In Memorem

To the terrible, up to no good, long-haired T.S. Eliot

Who helped me write this poem

 

 

I.

Rise to the highest reaches of the cathedral stairs

Below those gentle arches, atop her spacious dome

Push through coupling tourists held captive

By the sweet vibrations of a casual duet

A Seraph playing violin in her sundress,

And that fellow in linen, stringing the cello

Pulling the masses in circles on the classics

Of popular songs:

My heart will go on, and on, and on

Retreat to an edge as the serenades fade

Beneath the watch of solemn angels,

Carved hands covering— weeping faces

Lie, supine, as relief over a sarcophagus

Borrow the warmth of sun-soaked stones

Dream, divine, and watch flush-cheeked Loxias

Sorrowful, slouching atop his dusky divan—

Stretching shadows beneath a veil of vermillion

Painting the patterned piazza, gilding the glass galleries,

Casting a pale city, crimson, in mournful visions.

Under the sunset, atop the cathedral, looming over Milan

Think to yourself, as you can’t help it:

“This European extravaganza is

Nothing but a scouting mission.

Fingers crossed, in a few years

I’ll take her here. Also, to those

Roman ruins beneath that

Library in Bologna, There—

We are sure to lose an afternoon.

And that little islet by the

North of Spain. Together,

The prickly ferns shall bring

No Pain. Nor anything else

For that matter. Together, we

Can carpool to Istanbul, besides

The isthmus. On the….”

Go on, and on, and on

 

 

II.

Sing, O muse, my broken record

Of her, again, and then over, once more:

 

 

If I get no peace in the world of the waking

You shall have none in the realms of sleep

How the idle remarks strike true now

The ones you let loose at my incessant probing

After you illuminated the once-concealed

Pale green shade of your skin tone

​

 

Green, was the girl who walks my dream

Greenie. Meanie. Green. Around the gills. Green Arrow.

Haunt me all you like; I will never let go

Of the stone fruits flowered by a slip of your lip

I suppose I was fortunate to have been

So clever; before I was shot full of arrows

​

 

I’m never hear the end of it

You’re going to put it—

On my tombstones… Or something.

Well, I can’t help being a bit exasperating

When your peeved smiles proved so exhilarating

So, I guess the last lingering leaves of summer

And the olive tint on my bicycle

Are coloured by your shadow now

Just as deep grooves ridging tree trunks

Or pollen staining the fluff of bumble bees.

​

 

I’m never going to hear—

the End of it.

 

 

I’m not a very together person, I think

Why should a confession that levels us

Equals; lower your eyes in shame?

You should sing! While I write out our folie a deux

Or do you maybe not wish to

Strain a part in a tired sequel?

​

 

If I don’t… Take Care

Then the ends get dead, and I’ll have to

Chop Them Off

​

 

Our fragile, rocky cove left no grounds

For fantasies, nor a hundred indecisions

Let us go then, you and I

To dream alone, up in the clouds

Calling your name through a light fog

​

 

If hair length is any indicator of poetic aptitude

Then I should be the next T.S. Eliot!

Alas, I am terrible at poetry

How could you be terrible in poetry

When all your pieces inspire such artistry?

Filling the blanks between each word

Perfuming every page in what could be—Hyacinth

Defining all passages in your meaning!

​

 

So mastered by—

Beautiful fragments shored against ruin

​

 

Stand—Stand on the highest pavement of the stair

With your arms full of flowers, and the light on your hair

La Figlia Che Piange

Don’t cry, don’t cry, O please don’t cry

​

I don’t even know if you ever really read Eliot

Every day, fine details flake away from your face

As I lose you… Little by little… Over, then Again

(Sing! Sing. Sing of—)

O quam te memorem? Virgo…

 

 

III.

You pierced me through. A year ago, or was it two?

Spearing me stuck on these hallowed wastes

Where the fruits do not grow

All things will pass, and this too shall mend

So, it is I who hold onto your run-through shaft

Wounds squeezing; viscera tethering on

By my blood, your gift dug deep and grew roots

I, her fertile soil; memory mixing with desire

Do not presume me a man drained or hollow

For when itinerant thoughts and what remains

Are fed through thorny stems thirsting for libations

Blooming: Haunting Flowers.

Boughs burst gently

Branching brambles bewilder

I hear no voice of thunder—

And feel no relief of rain.

​

 

Half-awake, blurry, on a wintery morning

Fresh sunbeams seeped through vine-crept windows

To weave her shadow, spinning softly from a spindle of radiance

Arraying ashes: in a gown of gold on the hems she sewed

Her arms full of flowers and the light—Weaving Her Hair

When visited by such gentle hauntings

I am filled with sorrowful revelations

And a passing understanding of—

Loxias’ pitiful brilliance.

Resigning a smile, I think to myself:

 

“There are surely worse hells,

For even better… or the best of men.”