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STOPGAP MEASURES
1.
Woe, You Scribes
Forsythia and
beds of tulips flower.
The moon of ceremony rises high.
At last it's done, before my pen runs dry,
Another dreary book to argue over.
Tomorrow, sound the cymbals, horns and drums.
Announce I wanted him, right from the start—
He left, you know, to play another part.
Hush, finger to the lips, the bridegroom comes.
For now, bouquets of roses perfume the crowd
That sits content while others stand to read.
They dare to speak a word against the proud,
And ring the bells of blood that wake our seed.
Look here! This open wound, this watery shroud—
Both songs and letters need a hollow reed.
2.
Afternoon With a Slow Note of Sorrow
The mood is
one of going down, a fall;
To float in fog above and mist below.
I thought to soar, but now what do I know?
My flight of fancy stutters to a stall.
Must I again bear injury—the tooth
Of worry gnaws my soul—my line is cut.
This castaway won't taste the coconut.
Ah sweet illusion of the truth! Ah youth!
Our childhood wish for fairy, gnome and elf
Evaporates—the tundra days begin.
What use are books that taunt upon the shelf?
They won't abate with words the rot of sin.
I try to haul myself outside myself—
If we could only bloom, then bloom again.
3. The Tug
Downward of My Reading
There are so
many words, so many books.
I read, then stack them up to gather dust.
The lesson is there is no oil for rust,
And few admire virtue over looks.
Too bad, the fairy tales were never true.
A magic stone, a blond and shining knight,
How could they rescue ancient books from blight,
Or mend the errant leaves with Nordic glue?
A hymn for earth and stars pipes unaware.
Below the tombs a tongue of water moans.
The prophet says that dews of light repair
It all—look here, on morning pine tree cones—
How rare, that mists of Zion make as air
The weight of ages and the wait of bones.
4. To Write
the Great Comic Novel in L. A.
The chatter of
birds is tossed from tree to tree.
Gray walls hold battlements against the sky.
An arch of branches droops as if to sigh,
"Where is the youth who ambled bright and free?"
Who knows inside this pseudo-Gothic hall
Just how the world goes? The sunlight on
A comb of fence or glistening off the pond,
Outlines as well graffiti on the wall.
And you that trust, what bookish way came you?
Was it from lawns or graves you took the dew?
Don't answer yet—magnolia petals rain
A rust from Eden on our lock and chain.
For as they turn, the angels trail a glory,
And truant bells toll out another story.
Robert Klein Engler lives in Chicago and New Orleans. Born on the
southwest side of Chicago, Robert taught many years at the City Colleges
of Chicago. He was chairman of the social sciences department at Daley
College and Chapter Chair of local 1600 of the Cook County College
Teachers Union. After resolving a Chicago Commission on Human Relations
complaint against the City Colleges, which he wrote about in his book A
WINTER OF WORDS, Robert went on to become an adjunct professor at
Roosevelt University. He has taught at Roosevelt for the past 4 years.
Robert holds degrees from the University of Illinois at Urbana and the
University of Chicago Divinity School. Robert has received 2 Illinois
Arts Council awards for his poetry. Just google his name to find his
writing on the Internet. |