Cream

I am swilly, sedated, suspended cream
spinning in hazelnut heat,
lifted each morning
to Alzbeta’s lips.

Fluke

Our earth has turned its shadowmaker sideways.
A treeline shields you, Alzbeta,
from the oncoming traffic of late-afternoon sun
as you stroll the green with a small blond-haired girl.

Birdsongs have pecked the autumn to death.
Alzbeta, November must be lovestruck.
How else can it shirk its duty of being cold?

How else can it confuse its rays?
In this careless sunsong and birdlight,
I cannot say which hair shines more goldenly:
the blond or your black.

Traditional: Fair Annie

“It’s narrow, narrow make your bed,
And learn to lie your lane;
For I’m ga’n oer the sea, Fair Annie,
A braw bride to bring hame.
Wi her I will get gowd and gear;
Wi you I neer got nane.

“But wha will bake my bridal bread,
Or brew my bridal ale?
And wha will welcome my brisk bride,
That I bring oer the dale?”

“It’s I will bake your bridal bread,
And brew your bridal ale,
And I will welcome your brisk bride,
That you bring oer the dale.”

“But she that welcomes my brisk bride
Maun gang like maiden fair;
She maun lace on her robe sae jimp,
And braid her yellow hair.”

“But how can I gang maiden-like,
When maiden I am nane?
Have I not born seven sons to thee,
And am with child again?”

She’s taen her young son in her arms,
Another in her hand,
And she’s up to the highest tower,
To see him come to land.

“Come up, come up, my eldest son,
And look oer yon sea-strand,
And see your father’s new-come bride,
Before she come to land.”

“Come down, come down, my mother dear,
Come frae the castle wa!
I fear, if langer ye stand there,
Ye’ll let yoursell down fa.”

And she gaed down, and farther down,
Her love’s ship for to see,
And the topmast and the mainmast
Shone like the silver free.

And she’s gane down, and farther down,
The bride’s ship to behold,
And the topmast and the mainmast
They shone just like the gold.

She’s taen her seven sons in her hand,
I wot she didna fail;
She met Lord Thomas and his bride,
As they came oer the dale.

“You’re welcome to your house, Lord Thomas,
You’re welcome to your land;
You’re welcome with your fair ladye,
That you lead by the hand.

“You’re welcome to your ha’s, ladye,
You’re welcome to your bowers;
You’re welcome to your hame, ladye,
For a’ that’s here is yours.”

“I thank thee, Annie; I thank thee, Annie,
Sae dearly as I thank thee;
You’re the likest to my sister Annie
That ever I did see.

“There came a knight out oer the sea,
And steald my sister away;
The shame scoup in his company,
And land whereer he gae!”

She hang ae napkin at the door,
Another in the ha,
And a’ to wipe the trickling tears,
Sae fast as they did fa.

And aye she served the lang tables,
With white bread and with wine,
And aye she drank the wan water,
To had her colour fine.

And he’s taen down the silk napkin,
Hung on a silver pin,
And aye he wipes the tear trickling
A’ down her cheik and chin.

And aye he turn’d him round about,
And smil’d amang his men;
Says, “Like ye best the old ladye,
Or her that’s new come hame?”

When bells were rung, and mass was sung,
And a’ men bound to bed,
Lord Thomas and his new-come bride
To their chamber they were gaed.

Annie made her bed a little forbye,
To hear what they might say;
“And ever alas!” Fair Annie cried,
“That I should see this day!

“Gin my seven sons were seven young rats,
Running on the castle wa,
And I were a grey cat mysell,
I soon would worry them a’.

“Gin my seven sons were seven young hares,
Running oer yon lilly lee,
And I were a grew hound mysell,
Soon worried they a’ should be.”

And wae and sad Fair Annie sat
And drearie was her sang,
And ever, as she sobbd and grat,
“Wae to the man that did the wrang!”

“My gown is on,” said the new-come bride,
“My shoes are on my feet,
And I will to Fair Annie’s chamber,
And see what gars her greet.

“What ails ye, what ails ye, Fair Annie,
That ye make sic a moan?
Has your wine barrels cast the girds,
Or is your white bread gone?

“O wha was’t was your father, Annie,
Or wha was’t was your mother?
And had ye ony sister, Annie,
Or had ye ony brother?”

“The Earl of Wemyss was my father,
The Countess of Wemyss my mother;
And a’ the folk about the house
To me were sister and brother.

“If the Earl of Wemyss was your father,
I wot sae was he mine;
And it shall not be for lack o gowd
That ye your love sall tine.

“For I have seven ships o mine ain,
A’ loaded to the brim,
And I will gie them a’ to thee,
Wi four to thine eldest son:
But thanks to a’ the powers in heaven
That I gae maiden hame!”

Benet: Elegy for an Enemy

(For G. H.)

Say, does that stupid earth
Where they have laid her,
Bind still her sullen mirth,
Mirth which betrayed her?
Do the lush grasses hold,
Greenly and glad,
That brittle-perfect gold
She alone had?

Smugly the common crew,
Over their knitting,
Mourn her — as butchers do
Sheep-throats they’re slitting!
She was my enemy,
One of the best of them.
Would she come back to me,
God damn the rest of them!

Damn them, the flabby, fat,
Sleek little darlings!
We gave them tit for tat,
Snarlings for snarlings!
Squashy pomposities,
Shocked at our violence,
Let not one tactful hiss
Break her new silence!

Maids of antiquity,
Look well upon her;
Ice was her chastity,
Spotless her honor.
Neighbors, with breasts of snow,
Dames of much virtue,
How she could flame and glow!
Lord, how she hurt you!

She was a woman, and
Tender — at times!
(Delicate was her hand)
One of her crimes!
Hair that strayed elfinly,
Lips red as haws,
You, with the ready lie,
Was that the cause?

Rest you, my enemy,
Slain without fault,
Life smacks but tastelessly
Lacking your salt!
Stuck in a bog whence naught
May catapult me,
Come from the grave, long-sought,
Come and insult me!

WE knew that sugared stuff
Poisoned the other;
Rough as the wind is rough,
Sister and brother!
Breathing the ether clear
Others forlorn have found –
Oh, for that peace austere
She and her scorn have found!

-Stephen Vincent Benet

Heveningham: If music be the food of love

If music be the food of love,
Sing on till I am fill’d with joy;
For then my list’ning soul you move
To pleasures that can never cloy.
Your eyes, your mien, your tongue declare
That you are music ev’rywhere.

Pleasures invade both eye and ear,
So fierce the transports are, they wound,
And all my senses feasted are,
Tho’ yet the treat is only sound,
Sure I must perish by your charms,
Unless you save me in your arms.

-Colonel Henry Heveningham

Musical Settings:
Henry Purcell
David Dickau

MacGillivray: Song for the Mira

Out on the Mira on warm afternoons,
Old men go fishing with black line and spoons;
And if they catch nothing they never complain,
And I wish I was with them again.

As boys in the boats call to girls on the shore,
Teasing the ones that they dearly adore;
And into the evening the courting begins,
And I wish I was with them again.

Can you imagine a piece of the universe,
More fit for princes and kings?
I’ll trade you ten of your cities for Marion Bridge,
And the pleasure it brings.

Out on the Mira on soft summer nights,
Bonfires blaze to the children’s delight;
They dance ’round the flames singing songs with their friends,
And I wish I was with them again.

And over the ashes the stories are told,
Of witches and werewolves and Oak Island gold;
Stars on the river-face sparkle and spin,
I wish I was with them again.

Can you imagine a piece of the universe,
More fit for princes and kings?
I’ll trade you ten of your cities for Marion Bridge,
And the pleasure it brings.

Out on the Mira, the people are kind,
They’ll treat you to homebrew, and help you unwind;
And if you come broken they’ll see that you mend,
I wish I was with them again.

Now I’ll conclude with a wish you go well,
Sweet be your dreams, and your happiness swell;
I’ll leave you here, for my journey begins,
I’m going to be with them again.

-Allister MacGillivray

Plagiarism

Is it plagiarism when you plant a rose?
Can you deserve applause for botany
When all your seeds must fall from other planters’ prose
(Not counting the Anon. stalk and Trad. tree)?
Should your child bear your surname (or that of your beau),
Or every surname in her pedigree?
Are you required to staple to your baby’s toe
An annotated bibliography?
If every brainchild is somebody’s braingrandchild,
A grandpoet needs to give her grandpoems treats.
If life’s a garden of verse, then we could tour the wild,
And pluck sunflowers, shuck the tails of wheat.
The pioneer of circles didn’t feel
A need to sue the first inventor of the wheel.

The moon’s wasted potential

I howled at the moon for coasting its orbit

like a lone boy on the surface of the community
swimming pool at dusk, clutching a kick-board,
craving the fresh penny that flashes
ghostly golden brown stripes among the white ones, but afraid
of the water, afraid to dive,

or like a half-witted vulture circling, too dumb to dive
at the long-dead meat

(even after all the other moons had fled
fearing the competition,
and had taken all the competition with them;
and even as the whole prize called to the straggler moon
in the voice of gravity),

but the moon wouldn’t take a living.
It would only make one.

an untitled gallery of poems that Matilda Beupine decided to call Untitled

I. Colorful Pompoms Scattered across the Floor as Installation Art

that prodigy’s installation art is such
a babble of atoms.
it looks like an endless orchestral warm-up
with swirls of piccolo
and puffs of tuba
like confetti on one big
dense sheet of sound,
standing still with all the potential
to make the most unexpected motion:
stillness.

i watch like a kitten until some postmodern zealots
block my view.
addicted to Names,
use the fingers in their eyes to mold
the tuneless scatter into
recognizable shapes –
these pieces, they’re eyes,
and those, they’re a nose…

they move on, then some realists
mistake it for litter on the floor, until,
spying an artist’s statement,
they flick it a second glance and say
an inarticulate baby could have done it.
a kitten could have done it.
even they could have done it.
but they didn’t.
it took a god to do it.

II. Anxiety Attack in the Art Museum

Today my psych meds skipped a dose of me.
Zoloft and Abilify
must feel very sorry indeed
while they hear the grains of a colorful sandstorm
gritching and crackling against the windshields of my eyes.
Oil paint, clay, cement, and drywall,
mistaking me for a bull,
pierce my nose with a rusty ring of turpentine odor
in order to drag me away, blind, from my own equilibrium
into a freak’s.

I mean it, it’s the smell.
It’s not the classic faces that look too real.
It’s not the smeary faces that look too unreal.
It’s the surely-toxic pheromones of thinned paint
that taint every article in the museum
in the same way a forgotten corpse
leaves a skewed self-portrait
in a permanent grease spot under the carpet.

Zoloft and Abilify
must feel very sorry indeed.

Whenever I smell art –
that is, every time I hear the word art –
beauty and self-expression are the last particles
to tickle the nose hairs of my memory.

First, I think of carnations.
Then I think of hands
withered over a rosary at room temperature
like old iceberg lettuce,
and I shudder as if I am a nose
all alone in the dark with them.
Oh God, I’m going to die.
Oh God, I’m going to alter the texture of someone’s beautiful canvas
by blowing new chunks on it!
My legs are bending like rotten stems.
Zoloft and Abilify
must feel very sorry indeed.

It must be that art is the physical remains of a thought,
and the smell of art is the smell of their decay.

III. Pompoms Again

my Name is where my atoms end
and everything else begins.

just give my furry little atoms the kick
that I know you’re itching to give them and
they’ll go rolling again, toddling
the floor of the universe like clown-colored hamsters
until they stop somehow in a new scatter
that whimsy only knows.

then what guarantee will there be
that my atoms will not mix with yours?
what then will be my Name,
and what will be yours?

Norman: Hold On

What you’ve got to do is
Finish what you have begun,
I don’t know just how,
But it’s not over ’til you’ve won!

When you see the storm is coming,
See the lightning part the skies,
It’s too late to run-
There’s terror in your eyes!
What you do then is remember
This old thing you heard me say:
“It’s the storm, not you,
That’s bound to blow away.”

Hold on,
Hold on to someone standing by.
Hold on.
Don’t even ask how long or why!
Child, hold on to what you know is true,
Hold on ’til you get through.
Child, oh child!
Hold on!

When you feel your heart is poundin’,
Fear a devil’s at your door.
There’s no place to hide-
You’re frozen to the floor!
What you do then is you force yourself
To wake up, and you say:
“It’s this dream, not me,
that’s bound to go away.”

Hold on,
Hold on, the night will soon be by.
Hold on,
Until there’s nothing left to try.
Child, hold on, There’s angels on their way!
Hold on and hear them say,
“Child, oh child!”

And it doesn’t even matter
If the danger and the doom
Come from up above or down below,
Or just come flying
At you from across the room!

When you see a man who’s raging,
And he’s jealous and he fears
That you’ve walked through walls
He’s hid behind for years.
What you do then is you tell yourself to wait it out
And say it’s this day, not me,
That’s bound to go away.

Child, oh hold on.
It’s this day, not you,
That’s bound to go away!

-Marsha Norman, “The Secret Garden” (a musical based on the novel by Frances Hodgson Burnett)