Gentle rain
runs in tiny rivulets
down to an enchanted pool
where silver fish flash like lightning
below the surface
swallows bank upon the breeze
dip and skitter along the water
chasing their shadows
on the wind.
J. Larkin 3/03/2006 My translation of a poem inscribed in
Joe Larkin is a published poet, short story writer and stand-up comic, not necessarily in that order. Joe is tired of playing the "publish my poetry" game.
I live on the outskirts of her love, secure, retired, protected in a gated villa out beyond the stadium where green hills trace the contours of her rude fortress town. I see her skyline in the distance, her marble steps, the streets where she shops for bullet-proof vests.
Nestled in the comfort of flowered beds, I loll on the grass at the margin of the yard.
I live on the outskirts of her love, on the bowered veranda where sometimes we share a glass in the warm summer nights when the moon flies high and talk about the children we slew when we were young, mad emperors, callow, selfish, unwilling to conceive of all love’s facets; we cry in all its faces and tell ourselves the ones who came after saved us, guaranteed redemption.
I live on the outskirts of her love. We laugh around a table set with turkey and dressing, candied yams and deviled eggs, telling stories of dumb, daring chances we took out on our limbs -- the weed and whiskey, blind alleys, new worlds explored, settlements with desert sands and stars pulsing all around, gods looking down, forgiving, giving us youth to spare.
The walls and gates from here to town concede nothing; her cobbled streets grow harder, my flowers bloom in mad profusion under the weeping willows.
I repair to the garden to dig in the earth and eat turnips, while she goes back to her cell and fights the guards.
Is it not too much to ask to be the keeper of one’s fate, the one who feeds his own desires?
That is the tune played on your instrument; the threads sing songs of succulent flies struggling to keep their freedom, and now you’ve captured one in flight, as if you had the vaunted wings themselves, as if it were the end of all endeavor, all spinning and planning, the bridge from here to there.
You leap across the cosmos of your conception to spin out tunes that bring the vast world to you in your solitude.
You trap life’s essence bundle and drain it and sleep up in the corner waiting for a note to zing across your strings announcing a new song.
Another one’s passed out of the world and we cannot cry. The tubes and machines are disconnected and we sigh sighs of relief and say she’s in a better place, and by God she is. She spent her last two years crying, not knowing why, or where her home went, who the people were who came to her and where they went when they left or if they’d come another day, and if she’d care. And she cried and cried for her lost children, her mother and father who could not comfort her except in dreams interspersed with nightmares of death and yearnings for death when living death had taken her, left her bereft of hope. And now, mercifully, she’s gone. We hope she’ll recognize her old home.
As I look into the years ahead, Life extended with prescription meds; the little senior moment, forgotten name, word that slips the mind I feel a nightmare coming on and fear those who would save me from myself.
I am a poet, fiction writer, and stand-up comic, not necessarily in that order. I also dabble in photography, water color painting, blues harp, gardening, Zen and other forms of spiritual development. My first book of poetry, Outside the Frame, was published in 2008 by Tradewinds. You can order it on Amazon.com or by contacting me by email at objoyful1@sbcglobal.net. I'm currently working on a second book of poems and a seemingly endless novel that I affectionately refer to as The Thing That Won't Stop Bothering Me. I perform stand-up comedy and give poetry and fiction readings throughout the Chicago region.