The Poetry Of...
Anita Dahlman.........................................................................
Tricks
I painted spiked lashes
on the girl I often scold
and brushed her face
with pale chalk, softening
blemishes beneath
a guileless mask.
Her unruly hair, tangled by
tantrums and nightmares,
fell heavy about her face,
that sharp gleam of her
eyes was startling.
I drew her mouth
in red outline, hopeful
a forced smile could
replace her scowl,
for a little while.
Dressed in shredded
memories, castoff
from better days
she stalked into the night
pretending.
I watch for her return
for the inventory
she will present,
recounting her past
hours of sweet play.
She will wash the smear
from blackened eyes,
her weary smile will settle
comfortably back
into defiance.
I will turn my cheek
for her plum kiss,
her promise to be good,
knowing well how poison
is often disguised.
tone deaf
critical of my passivity, my brother
is grousing at my stupor in this house
where insipid mutters accompany
the synthetic beat of drum machines
and girls obsess with their mind-
less desires, gyrating in overflow,
fleshy promises pouring out
from clothing lowcut and barely
there like those seamless
steamy rags on street corners
licking lips, beckoning and grasping
the prize of sex and adulation
and I am helpless, hoping for
some thought more of substance
than flesh and nubility, the pounding
carnal rap incessant driving, driving
in a constant parade of puerile
conceit which silences my mind
for the pulse of the skintight
drums has driven impulse away
with a numbing torture thumping
all sense, leaving mumbled chaos
sputtering in place of words
while my brother blasts Bach
or Dylan in retribution, organs
and harmonies at odds with
pimps and pumps and raps
a jarring stridence
humming.
lyrics
such a spirit to walk lightly through air,
suffused with radiant midnight suns,
charming the very stars to glow in her
wake, the moon’s reflection soft on liquid
limbs, in each gesture, songs of prayers,
lift up and up,
above the mourning ground
before the sorrowful mornings
to come, before the sons lost at birth,
this pure knowing foretells her living,
that grace, calm and steadfast,
in such measured cadence would never
falter or miss a step
when dissonance clamored
such a spirit with the cooling breeze
in her hand, with the clear vision
remembered from the gold and grey
suns of midnight, bore the weight
of sorrows from lost children
far above the harrowed ground
returning to the morning songs
her many songs,
each a prayer
waiting
to be borne.
