Cold? He asks from a train seat
To idiot across, who says very.
In makeshift bed they would lie
And touch a death to feel softly
And the year would mingle salt
And difficulty of death with life.
We may mingle salt and sugar,
Morning tea on makeshift bed.
We are idiots inching to a love.
Cold? He asks and we say very.
(Remembering Dostoevsky’s novel The Idiot)
As we fumble in pant’s pockets
Note may be in pant’s pockets.
The note is our memento mori
And pant pockets are too full.
Pockets are full with fumbling.
Fumbling is waiting in pocket.
(Remembering Samuel Becket’s Waiting For Godot)
That black bird returns at night
To sit on clothesline to pretend
It is a flesh’s underwear to dry.
There is inner limit to pretend
How much to dry by sun if wet,
To decide when it is bone -dry.
Being made from calcium dust,
Discs get worn, unable to hold.
The heart has its fears beating
In rib cage for worn out discs.
A surgeon’s scalpel will replace
The calcium discs by pure gold.
To friend, the painter cuts off
His ear of a pretty sunflower
When his plane goes bipolar.
His sun flower needs a head.
We too have our sunflowers.
They turn their heads all day.
(The cut-off ear is of Van Gogh the famous painter of Sunflower and the friend was Van Gogh’s close painter friend Paul Gauguin)
Let us put sick dog to sleep.
There is more dignity to life
And uncle says let love die
Since love is dignity to die.
Death falls,intense like love,
Like rain on the river bridge.
Poet’s hope chest was lid-heavy.
He thought it had butterflies in it.
He knew it had only cockroaches.
His knowing that was one thing.
For his butterflies not to fly away
A lid must always be kept closed.
Recalling “Hope Chest” by Max Ritvo (1990-2016)