"kessel" poems
for Susan
He stood there in the card shop
finding it hard to decide
between a Chinese rose,
a flock of starlings,
a river scene in summer . . .
They all had printed blank inside
upon their cellophane wrappers.
He felt blank inside
when it came to words.
How do you say
(after twenty-six years)
I love you,
with that tremor and thrill
he remembered when,
stopping the car
between Holt and the sea,
he had looked into those still
jade green eyes, and told her so.
So he choose Tropical Birds in a Landscape
Jan van Kessel the Elder (1628-79).
It was Chaucer’s Technicolor Dream.
A Parliament of Fowles no less
who *welcome somer, with your sonne softe,
Wel han they cause for to gladen ofte,
Sith ech of hem recovered hath hys make
Ful blissful mowe they synge when they awake.*
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 12:49 PM UTC
at the moment the sun grows
colder, running shoes are laced.
buds planted in ears to let music
grow. stretch thru the legs and out
the door -- now he is running
for two miles or more. sucking
down air like coal, this locomotive
just goes, goes goes -- slower now
up a hill, opening a stride before
fertile skyscrapers with applauding
windows. downtown olympian, do
you do this for fun? what rhyme or
reason make Hermes' feet run?
sweaty dynamo, athlete without
sport, endurance is a gracious import.
may your heart pump wine thru-
out each vessel. may, like Solo, you
run, these streets your Kessel.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC