Spinozablue: An Eclectic Journal of the Arts

Com­mu­nity Still

What can the Lords of Every­thing
about dull eccen­tric­ity com­plain?
A fine shill, which is to see kir­tle
cock-​​eyed and expect its round­ing up,
would cheer, would meet the sun.
And then at sacred hoops the ban­ners
stream, and yet no his­to­rian
writes with fin­ish the bro­ken
hori­zon, and these Prodi­gals replay
their Her­culean task unno­ticed,
while grownups pass and jog­gle,
sniff and blow and jo, and shuf­fle, prat­tling feet.
Wit­ness, at cost, the skip­ping girl:
She finds in a book hon­ors
of wet cheeks and high ploys to relief
in bounc­ing from flue to prat­fall; sil­vers
school­days yet in stern lessons, poly­math craze.
Or coal-​​boy, rougher than the dirty feath­ers
of his tem­per­a­tures, dreams a leaf
and glim­mers churl­ish in the post-​​tomtom clear.
That even noth­ing can­ters tail-​​flare
let the shorter race befall, and busy logs
go danc­ing with their dogs,
and frown­ing cats, the gen­tle rats — Dear Blood
it’s genius-​​wondered is homely bog.
Dear lus­cious acorns lie in palm­ing
the store, and gor­geous rooms, they say,
land block next door where progress
beg­gars progress freely as storms.
Is that the pipe worth lov­ing?
Is it in eager­ness to puff and strike?
Some seek in timely knot,
in small, warmed, grass-​​built plot,
their sus­te­nance of hoo-​​re-​​lay.
Some play the quince and are unshack­led.
Some are the battle-​​flocked.
Still oth­ers, or all, with wampum
stay, call it quit-​​leave, and it
spurns and streaks against this sky;
and elec­tion is quick, it is empty and bruised,
and then you shall find the out­side
of burst­ing, seek­ing Queen of Part-​​Day,
first in a dawn, first in wind­ing down away.

It Was Rain­ing in the Cathedral

That I trans­lated the last night.
That I stood it to the end,
proudly, you can bet your sweet
inter­vals of lone­li­ness.
Tsk, tsk, the gardener’s push
to extreme moment of
accep­tance of, loss as poster-​​dragon-​​teeth crossed.
Flisk, flisk, the merry wiper
of too many dol­drums in wine-​​bars,
keep­ers and keep­ers only find­ers.
Miles itched and all egging sense is gone,
and why indif­fer­ently
this entrance of shoot­ing dan­de­lions,
the wiser than touch-​​me-​​not scents,
places much but­tery ses­sion
to be raised from ocean.
It is telling at the door,
low-​​keyed and bar­bered
being floor, that you could and you would.

I am cold, I am cold,
I am grow­ing through the holes
in my sweat­shirt elbows
finny for tin­sel.
Take that, you bas­tard pedestals,
take that, you stilts, you part­ners on offer­ings built.
Take that, you tricky-​​ticklers, you brick-​​bats,
you flow-​​joints, you hack­ers of the risk-​​free.
I am cold and I am cold, I am cold,
I am mor­phine in the show­ing mold.

Now if the corn­rows
had only seen bet­ter chances in quilts,
this never would have hap­pened,
this or any other strung-​​out night.
So these cares crash for hours in estu­ary;
or if no non­sense, then no sergeant grins,
then no tak­ers in pen, in grill.
This hum­ming burns lightly till,
and there is a branch­ing fla­vor,
and I will be colder and sim­ple,
and I will flood to berm
of the unbe­holden,
and I will give this my
shirt to the needy,
I will be invent­ing peat-​​money.

– by Robert Mueller

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Man­hat­tan res­i­dent Robert Mueller has been a con­trib­u­tor of poems and essays to Spin­oz­ablue for the past year and longer. He is also an avid com­men­ta­tor, a prac­tice and incli­na­tion that comes in part from his expe­ri­ence as a teach­ing assis­tant for com­par­a­tive lit­er­a­ture classes at Brown Uni­ver­sity. The style of teach­ing and writ­ing that he pro­motes is big on dis­cov­ery, inspi­ra­tion and fun and not always so big on meet­ing expec­ta­tions. Other writ­ings appear on line in Jacket, Ink Node, Sug­ar­Mule and Moria and in such print pub­li­ca­tions as ELH, Cen­ten­nial Review and Amer­i­can Let­ters & Com­men­tary. An essay is forth­com­ing in a book on words writ­ers love (and loathe) edited by Molly McQuade and due out from Sara­bande Books in Octo­ber 2010.

Copy­right © 2009, by Robert Mueller. All Rights Reserved.

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