1. Thank You!
Folks must have wearied
of my villanelles
long since—written because I’m harried
from day to day by worries—
promptings that prick me in my blood,
so that I never weary
of drinking my formal-poem-aid—
rhymes that chime like an off-bell,
harrying
me into some new way
of attacking the puzzle
of my life. Long past wearied
of waiting to hear one true word
spoken, though twere from the teeth of hell,
harrassed by words like harpies:
I beg pardon for anything I’ve said
that was ugly or hurtful,
and I thank from my soul
all whose blessed patience I’ve wearied!
2. Adding Stairs
Walking up and down the stairs
(the stair slats are soft birch),
trying to catch up with my cares.
Living on my railroad shares—
the train gives a lurch
in the night as I stumble downstairs;
trying not to have airs
(feeling YOUR presence like a prayer in church),
I try to catch up with my cares
by always adding flights of stairs
(a determined wave-leaping fish),
swimming up and down stairs
in my bathrobe—an exhibitionist, but no one stares
as I pursue my biological research—
walking up and down the stairs,
trying to catch up with my cares.
3. The Habitat of the Poem
3. The Habitat of the Poem
I want to write about the habitat of the poem,
but I’m annoyed by the word “poem” in the first place.
The rhymes are all already known.
I can’t evade the connection like a blown
fuse why I don’t like to say the poem face to face
in open mics.—Because the habitat of the poem
is far removed from a noisy room
in which people get up and read on stage.
There are two pure rhymes for “poem”—“Jeroboam,”
servant of Solomon, and “low hum”—
the poem might be just a deep bass,
a nearly-inaudible drone in the habitat,
the house in which I go and come,
where my last
will and testament is filed separately from my poems.
To perform, I’d need a drag costume—
slip hugging my thighs, taps on my shoes
that could rhythm the habitat of the poem into the room—
rhymes already known.
