Empty House

No poem, ever more,
Will be a happening:
We now write more, but for
A world that's lessening−

This public in the desert,
Made solely of our presence,

Some poor St. Johns who preach
To creases of their tunics,
A desert owned by each,

Or dogs in endless touse
Inside an empty house.

-----

This is a translation of a poem by Alberto da Cunha Melo:

Casa Vazia




Poema nenhum, nunca mais,
será um acontecimento:
escrevemos cada vez mais
para um mundo cada vez menos,

para esse público dos ermos
composto apenas de nós mesmos,

uns joões batistas a pregar
para as dobras de suas túnicas,
seu deserto particular,

ou cães latindo, noite e dia,
dentro de uma casa vazia.

Sonnet of Remembrance II - The Blue of Beauty

I see a bunch of people by the pool,

Talking and drinking grown-up soda, free;
And yet a bunch of people looks like school:
I'm much more taken with the mystery,
So foot on foot I waddle to the blue,
Attracted by the ever changing light
Reflecting on that deeply shifting hue,
And by its other-worldliness to sight.
But boys of three are not supposed to swim;
Wherefore my uncle, or some friend, will put
Down fast his drink and hurry to the rim,
Before I touch forever with my foot.
   They laugh, but off I go again, alone;
   Again I'm seeking beauty unbeknown.

Act Appalled

Whenas your stolid views you find bemauled,
Your orthodoxy sacrosanct distressed,
Don't fret to grant riposte−just act appalled.

State of the art technology to scald
A rival who should you with proofs molest,
Whenas your stolid views you find bemauled,

Is affectation and an awe-struck yawl.
Against an argument you can't contest,
Just wear a startled face−and act appalled.

Assume that air that says your foe is galled,
Medieval nescience flaming up his breast,
Whenas your stolid views you find bemauled.

Your public will, by now, be so enthralled!
Those further answers can remain suppressed−
Which anyway you lack. So act appalled.

And if the devil still is not forestalled
By such a noble show of shock, invest,
When your void stolid views you find bemauled,
A cry: "You fascist!"−fast−, and act appalled.

Sonnet of Remembrance I − The Voice of Truth

"How old are you?" she asked, the little girl
Who was the daughter of my mother's friend,
A puny thing of three, eyes black as merle,
Two stops opaque the outcome could portend.
"Four", in reply I said, and feeling proud
Anew of new acquired age−what make!
Which to complete my telling head I bowed
To point the four-shaped candle on the cake.
Yet then she countered with a strident "Three!":
She would not be out-aged; and I said "Four."
"Three!", she insisted. "Four!" was my decree,
So forceful timid tears began to pour.
   And though she was but three I knew no ruth,
   For I had spoken with the voice of truth.

-------

This is the first of a series of sonnets on memories from my childhood that I intend to write.

Olympian Dilemma

Between the rule of Jupiter am I
And Mars, thus knowing not which to go by;
Each god requests devoutly to be praised
By active faith−and thus I sway, amazed.

So Zeus, the ordering and mighty Will,
Would have me never more stand static still,
And follow his example: with a form
To shape my world according to my norm.

Ares, relentless in belligerence,
Would bid me arm with stout malevolence
Against the foes and friends, the good and bad,
Reacting at whatever makes me gad.

Of course I'd rather honor mighty Jove
Than follow Mars in his destructive rove;
But who am I to spurn the edicts of a god
Whose spear can prick me with so sharp a prod?

Critical Thought - A Villanelle

Critical thought, the end of modern mind,
The summum bonum of the pseudo-shrewd,
May mean the end of mind to all mankind.

What is to criticize if not to grind,
For sake of grasping, information crude
To little grains--the end of modern mind?

But scrutiny alone shall make us blind;
As eating only fibers from our food
Would mean the end of feasts for all mankind.

Division can be ever more refined,
And so the end result is to exclude
The former dividend from modern mind.

And by and by, our wits become confined
To parts of parts of parts, and so preclude
The means of finding truth for all mankind.

Then what is parted must be new combined,
Made whole--as is the World--, or so pursued
Critical thought, the end of modern mind,
Shall mean the end of mind to all mankind.

The Modern Fallacy of Salvation

You hold that human nature is corrupt,

That men are selfish apes and upstart knaves,
By power made so morally bankrupt
We'd turn our fellow primates into slaves.
But this−you say−is wickedness that man
Can't help: "denying would be so naïve!";
And yet, somehow, you trust a single plan−
Justice by men−all evil could relieve.
And thus you place salvation in the hand,
So innocent, of chosen prophets, who
Shall bring on Earth the age of Golden Land,
Correcting nasty hearts by noble coup.
   If common people's morals are so rusted,
   Can politicians with our fates be trusted?