Notice how the old poets go for the jugular, direct to the major artery, no ornamenting around the obvious or making it prettier. Blake says, “O rose, thou art sick!” And Shakespeare declares, “Love is not love/Which alters when it alteration finds….” Milton is adamant, “Hell, her numbers full Thenceforth shall be forever shut.” They … Continue reading
A pariah to his neighbors, Uncle Ken loved dandelions, cultivated them in his yard in Iowa Falls, plucked the blossoms at midday when their rays had spread fully open. Then after his alchemy turned gold into wine, he poured it into old bottles he had scrubbed, then laid them lovingly on their sides in his … Continue reading
The Latin Professor lives in the country drives a little red pickup, fills its box with grass seed, Omalene for his horses, the Georgics of Virgil. The philosophy professor drives a big black pickup. He carries Heidegger, Sartre, Derrida and Foucalt. He needs wide tires, eight cylinders. The German professor rides his bike, his saddlebags … Continue reading
His little son beside him, the philosophy professor pulls his big, black pickup over, halloas at the crazy old poet walking in the twilight. He is taking the boy beyond the city’s lights to the country to watch Venus rising. The old poet trudges along, a fist full of stars in her hand, stars caught … Continue reading
The followers claimed his face glowed with celestial light, so it was forbidden for human hands to depict it. Although he never claimed anything except inspiration, never mentioned resurrection, yet some authorities think he’s back. The Dalai Lama smiles as if he knows, but he’s not telling. Lord Vishnu says he found him incognito wearing … Continue reading
-for Angelique and V. Before coral, pearl, mother of pearl, before the chambers of the nautilus, millions of ancient trilobites crinoids, all the little limestone shells compressed for centuries by the weight of water. Then lifted up, cut, carved into the city of Aleppo, Halep, milk of Abraham’s cow, now blasted into flight by mortars, … Continue reading
To watch the sunset at Wadi Rum We ride across the desert on benches in the back of the 1950’s pick-up past the petroglyphs on the red rocks to the outcroppings sanded smooth by eons of time with sand in their teeth. The princes in their long sheepskin cloaks, fleece turned to the inside, whirl … Continue reading
Today I planned the sand cherry with red leaves – and hope that I can go on digging in this yard, pruning the grape vine, twisting the silver lace on its trellis, the one that bloomed just before the frost flowered over all the garden. Next spring I will plant more zinnias, marigolds, straw flowers, … Continue reading
The Latin Professor lives in the country drives a little red pickup, fills its box with grass seed, Omalene for his horses, the Georgics of Virgil. The philosophy professor drives a big black pickup. He carries Heidegger, Sartre, Derrida and Foucalt. He needs wide tires, eight cylinders. The German professor rides his bike, his saddlebags … Continue reading
Phlebas the Phoenician, once as handsome and as tall as you, fills all the glasses. He can write in Ugarit’s forgotten script, it’s bird-track characters metamorphosed, into these signs I learned in nursery school. He pours the Johnny Walker Black over crackling ice. Does it matter that Richard the Lion Heart is rotting in prison? … Continue reading
Coe Review 