THREE POEMS

By P. A. Merrill

 

 

 

STALINGRAD

 

I hang in the air over the outskirts

of this autumnal city.

It tastes of ashes, burning fat,

the very sunlight reeks of death.

Carrion bird of history,

scavenger of truth and gristle,

even I fear this place.

It lies behind God's back.

 

But I already know the stations

of this pageant, the faces of the players.

I know the screaming choruses

of aircraft and rocket artillery.

I know the end.

 

The glow of the city

can be seen for miles at night,

a firestorm sucking in souls and leaves and shingles,

bright cinders dancing in

the vomited black air.

Each time I visit here

I pray an early, brutal snow

to end the thing.

 

 

 

CASSANDRA ON THE COUCH

 

I have always known these things,

but long ago Apollo spat in my mouth

and, for coveting his gift of sight,

I lost my voice.

 

Although I see truth in folds of cloth

and dusty corners, truth is become a specter

for my eyes alone.

I point and stutter as if at ghosts, and none can see.

 

I dream each night the colors of dawn,

handmaiden of history and destiny.

Cloistered in this prison house of language

I have learned to cherish silence.

 

Yet you would have a prophesy.

To what end?

Would you know me better?

Would you stack and count my visions

like coins towards a final sum?

Listen, then, banker of thoughts…

 

 

You clothe yourselves in mirrors

Desperate men chase commerce through empty cities

Every door thrown open to welcome tyranny

The sound of Dawn, the touch, the breath of Dawn

War birds wheel in the sky

Hounds chasing hares

Destiny your map across this cresting sea

Ever that single steady light

Revolution, the crashing sound of Dawn

Eagles strip the carcass of this perishing republic

Towers of dust on the horizon

Blood and treasure

Lives, fortunes, honor

You cannot renounce these things

Death by freedom

 

 

 

2.21.04

 

Moonswept plain at night.

We stand, you, I, like strangers now,

waiting and pensive.  Somehow

something should happen since we are both here.

 

You can feel the breath

of the moon as she passes

low overhead.  There is a constant tone

in the warm air, like a bell rung.

 

This is the moment when

you think about a dream

in the dream, that flying

instant as you realize you are asleep,

then wake yourself to think

less clearly.

 

We are both here, now.

Take this hand, my hand,

now, before we wake,

before we leave this moonlit secrecy.

 

The dream leaves the reasons

smoldering into ashes

in a dying fire behind us.

So much time, so much life.

We have just this instant,

this pale lit second,

to remember each other’s

faces.

 

 

 

 

 

 

END

 

P. A. Merrill, co-founder of and occasional associate editor for Canopic Jar, lives in Mt. Juliet, Tennessee where he continues to assert that while some folks call it a sling blade, he calls it a kaiser blade.

 

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