Ads in the Heart of a Ferryman
The silver paper, silver like cigarette
wrappings
kept behind glass at bowling
alleys and dispensed with
falls. In the touch of foil
and fingers
I taste giandojòt, Portmarnock’s beach and the Irish coast.
Harbour ghosts stretch banners, celebratory and immaterial,
ads in the heart of a
ferryman.
The ocean stretches.
A thousand Smiths bring forth
their saving work
with all the strength of dandelions.
Over moon barren, moon
besotted hills
the darkness of Jericho, the darkness of New Canaan
falls the same.
Cold clarifies the brain.
Butter burns in a pan.
She
says she has forgotten herself.
For dinner, poulet de Bresse
and a storm.
Fictions flit upon the soul and on the ground bats’ false
shadows.
The short pulse she expected to go on did not. There is escape, the quiet
loss of summer heat.
The orchid in the room has Victorian leaves,
a fracture, oblique, blood peppered blooms.
It is how we stamp the land:
cut and letter pressed, split
and spread eagled,
black and white.
The night traces the plane;
the earth lopes the map.
Advent falls. Lent Falls.
Fee-fi-fo-fum, I am tethered,
a man with confidence,
both coasts in sight.
Love this, j-dawg. Especially the penultimate stanza. "For dinner, poulet de Bresse and a storm." A man with confidence, indeed, but understated and deeply discomfiting. I think, yes, of Merrill (without the ghosts).
ReplyDeleteThe thwarted rhythm and uneven lines are what I like the most about this. It has a novella feel to it-- a narrative threatening to expose itself. "She says she has forgotten herself." Ahhhh. And bowling and dowel are nice near each other, don't you think?
ReplyDeleteI love the short sentences in this poem: "The ocean stretches," "Cold clarifies the brain," "Butter burns in a pan. I love what Drew also quoted: "For dinner, poulet de Bresse and a storm." Don't know how to pronounce this dinner though, but love the combo with storm.
ReplyDelete