Scott Malby featured poet
In the Beginning...
After all, each of us must have come from somewhere.
Paolo Honorificas
1.
In praise of broken things
A salt glazed coffee cup I bought in Edinburgh.
My mother used it for years before its chips
and her arthritis got the best of her. A barometer
of cracked glass. It must have been the glow
of warm mahogany that attracted him. Broken
before my father got it. A green clay ash tray
of a man with a beard and a huge, misshapen
nose my brother made in the third grade, his baby
fingerprints still pressed into it.
Let us praise broken things. Those shy and silly relics
beyond saving, wrapped in cast off love and buried
in the attic of our all too human souls.
2.
Grandfather's Mountain
His hands were builders hands as God's hands might be
and planks of wood held spirits and his house came forth
out of those hands uniting with the spirit of the trees
a mingling of his spirit with theirs joining together
in the making of that house on his mountain in Santa Cruz.
And when the deer came, away from the hunters, to his house
he would let them be and the morning I remember most
was waking on the porch and peering down at me a huge buck
in whose eyes a gentle sensibility reflecting back the spirit
of the trees and my grandfathers hands that built that house.
Those eyes told me- a carpenter of words I would be.
3.
The poem
This mirage
this trial by errors
of surratious chants
this hurdle of being
that parts the whole
rhythm of movement
this single flower of flame
in perpetual revolt
whose breath is a prayer
that eludes
making up its madness
as it goes
coupling with the moment
that will never be again
this rabid tongue
of alphabets
lapping at my brain
like a black cat
the symbol of my own
nonfulfillment
this imaginary limb
striving to be whole again
this mote of reflection
of grimacing ritual
grins up at me
as it fades
back into the mist
of my own befuddlement.
4.
We who fight with air
a.
Like a moth
whose flight
is never straight
consider this bum
warming himself
by the heated
conversation
he carries on
with himself
along whose streets
to wander
is to know
clarity of vision
born of dissonance.
The bum is me.
I'm in a bar in Tecate
with a whore at my side.
Trying to steal my money
she's got one hand
in my pocket
while the other hand
fondles my crotch.
I don't care.
The coin's been tossed.
I lost and now must chronicle
the passion with the pain.
Jon across from me.
He gives the whore the coin.
Kathy is dead.
In a drunken stupor
I keep saying to myself:
Why is it given us
when it's made
to be taken away?
b.
A grim business
I'm about,
gathering my despairs
into small comforts.
Daily, distractions
of flesh
in a landscape
of temptations.
Like a three
dimensional
laser image
of a crucified
tearful Jesus
I can’t quite
comprehend
but can’t
get out of my head
the terrors in me
wade through little deaths
as I mentally wander
lost to myself
in this seedy bar in Tecate
wondering if the sex
will be worth it.
c.
From somewhere
out of the dry night air
the perfumed sage
of memory
heart holds in hand
like a plant red vines hone
to a greater cleanliness
from whose purity of scent
almond, sandy voices
whisper names
I once wrote in sand.
I marvel over the runes
cast, hunting
what can't be caught.
Mother, Father,
scent of apple crisp,
of orange
and lemon trees
waft toward me
from inside out
their breeze peels
each fragrance to its core
revealing hot
California summers,
granite hills, days
that rocked me
like a ridiculous dingy
now storm stripped
to this windy tale, robbing
that past of heat.
As the sun climbs
into the sky
like a stubby finger,
I move on in my surge
with undertows,
salty in the aftertaste of love,
driving back from Tecate
to El Cajon talking of death
and toasting life.
5.
Traffic on Narragansett Bay
Moving like a confident lover moves, the unending ebb and flow of the tide runs neither
toward or away from things, affording a translucent, deathy-deathless scene
as Kenneth Burke would phrase it.
Prudence, patience and hope like islands in our mortal streams must never be lost site of
if we're intent on a redemptive theme and wish all well
but it's early in the morning and the sound of the water lapping at the rocks seems to echo
the devil's laughter claiming all's well with America; the flag flies free.
In a time of conflict, conflict is inevitable. Once Truman dropped it everyone wanted it
and we surrendered to the inevitability of it all.
Now, this water takes on a more ominous tone like the voice of a child
crying, wailing its fountain of stanzas needing neither symbol or metaphor
to impinge upon the sound of its disjunctive purity and I am lost in name and station,
not knowing how to proceed. In all the universe can there be
anything more mortal than a creative act or more underwrought in its fearsome simplicity?
© 2006 Scott Malby
*Portions of this series appeared previously in the Cork based poetry magazine Default
and in Kenneth P. Gurney's ezine Tamafyhr Mountain Poetry.
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