Contents

 

 

 

Christopher Mulrooney, US
 

 

 

 

Free Verse

Terza Rima on Transitoriness

We are such stuff indeed as dreams are made on,
And dreams open thus the eyes with force
As under cherry trees do little children,

From their crowns the pallid golden course
Of the full moon begins in vasty night,
... Not otherwise our dreams rise from their source,

Are there and live the way a child laughs light,
No lesser great in floating up and down
Than the full moon, from crowns of trees upright.

What is inmost quite easily they sound,
Like phantom hands within a shuttered room
Are they in us and live a life unfound.
And three are one: a man, a thing, a dream.


Hugo von Hofmannsthal
tr. Christopher Mulrooney

 

 

the watcher

i


involucral envy
even to the knife
invades me evasive
I avoid veniality
and vapors vacate
vacillating I vent
prevaricating and aver
television avoid like
elevator shoes in
Lilliputian savannahs
under the moving mower



ii


o winsome kid
they false honesty's
kind as glass
in a diamond ring
even certificated
by laser
digit on digit
for the firm festival


iii


the last gratuitous sin
crosses my desk
the publisher says
I print it why not
says he why not
out in Los Angeles
they'll never know the difference
and New York covers all bets



iv


o owner of transmissions
call thy prostitute
for an honest reading
of your business mail
answer this she says
let that one wait
don't answer that
in three neat piles
pointed out with nail polish



v


here is the void
at long last considered
in the total spectrum
of available wavelengths
that is free or
unencumbered
and not kept in fee

the baldric is the mainstay
of the zodiac
from the creeper pains stay
to the Kodiak

 

 

figuration nice

the chute drops and they fall
ornamental snowmen
of disasters

hitting the silk
of temerarious response
do they reside
and bide
the ever-receding osculation of the tide

 

 



the old song

the good old marital conundrum
spills other days
afore my forecourt
my supplicants enter and whine
enter and whine

Dis was my biddy
and Dis biddy ate my raisin plum cake
and Dis widdershins

but you get my picture

 

 

life in the big city

it's a lean-to
against the kitsch
makeover

the headless horseman
amid the droppings
of his steed

 

 

discourse of a plantation man

my screed-gifts magnanimous
enlarge the plantation
by a various plenteous
device of incantation

it stands for me
I placard it
soberly staidly mightily
it figures me
like an old scarecrow
it adds up for me
me it adds up to

monumental as the dry day
when no-one spits
to see the addendum on a will
a codicil of no devising
naming my expectorations
valid on the bottom line
so that the partridge hens lay their eggs
in the sassafras tea
beside my pillow
and I read the muck in the cup's bottom

 

 

 

 

 

 


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