Category: Audio Poems

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My friend Matt and I found an unaccompanied dog while we were walking to lunch yesterday. His tag told us that his name was Zephyr and that he lived a few blocks away. We took him home.

Photo by Matt Leon

Returning Zephyr

everyone just
wants to go home
curled up
on the rug
in front of the fire
weightless
he was there
on the sidewalk
unattended, unafraid
you’ve felt that way, too
still, though
we felt we should
take him home
someone must be
missing him
calling his name
first warm week
here he was
escaped
still, though
we felt we should
take him home
why wasn’t someone
out looking?
no one answered
the phone, ringing
no one answered
the bell, ringing
then she was there
surprised
completely unaware
that he was missing
still, though
we left him there
home

* * *

I think
he would have
been just as happy
to come with us

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Crossing

5 fingers
5,000 lbs of metal
she knows their names
her legs ache on the pavement
she herds them across
shortened crook
5 lbs of metal
5 fingers

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From the Winslow Homer section of the National Gallery

Building The Boat

1.

in the beginning, it was obvious
they were building the boat to flee
resources were scarce
so they were meticulous in the
placement of each plank and the
sewing of each stitch in the sailcloth
carefully they provisioned the craft
and chose only such crew as wouldn’t
miss the homeland, having
no kin to leave behind
the boat was nearly complete
when the first earthquake hit
destroying most of the houses
in the center of town
that afternoon they dismantled the boat
using its planks to build houses
and covering the windows and doors
with the sailcloth to keep out the wind
in time, they sawed new wood for planks
sewed new sails and built a second boat

2.

no one saw the attack coming
certainly relations with the neighboring village
had been strained of late, but the dawn slaughter
of so many innocents startled even
the most cynical among them
fortifications were built from the planks
and uniforms from the sailcloth
they turned away from the surf
and waited for the next wave
behind the barricades
this time the boat-building took longer
there were fewer of them than before
and they had to range farther to get the wood
most of which they gathered at night
when it was safe — or at least safer —
to move beyond the town’s boundaries

3.

by the next autumn they’d finished
this hull was less glorious than the first
or even the second, having been built
from what wood was left
it was seaworthy, though,
standing in the harbor
waiting for those lucky enough
to have berths upon it
the crew had nearly finished loading the hold
when an argument started between the captain
and the chief shareholder
about the planned destination
one said west, one said south
and no entreaties by third parties
could convince either to relent
life went on much as before, and
the fully laden boat rocked on the tide

4.

the submarine nosed toward the wreckage
disturbing the fish who swam between the planks
through the sand kicked up by the sub’s propellers
the doorway to the hold was just visible
it was through this space that the divers slipped
sliding past a hang-hinged door, beyond
the reach of the sub’s light
the divers switched on their flashlights
to reveal row upon row of unopened boxes,
casks and barrels, all neatly tied, waiting

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Blackout

during the war he rode the English trains
asking strangers to wake him at his stop
they never did, and he’d find himself lost
in the blacked-out countryside
worried that the Brits would find him
and think he was a German spy
“They’d shoot ya,” he told me
holding on to the bar in the subway
and leaning against his wife
“My Ro,” he called her
they’d just been to the opera
to see Atilla, and now here he was navigating
the depths of this city, trying to
find the next connection and looking for help
to yet another stranger on a train
I grasped his hand as I led his Ro and him
to the shuttle for Grand Central
this time all the lights were on,
and no shots were fired

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On July 19, 1955, poet Weldon Kees’ car was found on the Golden Gate Bridge with the keys still in the ignition. Shortly before, he’d told a friend that he wanted to move to Mexico to start a new life.

Where In The World Is Weldon Kees?

“It is still not known whether he killed himself or went to Mexico.”
— from a Poetry Foundation podcast about Kees

Or maybe both
perhaps all suicides go to Mexico
sit invisibly in the zocalo
and listen to the mariachi band
if unbaptized babies
are shunted off to limbo
and a beef jerky
can get you purgatory
why couldn’t a leap from the Golden Gate
land you in Guadalajara?

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Enclosures

huddled under the umbrella
nestled in the sleeping bag
crouched beneath the spreading elm
encased behind the windshield

while the rain pounds
the hailstones plummet
the wind circles ’round
looking for a crack in the siding

it’s not an aversion to the elements
it’s the thrill of being protected
the joy at not being forced
into anything you don’t desire

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Gerry & Lenny

have the same vocal tic
an explosion of air from the nose
with the tongue in the back of the throat

each time it sounds like laughter,
a commentary on their own speech
then back or not back to the matter at hand

“I’m waiting for a Jew to turn Catholic!
Can you imagine a Jew submitting
to the goddamned pope? Jesus Christ!”

Like Lenny, Gerry stops in the middle —
in mitn drinen, they would say —
to tell stories and to follow tangents

Like Gerry, Lenny draws water from
a desert oasis and pours that water
into molds of his own design

“The Catholic Church has given the pope
permission to become a nun.
Just on Fridays, though.”

Gerry was born in Pittsburgh:
grew up with bituminous in his mouth,
ate the ash-gray snow

Lenny was born in Mineola:
within weeks, Sally was back on stage
and Lenny drifted from house to house

Gerry has been a poet laureate
and has won awards and prizes
and taught at prestigious universities

Lenny died on the bathroom floor,
syringe near his arm,
camera lens in his face

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Some Poems Have Titles That Are Witty, Creative, Unexpected And Just Generally Better Than The Poems That Follow Them

This is one of those poems.

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Hero

he pulled the sword from the stone
and it turned to ash(e)
he swung ’round to stare at the sun
in defiance of the natural law
the point of the needle
the twin spiral stairway
the walls fell and the enemy surged through
years before, he’d been stopped by white
unable to pass through the veil
while others’ backs were turned
and now, the final indignity
he swung ’round to stare at the sun
it burned away his memory
he pulled the sword from the stone
and it turned to ash(e)