Old Man of Concrete

LIMESTONE BROW

By the Somme, a century ago

a sum of desolations.

I had a visitation

in a dream last night.  Harsh old

Uncle Ezra – driven mad

by madness, muttering

corrections, versing

disenchanted elegiacs (sadness

in my head).  After the trenches

he would pit force

‘gainst greedy Usura –

high-boot it over squamous stenches,

inky pyramids of mental fright.

Let your barefoot Daphne

skip the alfalfa

down the nave then, rancid knight;

your whisper’s contrapuntal now

through salty reeds (remorse).

Francesca’s creaking hearse

in Rimini.  Cracked limestone brow.

Our errand in the labyrinth

is brief, & mostly blind.

The mirror is unkind

to the unkind.  A little terebinth

will slake its thirst, where lofty elms

once reigned; our monarch

is lowly – yet in his park

wings fan that once were casket-worms.

2.5.16

Battle of the Somme

Today marks 98 years since the Battle of the Somme (July 1, 1916).  One of the ultimate expressions of military & general human folly.  I've written another occasional poem (for my ongoing folly, Ravenna Diagram).

THE LONG GRASS

The trench was like a twisted river

of manure and rust.  Bent-

over Al & Bertie, faint

now in memory.  That ravin’ conniver

H.G., with the bloodshot eye –

souvenir de Louie?  “A touch

of the royal” – not much.

Slaughtered under a Ruskin sky.

All three.  South of Ypres-jeepers,

beside the sleepy Somme.

This somnolent hum

of toothy cogs must end, the weepers

say.  Someday.  When rabid dogs

cease racketing around by

Snuffy’s Drive-in (west end

of Mendelssohn – past the Log

Cabin – in the long grass, by the lake).

Remember the Limping Lady?

Cartwheels no more, sadly.

Tears well.  & for God’s sake.

There is only one kingdom, only

one king.  We’ll see her through.

That aureole around a blue

moon, Jeanne... born before we.

She cycles through ruin, absolutely.

Up from the crooked well,

like a gleam in a lake.  Sea-shell.

To bear it all, enfant.  Anew.  Étoile-épée.

7.1.14