The Beginning of the End

Poem No. X

What can an old poet do at the end of timeBut scratch out nightmare verses in the oldRemembered measures that have enduredFor centuries before him? How else may heMemorialize these awful days and yet makeDue if forlorn acknowledgment of what he holdsTo be the right and honor of all true men andWomen who remain in his tattered companyOf urchins and geniuses? How few they are,Slipping away like shreds of mist on an AprilMorning in Picardy or Oklahoma, yes! GoodBye, wherever you are, old friends and lovers.Never shall we meet again. Our comityWill drift among the stars forever, likeThe little migrant sparrows of the plains.

What? Say Again, Please?

The calendar means nothing, as we know.What dire divinity could distinguishBetween Monday and Tuesday? Yet nowThe first of August looms in this disquietingTime. What better day to signal the beginningOf the end. And how comfortable it is, howComforting, to slip into the mode ofSuperstition—yes, even when it portendsApocalypse. Come, my dear, will you join meIn abandoning all responsibility, down to theLast shred? The final shred? And then we will Be gone. Some say that we are goneAlready, and who would deny them? Not you.Not I. Pour me another taste of that Akwa Vitey,Please, my dear. And here's to our comfort.

A Vision of Now

Here we are, my dears, the autumn of twenty-o-five.And it's very strange. The sultry summer lingersInto October; the foliage that by now was alwaysBright is drab and withered; and we are farToo dry, except where hurricanes rage and floodsCarry off our houses. Is this then our lastAutumn? The radio is insisting, "Log on, log on."And then the television pleading, "Log on now."And signs and portents are everywhere, althoughThey are bewildering, because no one knows howTo interpret them. Persons of faith are tremulousAnd unsure, while those of science apparentlyCannot read nature's peculiar new vocabulary.Each of us is proceeding at a different pace,Stumbling or running, aimless or headed straightTo a distant remembered door. The spendthriftsSing Auld Lang Syne and tip up goblets of fineEuropean brandy. Others are creeping andWandering, weeping and wondering. For we areThe new refugees, going nowhere. We are thisOld and horrifying pitiful dream come true.

The Last Piece of Chocolate

The last piece of chocolatein the New Year's boxis yours, my dearest. Why?you ask. Well, asidefrom common courtesy,I think of two reasons.First, because I've eatendamn near all the rest,but second because thisis the first day of twenty-aught-six and you are stillwith me. You are the mostfaithful and loyal personI have ever known, and themost loving. I was born in1921, a long time ago, and soI am now an ancient of days,a codger, a geezer, whomno one ought to love. Yethere you are. How extraordinary!The great heroof all lovers, Bertran deBorn, said that poetsmust always make sacrificesfor their ladies fair. Soplease, my dearest, takethe last piece of chocolate,and be my love forever, asI will be yours. With manythanks for everything.

For Wendell

For the light is changed.For the song of the brook isChanged. And we too are changed.So select a pod and pick it.Press it to make it splitAnd run your thumb alongThe spine to gather the greenPeas and throw them intoYour mouth, and taste—And taste the green spring!

Poem Maybe

On Margate Sands I connect nothing to nothingAs our old pal Tom once remarked. These sandsAre damp and littered, not at all appealing,Not like the soft sands of Manfredonia where theItalian boys grew onions and garlic for theirLunch. Can you imagine how much I wish I wereThere...