..................................................................................................
The Poetry Of...
Harold Lorin.......................................................
Diving
We are now, to use a tired metaphor,
Inside our selves
There are Grotesques around us
Morphing and remorphing without meaning
Inspecting us as we are inspecting them
There are the currents of the sea
There are sounds from where we cannot see
There are long intervals of silence.
Silence
We seek the 'bottom' of 'ourselves'
Some core that is deeply true
But all seems as unclear as on the surface
Is there a shadow here that might be me?
Personae appear and disappear
Grimacing and laughing in their moments
We move around in the wreckage we have caused
We push down toward a philological illusion
"Self" is an artifice of empty sounds
A vanity
A pretense
At least we are alone here
Except for these transmorphing creatures
Is there to be redemption here?
At least coherent accusation?
Eliot searched here looking at the footprint of the crabs
Before he drowned
Innocence
This white cream in this white jar
Has now restored the innocent virtue of my skin.
It says so on the label and who am I,
Required to believe so many things,
To doubt this?
So without repentance or contrition
The grace of this age-defying,
Time-defying, death defying balm
Redeems and makes unsullied what you see.
Now it is merely my shriveled soul which
Lives in non-redeemable corruption.
St. Luke's Night
From the desk the muffled nurse's chatter
Mingled with an intermittent laugh
Seems as distant as the peep of birds
At ebb tide at the shore
From a room down the hall I hear again
The sound of a woman crazed in pain.
Is it not odd all hospitals have that record?
Like the Anthem at a baseball game.
Behind the curtain
My roommate in his nightlight snores.
Everywhere there is an underlying murmur.
A virtual tremor and a whine.
Outside, the roofs below are dipped in snow.
One roof is an odd shaped arc in green.
Lights change. Cars roll up 10th Avenue toward Time
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