Overheated Nocturne

[rejectomorph]

The crescent moon's image is torn by trees again, though the moon itself rides the sky unbroken. My perspective breaks the image, stuck as I am where shadows are flung by the still branches. The moonlight that flecks the lawn is only reflected light reflected, and the pale undersides of leaves I barely see reflect the light again, and I suddenly have the thought that night is a hall of dark mirrors. Am I having fun yet? How did I come to such a carnival? Will there be cotton candy? There's no breeze to play the woody calliope, though, and the street makes an empty midway running down to the orchard where the crickets chirp. It would have been better, I think, had I stayed home— wherever that is.




Sunday Verse

Farm Implements and Rutabagas in a Landscape

by John Ashbery


The first of the undecoded messages read: "Popeye sits in thunder,
Unthought of. From that shoebox of an apartment,
From livid curtain's hue, a tangram emerges: a country."
Meanwhile the Sea Hag was relaxing on a green couch: "How pleasant
To spend one's vacation en la casa de Popeye," she scratched
Her cleft chin's solitary hair. She remembered spinach

And was going to ask Wimpy if he had bought any spinach.
"M'love," he intercepted, "the plains are decked out in thunder
Today, and it shall be as you wish." He scratched
The part of his head under his hat. The apartment
Seemed to grow smaller. "But what if no pleasant
Inspiration plunge us now to the stars? For this is my country."

Suddenly they remembered how it was cheaper in the country.
Wimpy was thoughtfully cutting open a number 2 can of spinach
When the door opened and Swee'pea crept in. "How pleasant!"
But Swee'pea looked morose. A note was pinned to his bib. "Thunder
And tears are unavailing," it read. "Henceforth shall Popeye's apartment
Be but remembered space, toxic or salubrious, whole or scratched."

Olive came hurtling through the window; its geraniums scratched
Her long thigh. "I have news!" she gasped. "Popeye, forced as you know to flee the country
One musty gusty evening, by the schemes of his wizened, duplicate father, jealous of the apartment
And all that it contains, myself and spinach
In particular, heaves bolts of loving thunder
At his own astonished becoming, rupturing the pleasant

Arpeggio of our years. No more shall pleasant
Rays of the sun refresh your sense of growing old, nor the scratched
Tree-trunks and mossy foliage, only immaculate darkness and thunder."
She grabbed Swee'pea. "I'm taking the brat to the country."
"But you can't do that—he hasn't even finished his spinach,"
Urged the Sea Hag, looking fearfully around at the apartment.

But Olive was already out of earshot. Now the apartment
Succumbed to a strange new hush. "Actually it's quite pleasant
Here," thought the Sea Hag. "If this is all we need fear from spinach
Then I don't mind so much. Perhaps we could invite Alice the Goon over"—she scratched
One dug pensively—"but Wimpy is such a country
Bumpkin, always burping like that." Minute at first, the thunder

Soon filled the apartment. It was domestic thunder,
The color of spinach. Popeye chuckled and scratched
His balls: it sure was pleasant to spend a day in the country.

Comments

[daisydumont.livejournal.com]

i like the thought of night as a hall of dark mirrors, only i think of versailles instead of carnivals. :)

have you been to the chiro yet, btw? i may've missed mention of it.

the poem is amazing. everyone is so itchy!

[rejectomorph]

My next appointment is on August 6, so I've decided I'll just wait for it.