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The Poetry Of
Harold Lorin....................................................
Bedding the Beagle
Today in referential and allusive fog,
In reminiscent and nostalgic rain,
We, also quietened, went to take The Beagle
From the broad bay to the quiet cove
Where, in wind still whispering of summer,
We took the rudder out and rigging down.
Then we came to the house.
Put lines and spars away, made coffee, sat.
Looked out at rain and spoke
Of hurricanes, last years last sail.
The decline of the local butcher.
We listened to wind come over the hill
From the infinite and undefined northeast.
Billy Collins
How does he have his way with us?
Without iambic, or meter, or the couplet.
That made the immortal Bard immortal
Without the incantations of Homeric Hymn
No oft-repeated rosy colored dawn, no wine dark sea.
With no rhyme and barely reason,
He conjurs ancient visions ageless dreams
He takes us, immersed, floating in
His liquid labyrinthine lines, twisting,
Rising, swirling, spinning, soaring,
To where he wills us. Revelations.
Beyond, beyond, beyond, beyond
Where we might go alone.
Communion
The Pastor broke the loaf and raised the bread
And told of words most likely never said.
Except, perhaps, in ancient Aramaic form
Of Eucharistos, of 'I am grateful, Lord.'
Knowing this, or thinking that he knew,
The old man anyway dipped the bread.
Perhaps (but only that perhaps) The Body in the Blood
And took Communion. Because
That is for what he had come.
