind the lines in wine country. I delve into this terrible period with the epic poem Drunk In Public, which won the Delirium Tremens Award for excellence in incomprehensible gibberish. I've always been very proud of that, though the arcane terminology eludes me somewhat. May I present you with a copy? I can have one of the staff sign it for you if you like. No? Don't be shy, dear--I insist!

Anyway, that's the Reader's Digest condensed version of my sweeping affair with Basil (or "Bazzy" as I called him privately) Pennington III. If you'd like to pry, er, read further, see if you can find a copy of Cornerstone Poems--the "Found" Poems of Constance MacFarquhar-Pennington, A Complete Compendium With Bibliography, Personal Correspondence & Rare Photographs (Crumbley J. Pepperpot and Phyllis Anne Von Vandekamp eds. Redundancy Publishers New York Montreal London Belgrade and Hong Kong 1932.  I saw a copy on the website Remaindered Oblivion not two weeks ago!  Ta now, dear. Hmm. Thank Heaven and Heloise that the little twaddlehead is gone.  For pity sake, I never even actually met Basil Pennington III, or "Bazzy" as I imagined I would have called him privately, had I had the chance. No matter. Time for wine and work! I've got a new book underway and cannot be disturbed. 

________

My rather lengthy poem (?) for Word Garden Word List--Gracefully Insane.

 

Here Comes Some Bitch

Here comes some bitch up to your door
over to your table
knee-walking across the goddamned bed
to tell you she's sleeping with your honey and there's nothing you can do.

Here comes some lunatic with bad hair 
who's got nukes but no sense
no filter
no off switch and by the way slept with your honey, too.

The first thing I'd advise is--don't panic.
Most things can be solved by litigation or homicide,
and those that can't can usually be put out of mind with intoxicants.

Then again, maybe you've been through all that,
teeth gone, hair gray, with a thousand cats on the davenport.
Maybe you pitched that bitch out the window,
the upstairs window, and never felt so good about anything before in your life. 

Good for you, Toots. Bitches love free flying lessons.
______

 

Marry the Moon

I'm keen to marry the moon--
she has my heart--
I have my dress--
all the crows in captivity stacked up in the west.

What am I supposed to do
with that golden bitch the sun?
She preen--
she pose--
she think she better than everyone.

I made a deal with the dark.
I said, "bring my baby here,
when she a sliver before she grows.
I'll bootleg you the stars
and nobody needs to know."

I'm keen to marry the moon
with her down-low ways and hyena laugh--
she has my heart--
I have my dress--
now all I need--
her ask, my yes.
__________