— from Prompts

“Write an ekphrastic poem about an image, object or work of art.”

— Doolin Rook

It landed brash, still young, 

on the Burren limestone

by the boat to Inisheer;           

its dark beady look out of the rocks

and wind and shear of the place.                                

But that dead-eye stare, she thought,                      

under the rook's black hood,

a bit murderous, was it not,

on her camera’s face on it,

as she took the shot? 

But that rogue's-gallery eye,                             

hung in a gallery far away,

caught another appraising eye,                                   

spoke to that woman infallibly           

of tenderness and the great Irish hunger,            

too late to be fed on the spot, 

but bought and taken home to be gazed upon;

a shame that or perhaps not, 

if a wandering thought like that could sing

and if famine everywhere had such wings.

—<>—

"If you can't think of something to write, look out your window."

                                               -- Campbell McGrath

— At Heaven’s Gate: 55 & Over

1

Mostly over,

mostly way over                                   

the hill we face, most of us                                   

who live this long while feigning                

ignorance of hills, preferring

our horizons day-to-day and literal           

in this vast and horizontal Sunshine State.      

Unless of course we get a preview        

of the downward slope,                                       

as a guest or through a winter rental

among the 55 & over set,                                    

which would be us, two snowbirds                           

late to life at Heaven’s Gate                             

and heretofore oblivious.                                                     

Who’s here with us was hard to say              

in this invariant community                         

until last Friday evening, when,           

from shuttered flats across the way           

that rent as condominiums,                           

came the shut-ins out to play        

once-a-week clubhouse mahjong.       

O to be forever neighborly and young!

with children underfoot                                    

and common raisings going on.                

Was this the empty nesting we had wished

before we’d been cut loose                                    

into a retirement precarious?

With all our life begat, now this?                               

To walk with those who navigate off gait             

with their bends and bunions,                                                  

arm in arm with everyone’s                     

close Greek companion, Arthur Itis –

and we all know who He is --

who’s already welcomed me,

despite my lack of interest.

2

But that’s a long parade we see                            

out in that parking lot,                                                   

crossing the lines one by one;            

limp-alongs & stabbing canes,                                   

shufflers on their walking aids,                                       

and wheelchairs pushed ahead             

by dead-eye PCA’s.                                         

But damnation be damned,                                       

if these old swimmers aren’t spot on   

dressed to the gills, the hilt, the nines,                         

for the senior gaming underway,

as they head upstream to the tables,                 

to show off their abilities

at matching tiles at the mahjong!                                         

& their whisperings on the way,             

naming, as we came to learn,                                                  

the widowed gentleman two doors down      

and that nice lady with the cough,                                  

both quiet masters at the game,            

for whom the ambulance came today

not once but twice to spirit off. 

—<>—

“Write on oblivion.”  -- Robert Wrigley

— Hemingway to T. S. Eliot on Oblivion

"So this is how the world ends, not with a bang

but with a whimper."   --T.S. Eliot

1

When we go, we go,                        

Mr. Eliot.                                  

Who gives one jot  

how the world ends                                          

when our time comes?

Think so? I think not.

It has nothing to do                                                     

with you or me,                            

as we malinger on       

revising ourselves,

as we’ve often done      

for our posterity.

Let others judge today

what's brave or cowardly.                                                  

Cut the knot, I say,        

do it stealthily,                                

pass quickly through           

when no one's looking.  

Give your end a fitting ending.

No quarter to poor health and looks.                      

Believe yourself immortal in your books!  

2

I shall be frank, old Tom:                       

the words have flown,               

the page and I are blank.                                    

Four bad novels in a bank   

in Havana for safe keeping.  

What's left's a rotten thing in me. 

So, allow me, sir, to show you                        

how to pull it off.                

Turn your face, just so;                  

this shotgun in my mouth,                    

the drinking and the speaking part                 

through which we sang,     

we thieves of time,                              

who here contrive to steal

a moment one last time.        

3  

Now bend down and kiss my ass,        

my posteriority uncouth,             

and watch my trigger finger

erase a past, its youth      

vainglorious, well written,

and this sickness unto death.  

Do not hesitate or linger;                        

above all, do not, do not                          

with your last breath simper!      

Seize it! Carpe Diem! 

Squeeze it off, old Tom, like this! 

Trust to oblivion.                      

And regard my final show,

my last not tell,

the bloody O                                                 

of this face to the world 

without a whimper,

thus:

(And Tom, do excuse the gas …)

—<>—

(July 2, 1961)