Six Poems from Bulkington

Six Poems from Btrlhington LOUIS PHILLIPS “In a few minutes, however, he was missed by his shipmates , and being, it seems, for some reason a huge favorite with them, they raised a cry of ‘Bulkington! Bulkington! Where’s Bulkington?’and darted out of the house in pursuit of him.” Where shall we look For this man called Bulkington? Try the eye-stalk of good deeds, Mount the ferris wheel of dust, Spit under the lugsail. We once sat him on the Stone of Sconce Q crowned him the Wharf Rat King. Where shall we look? Hurry the trysail into place, Q tax the water’s spout Luff his image into a tankard. Conjure him, voodoo him, Swivel the Book of the Dead. Was he keel-hauled Thru witches’brew? Someone is missing. Someone is no longer here OCoppghi 1981b y Louis Phillips and reprinted hy permission or the author. L F v I A T 13 A x A J O U R N A L O F MFI.VII.I.E S T U D I E S6 7 L O U I S P H I L L I P S “Allvisible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks.” & wore the mask of the world too tight Thru which he saw nothing he could strike A bargain with. The Real was sudden With its heavy freight, when into his light Sharked a sandskin world. The day was stark. There are those who can make a life From anything. Ideas, sang Plato from his cave, Ideas alone are real. I am but a sodden Shadow, tho that shadow take a wife. My handk a mask & my mouth, he laughed. But still he practiced how to snare Portions for his touch. We test the air With pralltrilled music, thru & thru. Disdain this pranking world? Go to. Go to. The Bay of Moons Not knowing how to die, I turn to the Bay of Moons, Its neap tide Nibbling at my sleeping ear. So many places Have more than one moon, But here there are Stars of water-rib, Blisters of night With tangible white sails Transversing the marl. Amid such splendor, Why must any of us die? 6 8 L E V I A T H A ~ L O U I S P H l L L I P S “Standby me,holdme,bind me, 0ye blessed influences.” Welter of Bouyant influences & 0 they are urgent. Use the wolfing wind, Fixed stars, Light’s little lances; Use the mole, The wentletrap, Shells where The water is spent. Perpendicular To death. I fall heir To many a beneficent world. It swarms over me With luster. “Whythen do you try to ‘enlarge’your mind?Subtillzeit.” There are terrible events to consider, Grand Q obscene. On 42nd Street, One black whore has been beat, & her white pimp Has cleared out. You know the rest, Tho the rest is none too neat. A traffic light blinks Red & green. The cops arrive 10 minutes late. Under a yellow street lamp, One pusher has been shot Thru the throat Big headlines in a flood: WE DRINK EACH OTHER’S BLOOD All of us are outsiders. & CALL IT THOUGHT. A J O L ’ R N A I O F M F I v11.1 F S T U D I F S 6 9 L O U I S P H I L L I P S “Buthere is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest , shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the valley of the Saco. What is the chief element he employs?” There in the sycamore Wind without wrinkle -mere Leaf trace where Nicked by shadows hither, Amid road warblers & I heather, Toadflax smothers The hummock edgeways, Narrowed quiet sways Ever so slightly, glazed By air’s humid daub, flirt At a fragrant edge, sport Of nightjars over moneywort. The moon is lodged so fierce, It too must rise. Terse & jagged, all things thirst. ...