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	dickerson, robert
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dickerson, robert, 27 lutego 2012

Resolution

The cat jumps, a shadow falls from the wall
and pools on the floor--
not like the moon's, but like its own:gibbous,
into oscura, into what we fail to see
file fifers in time running on into meadows and on.
Can you blame them for seeing the beautiful use of things?
Good--the greater part of it, anyway, must lay in
openly sanctioning useful delusion.
You, on whom these bloom and choir like birds,
isn't it so?
And you, Maestro, strangely credulous
of shadow lorn as Venice at noonday,
living on garlic, numbers and sweat,
viewing even past blunders threads to a perfect eye,
say it is so it is so.

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dickerson, robert, 15 lutego 2012

song

Now we will be happy, happy, happy
and lordy, lordy
happy and happier still
happy running down the happy hill.

like two happy rills and more
hoarding the strands of their song
into a happy orotorio
falling down, down, down, headlong

running to calm cadenzas of pooled skill--
run, run, run, run, run:
if happiness, mind you, were the moon
I'd grab both its horns and hang on.

Now we shall be happy, happy, happy
and happy, happy we'll
be happy and happier still
happy running over the happy hill.

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dickerson, robert, 14 lutego 2012

Little Ode

Tufted like whips
vines taper down
in wobbly bliss.

Grapeskins
stretched so thin
one can see in and in.

Wine runs out
the spigots and spouts
of this duchy.

The inn has no more rooms--
three, maybe four
sleep on the floor.

There have been warnings:
in a lamp of fog
a bell tolling.

The grain is in
the wind turns cold
where shall I go?

Tu Fu
Li Po
where shall
I go?

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dickerson, robert, 13 lutego 2012

Retort

My land is not for barter, sir
my land is not for barter, na
so here's to you, ya silly fou
my land is not for barter, na.

My people's not for buyin, sir
my people's not for buyin', oh
so there's yer pipe for smokin', sir
my people's not for buyin', na

They go to church a Sunday, sure
they go to church a Sunday, sure
and I will be assurin' ya
they go to church a Sunday, sir

They sing and praise their Maker, now
they sing and praise their Maker, now
and sure it is amazin how
they sing and praise their Maker, now

The grace o God is on 'em sure
the grace o God is on 'em, yeh
and on their work and on their ware,
the grace o God is on them, now.

You voices join together, now
and every hand a fellow find
our land is not for barter, sir
and we be people not for buyin'.

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dickerson, robert, 13 lutego 2012

In The Bistro

Valentines' Day several days away
it was charming how after a hefty meal
of coq au vin and greasy frites
and wine enough to raddle a pancreas

you shot that loaded straw my way,
me leaving, from your battery behind
the bar. Harmlessly the paper slip fluttered by
filled, assassin, with the breath of your lips

before coasting to rest on the floor--
well before that fine day when Loves
dart sizzles the air, seeking a warm breast
in which to rest and germinate song.

Discretely--though it was late and diners
few, I stooped, picked it up, flattened it out
drew it under my nose as though it were a
rose, a scented billet doux and dropped it

on the bar back to you who merely
bent far, far back and shook and shook
darkly with gallic laughter. The gall!
graceful, turncoat scion of pig-farmers.

Outside, in the cold that turned huffy
exhalations into cirrhus wreathes I smiled
that prank having warmed my bones to the red core.
(We are all just peasants with degrees.)

vowing, the coming holy day night to return
armed with a dozen straws to make of mine enemy
a laughing porcupine, my memory
for these vendettas only long, but that's about all.

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dickerson, robert, 11 lutego 2012

Speedo

Little Speedo there
in the drawer you are not so
little any more.

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dickerson, robert, 10 lutego 2012

Cefalu

Some come to view my wondrous dome
that clever men raised piously to God
They sift the dust of Araby and Rome
to watch re-open beautiful old wounds.

Others come to dally in my square
munch my crill and sip my blood, my wine
upon my pretty sons and daughters stare
askance from out the corners of their eye.

Some come to view the images
genius has brushed upon my walls
or wander to my furthest precipices
puzzled by the voices in my bells.

I raise their gazes up for courtesy
backward like a backward-running stream
before their engines ferry them away
and they can say they've known a kind of peace.

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dickerson, robert, 9 lutego 2012

Why?

Unaccountably, while I was making a liverwurst sandwich
(with mustard and cornichons on rye)
the poem took a dive
off the countertop, I don't know why,

onto the floor and burst into words
which can be blunt or sharp, God knows,
There was nothing to do
but sweep it up
eat the sandwich and, and, and,
put on shoes.

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dickerson, robert, 8 lutego 2012

Seven Basic Machines

'First the pulley. With these window washers haul
themselves up to the tip-most top and drop'.
'Yes', she said, with minimal interest. 'Next'?

'There's the lever. Useful for prising treasure'.
'Very well', she said, but I can't tell you how I try
never to pry. Go on'.

'Well, the wheel. Often invented, excellent for gliding,
singly, in tandem, in trio or more'.
'Of course', said she, 'and number four'?

'Um', said I, starting to perspire
and giving my brains a wrench--'the plane, if you desire'.
'I've never been inclined. Continue, please'.

'The wedge', I said, recalling that
a wedge could not be beaten for
dividing night from day and dog from cat.

'Then, there's always the screw', I muttered, turning blue.
'Let's come back to that', she murmured,
'please continue'.

'Lever, ah, pulley, plane, wedge, screw, ah, wheel,
what's last'? She thought and thought and thought, and
after a moment calmly cried: 'the high heel'!

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dickerson, robert, 5 lutego 2012

A Cat

I am a cat. Supercool and lax.
Tom, Deuteronomy,
Pussy, Max,
I don't care much what you call me, you're a fool
with a thundering capacity to deny it.

My real name, if you must know it,
is Casanova.
I'm a little on the Spanish side.
Look into my eyes:
see there wane and wax
the phases of the moon.
Of course I'll let you stroke me! I'll
sleep with you, sit in your lap
do anything else you please
but I will certainly not
walk beside you on a leash--
I'm not such a fool as that!
I will always have my own door.
For that, you need another breed.
For that you need a dog.

Sorry, I'm a cat.
It makes me laugh
how when you see my eyes
bobbing in the dark
you think you see a vision, when
I'm just taking a walk.

Mice waltz down my throat
and birdbath birds fly headfirst down:
more would, but for this bell
by which I'm collar bound:
Forewarned, they squeal and scatter
scurry downstairs to their comfy lairs.

Remember, I'm a cat.
Nothing to do about that.
Exhausting my nine ends
I'll straightaway ascend way up to cat heaven--
(a biggish sort of alley)
Chockachockablock with all my friends.

Cream, kipper me, even
subject me to noculations
for if you do that
I may, occasionally, occasionally,
(providing the mood befalls me)
catch a rat.