It's been a slow year, poetry wise. These poems represent the sum total of my finished output.
magic air
dulled by daily repetition, bringing in the paper is a simple task. unlock open step down bend grab step up close relock unwrap sit read muscle memory at work. I perform this task anonymously, unnoticed, without thought or recognition that this is a new day, a day with the potential to change my life, open a portal to a new world, resolve a long-simmering complication. The closest I come is on those mornings when, before bending, I straighten to full height, look out at the world, and pull in as much air as my lungs can hold. I do this semiconsciously, another automatic function, an impulse probably governed by the reptilian part of my brain, not knowing where in what direction this random change in routine will take me. Somehow my body knows this is magic air, special, no cleaner or oxygenated than all the other air I will inhale and exhale today, but use it to build resolve, purpose, curiosity, commitment, something just a little more the one degree change of course a tiny step toward an unknown. I exhale, and breathe in again.
M. B. C.
Legend has it that Melchior, Balthasar, and Caspar (legendary names) came from the East following a star that proclaimed a new king for Israel. They brought their tribute goods to the current king, and consulted with his Magi, seers, and Wise Men, and found that they were not in the right place. They paid their respects, and went back on the road, still carrying regal gifts. Finally they found the right place, and gazed upon a child, one of those children for whom a wise man could predict greatness. His aura permeated every fiber in their being transformed them, let them see potential. They took a different path home avoided reporting to Herod, not because they feared Herod's wrath, or exercised an abundance of caution. but because with what they saw with what they felt with what they experienced they could do nothing else, eager to live in the new world experience an abundance of transformation requiring returning home by the shortest route possible for full transformation to begin.
revision
Between the singers, dancers, comedians and the 'original' celebrities, people famous for being famous who would half-rise in the audience when announced, wave, and sit again, 'embarrassed' by the attention, Ed used to feature 'alternate' acts, acrobats, jugglers, and other escapees from European circuses with curious skills to peddle. Most misunderstood, most reviled of all were the platespinners, men who would balance china on top of long, thin poles of varying heights and with a flick of fingers and wrists set them spinning, one two three four five six seven and then dance between the poles as the plates lost momentum and began to falter, spinning them again and again, until the performer would grab the plates, seven six five four three two one, no china harmed, bow with a flourish, and go shake Ed's hand. We all agreed it was dumb, a waste of time that could be better spent by having Elvis or the Dave Clark Five do another song. It wasn't until much later– long after Ed and his show retired, even long after the reruns disappeared, that we understood that the platespinners were a metaphor for life.
Lamont
an occasional poem
Thanks to Jacqueline Woodson for the inspiration
I know no Lamonts except through entertainments. There was a Lamont on a TV show I rarely watched a made up character, long suffering, a straight man, set-up man uninteresting in his two dimensions. But now thanks to Jacqueline I now know a Lamont, a schoolchild, who complained about writing a poem celebrating an occasion, an event, in January. The kid is right. In January, the world is tired from the festive frenzy of events October November December. In January the candy is eaten the turkey and stuffing consumed the tree removed and the ball dropped. In January the tired world rests gathering strength to push first crocus and daffodils through the still-cold earth then sap up tree trunks awaken bees and bears. The world has no time for occasions or events in January. Lamont senses this energy, nothing that compels him to poetry, occasional, event, lyric or otherwise, no coronations, no weddings, not even furniture store sales, nothing except the prospect of a long walk home in the biting winter air, repeated to infinity. I do not know cannot tell if Lamont ever existed, but he is real to me, walking, talking, tired of jumping through hoops, living other people's enthusiasms. But now I can write an occasional poem for Lamont to mark the day of our meeting.