Another heteronymous work for April 26th; I believe the author has been influenced by Mayakovsky and/or Frank O’Hara.
I bumped into God this morning.
It was quite an honor; he doesn’t often
meet someone like Me, and he was rather
bashful about it. “What do You think
of my creation?” he asked. “Not bad
for a first effort,” I replied,
“but it’s cramped, and the duct tape shows.
Giraffe, koala, penguin? These were not
considered designs. You rushed it out,
didn’t you? Too much in love
with your vision to wait on judgment —
I’ve been there.” “I don’t revise,”
he said, “I’d rather go on
to something else. Remove the flaws,
remove the character. My worlds
might not be polished, but they’re honest.”
He went on, “You know I like Your work,
but the devil’s in the details. You could
lose Your grip now and then, bang
something out in white heat, unleash
a plague on the page, turn it loose
and watch it to find out who You are.”
“I’ll give it a go,” I said, “what’s
the worst that can happen?” “Believe me,”
said God, “You don’t want to know.”
April 27th: few men, I think, are flattered to be the subject of one of Mary’s love poems.
To Her Would-Be
You think you can look through my eyes
to spy on my soul, naked in her home.
No light shines in here; whatever
you think you see is a reflection.
No wonder you’re caught in that stare
and don’t even want to escape.
You have the wrong myth: you’re no Amor,
and me — I’m a quiet pool.
Ah, memories… how they scar! The poem for April 28th:
Six Hundred Sundays
I remember church when I was little —
a country church, a country faith —
lugubrious hosannas hobbled through air
thick with stale sweat and sweet perfume
(a capella because Paul neither fiddled nor picked) —
unsalted crackers and grape juice communion
as if children played at church, forbidden
grown-up bread and wine — sermons
not leavened with a pinch of wonder —
and after, we kids would congregate
at the fence of the neighboring farm,
and if God was in a good mood
a horse or cow would be grazing,
or we’d find a garden snake to chase.
The poem for April 29th:
The Glum Dane
It was Ophelia drove Hamlet mad,
clinging to him like a wet shirt.
That black-clad, ghost-seeking,
held his sadness up like a torch
and is rumored to have committed a goatee,
but he would have turned out a mere
coffee-swilling scribbler of hack plays
if she hadn’t kept babbling on about flowers
in that passive-aggressive, you-know-what-I-mean
sort of way. Anyone would have snapped.
That’s why Hamlet (the play) bears
such an important message for today’s youth:
cheerleaders should never date goths,
it always ends in a massacre.
And finally, we end National Poetry Month not with a bang, but a…
the river because it was drunk with too much rain fell out of bed; it had been sleeping on jutting fossil tusks. I didn't mind the reek of his cheating the childish lies or the stares when our card was declined at the store he had ways to make up for all that but he would never fight back, just stutter, apologize with spilling eyes then one day he slipped and called me Mom