Monday, November 22, 2021

Stage Set:The Ninth Tailor

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
Stage Set:The Ninth Tailor 

"Nine tailors make a man." ~anon.
 
 
The night was dark-haired and delirious.
The cheeky moon clung precariously
to a crooked branch, a bibulous marquess
embracing a lamp post, ready
to strut a whole dancehall
for a cigarette and another chance.

It was the last act of a first edition.
Drying at the prompt, they walked on the
edge of a feather. She'd stopped feeling sorry;
her heart was a trespasser in Vienna,
silent at the soiree instead of begging to
strip to the skin pour épater les bourgeois.
 
He knew he was passing his prime,
going flabby at center, his bons mots
withering like December dahlias. He'd lost count
 of the hands that had picked his pocket, stroked
his celebrated champagne hair, each morning
  combed back unsteadily at the hotel

before the bitter waver in the mirror.
When the curtain came down
it was too weak to exist in more than
one dimension, but it knocked the play
into next week, and left behind its mournful bell
broken at the ninth tailor.


November 2021









posted for Fireblossom's word list at










epater les bourgeois: to shock or startle the coventional
  
Nine tailors: "As explained by John Shand in his 1936 Spectator article The Bellringers' Art, 'Nine Tailors' means the nine strokes which at the beginning of the toll for the dead announce..that a man is dead. A woman's death is announced with 'Six Tailors'. Hence the old saying ... '" ~wikipedia




 
 
 
 
 
 
Images: The Human Parody, circa 1878 © Felicien Rops
The Hanged Man At The Bell,  1867, © Felicien Rops

Saturday, November 20, 2021

Empty

 
 
 
 


 "Hell is empty and all the Devils are here." ~William Shakespeare


 
Empty
(a 55)
 
The door to
the henhouse is
always unlocked
for inside there are
only wind eggs.
 
The Fall 
is a tryptich:
blackness, dead hearts,
disingenuous calculations. At
the apex

of chaos we have our
decumbiture, 
no thaumaturgy created
cures corrupted
senescence.

Don't
 turn the key
to lock in nothing; 
just open the door
for the foxes.
 
 
 
November 2021
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

posted for
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
On November 19th, 2021, Kyle Rittenhouse, 18, was acquitted of 5 counts of homicide for the August 25th 2020 murders of two men and the attempted murder of a third. The men were protesting the shooting of a black man, Jacob Blake, by a white police officer in Wisconsin. The jury ruled that Rittenhouse, who crossed state lines with an assault weapon to "protect property" not belonging to him, acted in self-defense.
 
 
 
wind egg: an unimpregnated, yolkless, or imperfect egg ...an egg with a soft noncalcareous shell
decumbiture:1 obsolete : confinement to a sickbed. 2a : the time of taking to one's bed from sickness. b : a horoscope of such a decumbiture.
thaumaturgy:: the performance of miracles
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Images: Photo of Door, title and author unknown, Fair Use via Sunday Muse
The Fox: Fair Game, © Alexander Pope  Public Domain

Friday, November 19, 2021

Way(ra)s Of The Past

 

 



 

Way(ra)s Of The Past

 

 I.
 
There is a road, cold
as stark nightmare's mane, weaving
a winding-sheet memory
choke-tight, wringing the eyes
dry, smearing the heart, called the past.
 
II.
 
There is a tollway
never cheated by moonlight
never unwatched by day. Don't
squander your soul walking
down it; the past collects its debts.
 
 
 
 
 
November 2021
 
 
 
 


 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 posted for dVerse Poets
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

Images: Footsteps, 2016, © Joshua Philip Hart
Photograph of the Author, 1956, photographer unknown,  Public Domain

Saturday, November 13, 2021

Abyssinia

 
 
 
 

 
 
Abyssinia
 
 
She wanted out
before they came with
the Chicago overcoat,
but her luck was never aces,
like a filly four men own a leg of;
still her eyes. She had lamps like
two shots of fizz, a nightcap in themselves
and the bob she got to peeve her mother
she thought fit her like a laurel glove
when she left the farm behind her
when life began to wind her
like a two dollar watch.

She climbed the satin stairway 
to a sky of empty sockets just west
of Hooverville and the L.A.summer moon.
She bumped gums with the butter and egg man, 
the man who stepped on stars, another flicker
for his candle on the purple velvet couch. He cast 
her sixth behind Lugosi, the girl who screams
her heart out in a movie off the cob. He gave her eyes
a number in a book with a hundred others
who ran away from their mothers
to an apple filled with worms.

After Fatty took the Rappe,
before the Dahlia bloomed her ink smudge,
she hollered, "Abyssinia," kissed off
 the painted desert, hooked up
with the junior props boy, and threw the watch
away. They moved to North Dakota, and
she told her grandkids nothing
about being sixth behind Lugosi,
about cadillacs and canaries
about L.A. in January,
about the girl too many owned a leg of
or the man who stepped on stars.


November 2021











 
 posted for Fireblossom at
The Sunday Muse, whose theme today is
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Note: Abysinnia is '30's slang for "I'll be seeing you." A Chicago overcoat likewise for a coffin. To 'own a leg of' a horse is to be part of a syndicate which mutually invests in a racehorse for profit, bumping gums is to talk aimlessly or too much, especially about yourself. You can look up the rest of the slang I've used   here,   the Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle/Virginia Rappe scandal which rocked 1920's Hollywood  here,  and the notorious Los Angeles Black Dahlia murder case which sold so many newspapers  here.
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
Images: Mischa Barton posed as early film star Louise Brooks, via Sunday Muse  Fair Use
Still from the 1929 German film Pandora's Box, starring Louise Brooks and Fritz Kortner  Fair Use
 

Thursday, November 11, 2021

Cabin

 
 
 

 
 
 
 Cabin
 
 
 
The war was lost, the way
worse. I felt
the tired mare sigh
a heart-green path to
my old lover, the oldest lost
 and brown-eyed truth,
 a place to fold us
peel to apple,
bird to song.
 
I rearranged his
forest home as if
it were mine
 
and so it was
the old mare sighed.

 
 
 

 November 2021




 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 posted for dVerse Poets
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
This poem has been edited since first posted.
 
 
 
 
 
Images: Illustration for "Vasilisa the Beautiful." 1900,  © Ivan Bilibin  Public Domain
Peasant Girl Near A Cabin, 1895, © Camille Corot   Public Domain
 
 

Saturday, November 6, 2021

Dionysia

 
 
 


 
 
 Dionysia
 
 
In another century
I was a girl of a certain flavor
grown to twist and pruned to bear
a fruit never eaten, only pressed.
 
You were the satyr,
the goat-song in the convent, a
dovecote of vestals who cooed as you
taught them to break their glass vows.
 
At the bacchanal we all danced
indifferent to stares of the Keres. You stole
the god's thyrsos and wound it with lamb's ear,
soft and treacle sweet as your smile.
 
That cup that was
filled then to overflowing
is broken now, but too late, I think
for those who've already drunk.
 
 
 
 
November 2021
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 posted for
 
 and
earthweal's Open Link
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
thyrsos:  a staff or wand of fennel used in Hellenic ceremonies, espec. Dionysius ~wikipedia
Keres:  female death spirits who roamed freely during the yearly Athenian festival of  Anthestria .~wikipedia
 
 
 
 
 
Images: Wine glasses, author unknown, via Sunday Muse  Fair Use
Marble relief of a maenad and two satyrs in a Bacchic procession. AD 100, British Museum Public Domain

Friday, November 5, 2021

Floaters

 
 
 

 
 
 
Floaters
 
 
 
My eyes have
made small islands in their sea
that float between me
and what I want to be there,
all desired clear
but now obscured,
invisible for what they are,
and never heard.
Palm trees instead of paragraphs,
not faces, forms, but homemade rafts
drifting across a wavy film, not words,
but blind reality.




 
 November 2021




 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
posted for Meeting the Bar
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Images: Clouds In Finland, 1908 © Konrad Kryzanowski,  Public Domain
Boat, c.1918 © Salvador Dali   Public Domain

Tuesday, November 2, 2021

The Moon Nurse

 
 
 
 
 

 
 
The Moon Nurse
 
 
Someone must guard the moon
deep in the Dreamer's long shatter.
Someone must keep clear her pathway
mirror'd on the wavering water.
 
Someone must nurse the moon
when the red plague slips in without trace.
While Time ticks to its last empty hour
let my hands refresh her pale face,

wash it with rosemary's greening,
herb airless void with white smoke
between her and the storm oncoming
where light itself is revoked.

All the nights she's held watch above me
by the bed where sleep loses its way,
the silver songs she's sung me
put a debt on me I must repay.

They say she poisons the fallen
who ravage across the wide earth,
or stare in electrical cages
where madness has gone to give birth
 
 but those 
she brings whole through the hunter's dark
burn tonight her evanescent spark.



November 2021
 
 





 
 
 
 
 
 
posted for Poetics
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Note: this poem has been revised a dozen times since posting, and I'm still not happy with it. It didn't rhyme at all at first, and now it rhymes too much. I blame Poe, whom I've been rereading WAY too much lately.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Images: ©Dmitry Brodetsky  All Rights Reserved   Fair Use
Author and title unknown, via internet      Fair Use