Monday, December 14, 2009
|This two stanza poem, by me, "Ode to Bookstore and Dinner Out, in Spring," is a fractured homophone of the two final stanzas of Keats' majestic "Ode to Autumn."|
Ode to Bookstore and Dinner Out, in Spring
The author haunts inside the stone store,
brick and mortar. I look for her to find,
caressing pages on a beige/blue carpet floor,
her soft hair lifted by no window but by the wind
of a door revolving. Others are found asleep,
drowsy in fumes of coffee, as piped songs hook
like twilight shadows of twin-stalked flowers crook
an urban elder. Old New Yorker. A gleaner keeps
re-shelving. Kids returning. Laden cart, each book
confected by a press, with painted look,
pimps my loyal roost. Each someone’s child.
You’d think I rooster, hour by hour, but I run.
Here is hungry Spring. When are harvest days?
Don’t think of them, we have our corner diner too.
Above dinner, tight clouds vice to a shatter or a fake.
No way in this wet season to not begin to be.
“See, son, rivers, Hudson, Seine, Tigris, mourn
that human fish who hopes moss only grows north.”
Over-thinking our clues to what lives or dies
is frowned on by my cool-bodied gulls just born.
Idol contestants sing; and now with treble soft
your waitress whistles at a sketch of Lara Croft,
as, outside, bluebirds dive bomb from the skies.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
|Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find|
|Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,|
|Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;||15|
|Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,|
|Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook|
|Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:|
|And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep|
|Steady thy laden head across a brook;||20|
|Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,|
|Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.|
|Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?|
|Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—|
|While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day||25|
|And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;|
|Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn|
|Among the river-sallows, borne aloft|
|Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;|
|And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;||30|
|Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft|
|The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;|
|And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.|