Bethany W Pope
MacheteMy father ran, fleet, through the forest
surrounding the base near Manila. He was carrying me. I was at rest on his sweaty shoulders. He swerved past mangoes blessed with fruit that could kill me with swelling and pus. My father ran, fleet, through the forest, trying to beat his bloody past into the moist path. The iconoclast of memory was carrying me. I was at rest while he remembered the man whose machete cast shards of light on exposed bone and red, wet glass. My father ran, fleet, through the forest, breathing hard. The Naval police came slowly, lost in contemplation of the same TV show that was carrying me. I was at rest while he clutched the trembling murderer to his breast, trying to calm him with prayers and soft tenor susurrus. My father ran, fleet, through the forest, carrying me. I was at rest. The Art of TranslationThe Borrowed Dog contemplates the birds
feeding outside the window. She bends, cleaning her claws. The mystery of human words confounds her. Scents inform; a large herd of deer imprinted the garden at dawn, fleeing something. The Borrowed Dog contemplates the birds (the ones at the feeder and the others: unseen, unheard) their scent-trails paint the sky in streaks this evening. Her claws and the mystery of human words have something in common. She knows that her bipedal gods use them as tools; she paws their legs and they nod, understanding. The Borrowed Dog contemplates the birds she'd chase if only they'd open the door for her. She girds herself for a long wait, sharpening her claws. The mystery of human words hangs around her like the scent-clouds around human heads; unknown, uninterpreted, unread. Frustrated, she starts howling. The Borrowed Dog contemplates the birds, Her claws, and the mystery of human words. The Dancing WorldAt night when the shadows
roil across tarmac like speaking tongues and the foxes whirl in inhuman spires of noisy courtship, when the streetlights spread their jaundice across the chrome teeth of parked cars slumped slumbering in their wasted oil, the ragged trees resume their dancing. Cherry, oak, birch, elm, the tattered fronds of willow all draw up their roots from the soil we left them, taking hold of white fibers, both feet and skirts, they make their ancient procession. They share their sap with brothers who overwhelmed the shrunken Scot in stolen mantle, shaded suddenly the window that lit the bloodspots on his lady's tremulous hands. There are not so many dancers, now, nor men with eyes to see them. It is safer, for us, to restrict our wonders, sacrificing Joy to barren rationality that fruits death. But all times pass, and each word contains its opposite. We bear our shadows in our flesh, waiting to blossom. I flower in moonlight, I wheel with the fox. Their eerie throats are singing to me. I know the terrible Joy of the forests, bound in for now by our illusion of safety, waiting to rise. We are so close to dancing.
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Complete CircuitVenous red, her body streaks through the dark.
I feel her coming, a static surge, the Xenon-like spark. Her body is so thin, Ectomorphic in furs. Her dog-like bark Never echoes on brick. I sit, cold on Inclement concrete, waiting. I take no Notice of the wet. Her approach is slow, Thoughtful; current dulled to warning hum. This Human is patient. She is no dog. Thrum, Echoing thrum of her heart, felt through my Bare fingers. Her dense pelt rests lightly on Raw bones. I am the master here, alpha Animal. My friendship will save her from Cold death. Her electric love will save me. Note: This poem is a double acrostic The Dancers on the GreenWe gathered on the lawn to watch the old
Heroes mar their whites with mud and wet grass. Open fields were made for dancing; yellow Knots, fabric flags flapped from elbows and the Noise of sleigh bells sang; strange data. Only the old bearded clown (a small tear Wounding his motley) understood. As we Stood there, watching those dancing old men, clowns Went round the circle, seeking women, the Handsomest girls. They carried cake in their Ash-wood bowls, for fertility, a shiv That planted babies in their wombs. No, I Gladly refused it. I want no children; Only poetry. It is like dancing. In Borrowed RobesThe man is easily in his eighties,
shrunken in an old tweed suit, a plastic yellow daffodil pinned to his lapel. He stands before a room of poets, speaks at great length of his love for a man who died at half his age. Still trying to shrug into the long-dried skin of Thomas, he recites verses 'in the style of'', acts out the opening of 'Under The Milkwood'. I see what he would have liked to become, had he the courage to create without imitating. As it is, he's bound himself to the shadow of an old idea. His life's become a borrowed robe. Visiting Grandma: A MysteryThe unmerciful sun beat down on us, your live,
Heartbroken descendants. Florida oaks Enshadowed the grave you bought to lie in. Deep Planted, your husband and parents nestled among the roots. A lie brought us here – and the desire to see your grave Spread over with flowers. The single store open (Tacky Walmart, of course) only had plastic blooms. Open Calla lilies, jonquils with a false, fabric sheen. No live, Aromatically dying roses or browning hyacinth. These graves Never seem to change much, sheltered by oaks. No one leaves a mess, or visits. Thick roots Ensnare the coffin of your husband. His deep, Vainly struggling brain has leaked onto his suit. Deep Enough under earth, no one cares about stains or open, Ridiculous flies – or suicide by starvation. Roots Break through conventions to suck our bone dry. We live Expecting peace at the end of everything. These oaks Brooke no illusions. Your parents lie in graves Unshadowed by branches, identical graves Right next to your plaque. Their dates are carved deep In the iron plates that hide them; iron the colour of oak, Extremely durable. Your father’s open Declaration, ‘Veteran: WWI and WWII’ shows his life. This discloses every major detail about the roots He shot through our blood, genetic roots, Ensnared in glory and struggle. The grave Dedicated to your mother paints her life Exactly as she wanted; ‘Wife and Mother.’ Deep Aching mysteries surround you. Open Dates under your name, no epitaph but oak- Shadows. Mom said, ‘As though it were empty.’ Oaks Hide the missing screws with sloughed leaves – plaque set on roots And never bolted; earth that has never been opened. Love secreted your ashes away, somewhere. No grave Locked you down. We asked the undertaker. He looked deep; Records remained. You never arrived, so you are almost alive. In a cemetery, at the roots of an oak, your grave Sits empty, waiting for us to open it up, dig deep Enough to plant you so that something will live. Note: This poem is an acrostic sestina |
