On Reverdy Road
They like poetry that isn’t.
Not the kind that wakes into you
the way eyes gleam candid
in shadow, untrimmed wicks,
or that you grab from casual breezes
barehanded at dawn. When
don’t the words in a poem
count? When they fall into a pit
and Dear Reader goes tumbling after.
—Barry Schwabsky
____
from the sequence For Despair, published as a chapbook by Seeing Eye Books, Los Angeles, 2005.
Diary of a Poem
Prose refuted:
struck, the blank hour stays
struck—an indoor resolution
and most merciless of all
the colors we tweaked together
prose refuted:
rumor slides across rumor
each remembers to search my morning suspect
she loves the sound of breaking chains.
*
Prose refuted:
struck, the hour stays
struck—an indoor resolution
and most merciless of all
your face made me noisy
the essay melted
in the blood mine
as if we had any choice
prose refuted:
that rumor enjambed on
a plaque in the red-brick museum of loneliness
you need so much research to make it beautiful
but please don't make me say it.
*
Prose refuted:
next best thing to wordless
the violet day hammers along
and most merciless of all
impossible to have been present without
taking part
in those colors
prose refuted:
God sleeps in his Word
get flung out of pretty
you need so much research to make it beautiful
but please don’t make me say it.
*
Prose refuted:
struck, the next best thing to wordless
the essay melted
and makes you want to crash
what sky-blue distance wrote
prose refuted:
so if I had a diary
even critics pass away
they want to search my morning suspect
she loves the sound of breaking chains.
*
Prose refuted:
the essay melted
a space to peer into and lean
out of
thrones, dominions
in the casual sense
prose refuted:
God sleeps in his grassy Word
whose angel folds me carefully
the colors we tweaked together
his outtakes and bloopers.
*
Prose refuted:
rumor slides across rumor
I sank into it but forgot to drown
this canary borne repeating
on fast clouds
toward prose refuted:
go forth little saffron bird
toward inquorate nights of poetry
your rumor
more than gone.
*
Prose refuted:
in this bronze museum
Rembrandt, lift me up to golden failure
let grief pacification false memory
drift outside the book
prose refuted:
don’t kiss
all she wants is
your every forgiveness
let’s get out our pretty rumors
in the sunlight
more than gone
lipidic colors
prose refuted.
—Barry Schwabsky
____
published last year in the book Storia di un quadro/History of a Painting,
by Maria Morganti, Mantua, Edizioni Corraini