To Look At Them

To look at them, who moved so easily
between the garden or the railway station,
who sat for hours where the boats came in,
with little movements fused in unity,
as if each were a breeze jostling the other,
drinking their coffee, talking of next to nothing,
could one perceive what brought these two together,
firm in their bond through any kind of weather?
Now that their endless conversation’s done,
the morning cigarettes, and seaside sun,
the fairs, the city days, the nights alone,
who is there to pardon or condone
the reasons such a two should be as one,
or make a world out of the observations
they shared through all their many incarnations,
or break the existence of their summer dinners,
or other such bright realities disperse?
A cat might notice: lace curtained unities
of street and tree, long pregnant nights in winter,
of rainy days through all their perorations;
but what is there left to give the faintest hint
or evidence that these two did exist?
Now they are done, by whom shall they be missed?



In Spring A Strange Pervasive Smell Persists

In spring a strange pervasive smell persists,
life sprouts and quickly overtakes the earth,
recalling the roots of language to our midst,
fear organizes fevered jabberings
to meet the strange utility of sex.
Men walk outside of houses, mottled hues
of bright light flashing through windshaken leaves.
An infant’s nose is pressed against the glass
to see dissolving motion as they pass,
like marks of crayon in a coloring book.
An oriole sits like a monument
upon a fountain, pecking at new life.
The kings an English grandmother recounts
possess no names or faces, flashing sounds
that till the earth, where glass keeps the wind out.
Who are the dead who lately walked the earth,
leaving their images on what remains,
peopling the leisure of more recent talk?
And still a strange pervasive smell persists,
countering the wind, and alienating rock.
Night comes. A castle sheds long celtic hair,
intoxicating the evaporate air,
and ideal spirits which are never there.
A hat rack stands unused inside a hall,
but peeped at on a constitutional,
visible through the grand, obstructive glass
of imperious houses, silent as we pass.
The author’s house on the long country drive,
residual before we were alive,
fixes the morning with a pleasant stare.
But how do we know that we are really there,
and not some wheelbarrow rotting in the sun,
where gardeners like Socrates will come?
The jungle lashes woman to his man,
where poison orchids spread their inhuman plan.
Yet evening brings its after dinner sleep
in private clubs where members mustn’t speak,
sprawling in armchairs with a newspaper,
dreaming of Cleopatra and Ben Hur,
strange portraits apparitions will concur,
waking to contorted puzzlements,
a low cacophony the learned stir.
Town meetings end, parting each councilor,
and still a strange pervasive smell persists,
hounding your footsteps, on the long walk home.
What force is rising up in all these things,
these pallid rejuvenations of the spring’s?
Fear is all, uprising through the roots
of consciousness and language, to diffuse
broken perspectives irreconcilably,
substances nourishing the truly free.
In Boston the tall houses brightly lit
sleep impenetrable and separate.
Who hears the imprecations of these things?
A celtic maiden at her window sings,
calling to lovers who do not exist.


  1. Ashu अशु said,

    December 31, 2014 at 9:36 am

    Love it.

  2. Ashu अशु said,

    December 31, 2014 at 11:04 am

    So how come no one else loves it?

  3. Andrew said,

    December 31, 2014 at 11:12 am

    I can’t say I love these poems –
    but they ARE almost mildly interesting. I like the rhyme.

  4. thomasbrady said,

    December 31, 2014 at 2:19 pm

    Ashu, Scarriet has a lot of readers. Few comment, but this doesn’t mean anything. Thomas Brady tends to give people hell if they disagree; not because he is mean; that’s just his style, and so readers realize they better have something excellent to contribute or they will get burned. I take full responsibility. The same spirit which writes the pieces comes on like a fire in the comments. Mazer is on the cusp of fame. But he hasn’t pushed through yet. One needs some life/controversy to do so, usually, or have a widely accessible style bordering on the dumb. The intelligent person would rather be intelligent than accessible, but in accessibility resides the path for intelligence to be known—so it is a paradox, and the reason why so much ‘we like’ so few do.

  5. noochinator said,

    February 10, 2015 at 12:11 am

    “…drinking their coffee, talking of next to nothing,..”

    Morning Coffee

    It tastes like the dirt that I am, the dust from which the Lord formed Adam. I’ve read the ingredients of the human body are worth $1.98 —that’s less than I paid for this cup of coffee

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