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Poetry

	dickerson, robert
	PROFILE About me Friends (2) Poetry (22)

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dickerson, robert, 27 february 2012

Pool

The moon leant down, her fingertips kindling
the pursed lips of each little wave of the pool
blue O, with watery fire, til it said 'oh' or 'oh'.
Tight in the grip of its meniscus the water bound
the drowned forms of tigerish moths, that wings
outflung, soddenly stalked our gleaming abdomens.
We beat them back in fear and sluggish disgust.
From somewhere in the yard there came a light.
How our feet were magnified in the depth's glass!
There, by the hose head the underwater wrinkled.
Another, striped and flattened like a snake run over,
pricked like arteries themselves, shot its piddling arcs
and the night ran on and we ran back onto the stoop
ankles stuck with blades of sticky, green grass, as
a new-moon colored band of pale convolvulus
white and yellow bells, a-swinging, un-ringing,
raced slyly around the cornice of the house and
anywhere the lawn was alive with little frogs
'Let us in, let us in', everywhere shouting.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 2 | detail

dickerson, robert, 27 february 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.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 2 | detail

dickerson, robert, 15 february 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.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 2 | detail

dickerson, robert, 22 january 2012

Uprisings

Up draws the blind. From remotest heaven
out of a perlmutter sky
falls the pure, the Brownian, upward-drifting snow
casually in high-blown whorls;
on the rail has settled a bluish inch.
It's cold', croaks the bird, on yellow, thin legs,

but I rise. Snow fills last years' garden, sifts
on sticks and galls and nodes of last years'
pride, the dormant window boxes;
outside you can hear it seethe;
it shivers, that bush
that stays green all the winter.

A day. To pass. A day to pass
till sleeping time again and blinded once more,
to sleep between footboard and bedstead; only snow--
penniless, homeless, less all those things
the fellow in the Citroen specified needing
hurtling down the Rhine, years ago;--breeding

melancholy accumulations,
detestable, sweet,
difficult to translate. There is nothing to do but go on--
Chaos death is, I heard, and frankly I'm not ready:
so many winters in one guesses it's all good,
the season, the falling snow, the sleep.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 3 | detail

dickerson, robert, 5 february 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.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 1 | detail

dickerson, robert, 8 february 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'!

number of comments: 0 | rating: 3 | detail

dickerson, robert, 9 february 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.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 4 | detail

dickerson, robert, 10 february 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.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 2 | detail

dickerson, robert, 11 february 2012

Speedo

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

number of comments: 0 | rating: 2 | detail

dickerson, robert, 13 february 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'.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 4 | detail

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Latest items:

Poetry

Pool

Resolution

song

Uprisings

A Cat

Seven Basic Machines

Why?

Cefalu

Speedo

Retort

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