Selections
from Laments
Laments
is a book of three long poems or suites of poems. I suppose each part of each
poem could be considered a separate poem, and it is in that vein that I present
some of those pieces here. Only one of these poems, “Damnation,” has been
previously published, and that in a slightly different form than is found in
the book. I will not now go into why the other poems, in whole or in part, have
not seen publication. Nor will I explain the genesis or ideas behind the poems
other than to say that events both personal and public brought me to meditate
on subjects such as death, fatherhood, and failure (among other subjects).
I have not decided yet what
to do with this little volume. It is too long for a magazine publication
(except in parts) and probably too short for a print book. To be honest, I have
not tried hard to bring them to a wider audience than those who have stumbled
here. I cannot say why.
from “Damnation”
I.
Speak
through me Yahweh.
my
Lord, let your enraged bride cry out
against
the injustice before her eyes.
You
who never sleep,
who
need not watch television for news,
do
you see those
who
mutilate the flesh and the spirit
and
are given places of honor?
The
grass on their lawns
is
trimmed like Hitler's mustache.
Their
cars are sleek, running like a parade in
O
Tiananmen!
Tanks
and flowers impervious to blood.
The
music of
men
with dirty water believe they cleansing.
Gieseppe
Conlon, smothering in a fetid prison.
Dear
Amy, struck down by her benefactors.
And
a man, numbered L 709, lies in a grave,
because
a black man must control
his
philandering dog.
God
don't let me forget him.
I
can strum deep notes on my guitar
so
my father will be remembered.
I
can raise my voice in denunciation,
point
the finger of judgment,
speak
loud the accusations.
I can die a martyr's death and
have my spirit infuse the hearts of others after me who carry my flag.
But
I cannot bring him back.
Nor can I let go of why he
died.
III.
Don't
remind me
that
there is a time for every season
and
under the sun all must die.
I
know too well, counselor.
actor
playing God.
Don't
tell me there is an appointed time.
Grass,
don't tell me
you
cover all.
If
I could beat swords into plowshares
I'd
still take my vengeance on you.
In
dead
brown grass or green Augustine
the
blades are littered with ash.
Smokestacks
shoot upward
impregnating
the earth
with
miscarried babies.
VI.
I'm
hiding behind the rainbow wall
listening
for you. My heart goes thump.
A
knock, but you aren't there.
Your
hands are cold
and
fingertips that once cried sweat
are
out of tears.
Someone
is mowing,
but
I hear you in the workshop.
Sawing,
pounding, drilling.
And
in the buzz, bump, and burr,
I
whisper a curse: "Damn the silence!"
from
“Concurrences”
I.
The
light of the dark and ever fallen
world,
knew me, saw me, before opening
the
door to my black room, Dad, you let in
the
sallow light in the hall. And coming
in
with you, the blue noise of the t.v.
said,
"All kids are to be in bed right now."
They're
no match for the sight of your soft brow
behind
thick lenses, of your gaze on me.
They're
unequal to the sound of your hand,
tired,
yellowed fingers pulling covers
to
my chin. You say, "Go to
sleep." I can
now. I remember an angel hovers
unseen
above my bed after the door
is
shut, and I fall to deep dreams once more.
IV.
Fathers
are imperfect gods. Even when
we
see them stumble in good light, we build
alters
in dark rooms. In solitary
whispers,
we recall the monsters they fought:
the
drunken wife, the unrelenting boss,
scheming
children, one-eyed politicians,
and
the cowardly thief of dads, cancer.
And
here we wait for them to rise again.
Here
we forget their faults, the joys they killed.
At
these shrines we drink our hope until we
run
out of wine and find the bread we bought
is
hard and exacts from each heart a cross.
We
suffer disease beyond physicians
and
ask questions expecting no answer.
VI.
So
where is that grace and what does it look
like? And with these self-absorbed ears and eyes
how
would I know it? Dad, you did not seem
ready
to die. Clinging to my weak arms,
hanging
above pain by a morphine drip,
order
was overturned and you became
the
son. I secretly cheered as you fought
the
bully, death, knowing that you could not
win. And so you were told there was no shame
in
letting go. Just lie back down and slip
into
the long, good sleep. Now no alarms
can
wake you. I see a tear in the seam
of
the universe, hear the silent lies
of
science. You died and only heads shook.
from
“Peniel”
III.
Kneeling is no longer
sufficient. The gesture
seems for human eyes now,
and people can’t forgive.
They wouldn’t if they
could, even for distant wrongs.
Head bowed, I wander, then
snap to self abasement
or justification. So I might as well sleep.
Fasting is futile if I
remain a glutton.
Besides, food can kill so
many ways. Discipline
is merely diet, easier to
do when poor.
With money in the pocket,
it seems unneeded.
With piety so tenuous and
your face lurking
in mystery, what move can
my soul make to pull
these steps out of my
circle and fall into grace?
IV.
In this grave of craving,
taking divergent roads,
shutting out the memory of
previous splits
is routine. Debilitating, clung-to routine.
As Frost said, we get few
second chances, but now
I see that those I get I
blow like just so much
sneezed out dust. Even when the lesson has been learned
and the rear end remembers
the belt,
every path is perilous
when walking alone.
God give me solitude but
not isolation.
Help my companions to be
with me and not mere
passersby. I’m eating at a table for one
and the quail I ordered
tastes like a broken sigh.
XII
I
hear the Dies Irae now, its tempo set
not
by my heartbeat, but by the hidden, icy
footsteps
attempting to drown a numberless clock.
Systems
upon systems preach human precision,
and
agendas become C.E.O’s of life.
Goodness
is defined by distorted images
of
a God whose mercy is hard to wrestle with.
And
yet, neither mercy nor goodness is extinct:
remnants
surrender to the happy coercion
of
the spirit. So will I. I have read so much
that
I’m only beginning to see the journey
as
teacher. I limp now, but stooping,
gather much.
© Michael Neal Morris