................................................................................................
The Poetry Of...
Karen Corcoran...................................................
Dabkowski................................................................
Some Things Stand
Persistance
is the pounding of the same peg
into the same hole, no matter how many times
the rain will wash it out
because
there are things that have to stand regardless
of weather or flood or fear. And there are angels
who fly despite
the flies
persistently buzzing around the carcass of the world
because they see the soul
inside the bones. They dip
and dive,
flies in their teeth,
and hoist it up and all the while are singing, but so very softly
one would think it's wind in branches, or the blanching of the moon
(which is the soul) on a sleeping land, whose snores are delicately reaching
for a pitch that's missed
more often than not- with spirit out of style, with life as
a crocodile- hungry, base, demanding food, whose jaws are
snapping, snapping
at that moon, but it's persistence
and the ear to hear the music gets us home.
Brobdingnag Thoughts
on a late summer day
when cicadas click out of themselves
and go off
leaving husks, hulls, heavy thoughts
under a weighted sky
that barely holds the rain up
from our heads before the dousing, I want nothing
but that song they sing
that is the bone
music of back legs kicking Calliope down a dusty road of no
return, not caring. Low hum of a season
dying rhythmically like the beat of giant heart
grown
slower, or the tuning up of an orchestra
we never hear except
when there's a shift in movement
from one act to the next before the curtain
goes up, and every time it rises
it's the first.
Sylke Chantry
Door to the Sylke Chantry
carved
in oak leaves with four evangelists open-eyed
and closed-mouthed, pens in hand, stands abandoned.
The Age of Illumination is past. The Revelation is upon
us, though no one knows the symbols
anymore
nor can they interpret
the winged bull or the eagle. Spiders make
their webs across the great window in bloody reds
and vaulting blues, the primary hues of Christendom as penitents
come empty to this hallow having killed sin forever to sit
in numb abstentia, their souls not
carve-able.
There are no
wonders to behold, nor quaking,
nor Hy Aulter in this ghost grym playce
which is not hawgable
or landgable
or payable to the lord. All backs now lean
upon their misericord; this stone sits fallow
until whosoever
is tenant there, returns
to declare hys greefe. And some
will be slayne and takyne
as predycted,
for they had so lyttl pity of the dethe
done unto hym,
he meerlye slept, and is a lyon
at hys wakyng
when sun will stop, the earth regurgitate its dead,
and all stars in their stead will backward burn, and the Sylke Chantry
shall have its final
priest
on that horribyl daye, so saye
the Lorde, as all his angyls
folde black wings and sallye forth
unto the new heaven, whych hathe no neede
of these cathedryls.
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