Poetry Bay - On-Line Poetry Magazine

SAMPLE POEMS

From THE POEMS OF AUGIE PRIME
(Writers Ink Press 1999)

From BUTTERFLIES & OTHER TATTOOS
(Bootleg Press, 1993)

From TALES OF A YUPPIE DROPOUT
(Writers Ink Press 1992)

From THE MILKING JUG
(Cross Cultural Communications, 1989)

From TIE BACK THE ROSES
(Explicitly Graphic UK, 1986)

From TIE BACK THE ROSES

(Explicitly Graphic UK, 1986)

Maddingley & Child

Stood by the November garden fingered the green tomatoes
could not decide
to pick them. Last night's near frost
bruised their skins - but what
of that, old man Maddingley - the colder the night,

the fuller the flesh, you said,
which makes for a good chutney,
according to your dear wife Marie,
long deceased - fine bit of wisdom, that,
to a point -
and couldn't you see the child take it in, every word,

young Christina, a parable in Wellingtons
and a red pullover? Well off you marched, God's
perfect army,
Maddingley and child, a barrow of peat,
a pocket full of bulbs all for the planting,

and an old tattoo
across the grass, her following you,
next year's campaign of flowers deep in your conversation.
To you the earth's cold heart
beats still beneath the late blossoming garden.

To you spring is only a winter away.
Well, old man, I'll tell you this -
a killing frost is coming,
perhaps tonight (Marie would have foreseen it,
would have warned you) - and it is time

to pick green tomatoes
of only for the making of chutney.

Still

She dreamed of Paris
as her father told it
rocking her to sleep
in the too big bedroom of her childhood,
the pretty avenue
curving soft as flowers

and tall women
in their beautiful clothes
laughing over Brazilian coffee
and love affairs.
A light breeze stirred her napkin
in a Montmartre cafe

& then her footsteps
ringing out a dark matins
in the hollow tower
of Notre Dame,
the Seine spinning away
into dusky midnight.

One pink knee emerged
from her steaming tub,
and the water played its gentle game
of eddy and swirl
as she lay
immersed once more

in her father's innocent memory of Paris,
and how he told her
one day she would be beautiful
like that
and how she believed him
still

The Trains

The trains glide happily by
while we work here
whacking up turnips on a New Year's Day.

The trains glide happily by.
To Ipswich. To London.
To places where my lover told me

he must go.
A couple of hares in the low field
out by the railroad tracks.

They are playing some rabbit game.
The trains glide happily by.
If only I could be with them,

dance on hind legs in the cold winter sun.
Oh no, my mother told me,
those are not hares, girl, oh no,

those are witches.
Bewitch me then! The trains
glide happily by, and I swear

my hands will crack with frost this morning.

Apologies

The aging soldier's new companion
setting out the breakfast plate,
has already learned the honor roll,

learned to anticipate when the bugle boy will be recalled
at night to play lights out.
When morning comes, forcing its attention

on his unwilling eyes, she knows how
he will feel for himself, seeking old wounds
that have faded from his skin; how he will make her

lead him from bed as if from battle,
to the sanctuary of a cereal bowl.
The aging soldier's new companion

has already learned
not to disbelieve the recitations going on behind his lips
as he lies caught in a crossfire of sleep,

or the apologies he extends, again, again,
to a nameless friend who, in his dream, is forever dying
in a field in Flanders. He cannot live alone,

and he knows it. He cannot live
with anyone else. Perhaps, he thinks,
it is with himself he cannot live.

Moving to wake him now,
the aging soldier's new companion
may not know, as yet, how long it will be,

but she has already learned with no uncertainty
his secret: one day he will drive her off
as he has with all the others - drive her off, but it will be

with apologies.

samples | conferences

send comments to info@poetrybay.com

website comments to dpb@islandguide.com