POEM OF THE DAY
Radio Ishmael Orchestra
My head is in your lap.
Rocking upon the waters,
I lose all sight of land.
Tuned to the Polestar
by the lodestone
in my blunt white brow,
I sound deep undersea
riding the slow sine arc
and flex of my ragged flukes
North.
In the cold Artic wash across my crooked jaw,
I scent hartshorn
and peony, witch hazel
and wintergreen, and I sing to you
across leagues of ocean
the one song of the Radio Ishmael Orchestra.
I order the violin to disembowel itself
like a samurai,
with a screech.
I make the bagpipes walk on all fours,
tell it to spin like the spider.
I give up the sax to the white hot crucible
to melt down
and drool over the brim.
I tool the gracenotes of my clarinet
working the leather in intricate crescents.
I attack the tympani with an icepick,
seeking to spit the brass tongues of the angels.
Finally, I make the oboe moan,
that lonely wraith
twisted out of the flesh that is grass,
and the glory flowers out of it
as I kiss it
down its length
to an end full of yeses.
You will hear.
I swim in your wake.
My head is in your lap.
Dana Pattillo 1990
(PoD 27)
7:52:14 AM 
|
|
