MARK DECARTERET
Nature Show as a Sacred Act
Light dwindling like it does when the wind
smells of elm-leaf slowly drawing toward yellow,
the old man imagines lobbing a bottle--
the tint of some fabled sky, far-off sea,
into the space where a loon calls
off-beat with his breath, before trying
to bow to the fits of spray, cold,
the oft-rapping, stiffening sails, of the boats
as if it the start of something near sacred
like those hosts with their whispered narrations
who’ve been pressing for sainthood since the 70’s.
But let’s stop before we get carried away--
the lips forming around sentiment or even
dining on the salt that outlasted most of what’s
passed for a meaningful phrase or a kiss,
and get back onto the step where he’s petting
a lost cat or stalled over a third glass of wine
or better yet, turn our sights to where the alewife
keep filing up ladders, all knife-glint and factual,
and some osprey, dumbstruck by its luck,
takes one more commercial up on its offer,
poses, for yet another of its followers.
smells of elm-leaf slowly drawing toward yellow,
the old man imagines lobbing a bottle--
the tint of some fabled sky, far-off sea,
into the space where a loon calls
off-beat with his breath, before trying
to bow to the fits of spray, cold,
the oft-rapping, stiffening sails, of the boats
as if it the start of something near sacred
like those hosts with their whispered narrations
who’ve been pressing for sainthood since the 70’s.
But let’s stop before we get carried away--
the lips forming around sentiment or even
dining on the salt that outlasted most of what’s
passed for a meaningful phrase or a kiss,
and get back onto the step where he’s petting
a lost cat or stalled over a third glass of wine
or better yet, turn our sights to where the alewife
keep filing up ladders, all knife-glint and factual,
and some osprey, dumbstruck by its luck,
takes one more commercial up on its offer,
poses, for yet another of its followers.
Men as Enemies of Birds
Over the speaker we hear the wood stork--
its legs, swizzle-stuck, eyes, burnt-cork black,
neck, this high school machine-shop mishap,
as it chokes on a billion years of sugar crops, chaw
with nary a bucket of water to be straw-sucked.
What wasn’t thawed on Formica for me or
morphed into a hat for you, has been turned inside-
out and mounted, posed as if nothing is happening.
Here, buttons do everything but ad lib, see us
out towards the deck’s stenciled dribble and scat,
where no doubt all these sawdust-fed bodies
will be sung a ways into the field, resurrected.
The sky is first gun barrel then flask-glint--
later, snake-scales and lastly, can-top or tinsel.
And I regret now not stopping at the Tram Mart,
not arming myself with more minutes and breath mints.
You observe the same regret but are logging it “SHAME--
a mesh-like sensation of loss that doubles as soul.”
A pick-up truck backs up to an airbrushed shrub,
dropping off tubs of artillery and sport drinks.
And another eco-safari van is idling in the lot.
Trees not from these parts are strapped in,
plastic tabs where there leaves had been.
And moss, the color of meat cooked well done,
hangs like streamers. Some, copper, like chains.
I’m asked to play the role of a trapper, you, a parrot.
Things we didn’t think interactive are now cutting us,
making it difficult to tuck back our hair, take in air.
A heron, stucco-white, tidies up its display case.
It gets by on “a diet of tide-sounds and saddest of scripts--
those most silent of vowels like its italicized essing-
out through the algae, wings forever at-a-loss.”
I can only finger its history. You, its Day-Glo’d disfiguring.
its legs, swizzle-stuck, eyes, burnt-cork black,
neck, this high school machine-shop mishap,
as it chokes on a billion years of sugar crops, chaw
with nary a bucket of water to be straw-sucked.
What wasn’t thawed on Formica for me or
morphed into a hat for you, has been turned inside-
out and mounted, posed as if nothing is happening.
Here, buttons do everything but ad lib, see us
out towards the deck’s stenciled dribble and scat,
where no doubt all these sawdust-fed bodies
will be sung a ways into the field, resurrected.
The sky is first gun barrel then flask-glint--
later, snake-scales and lastly, can-top or tinsel.
And I regret now not stopping at the Tram Mart,
not arming myself with more minutes and breath mints.
You observe the same regret but are logging it “SHAME--
a mesh-like sensation of loss that doubles as soul.”
A pick-up truck backs up to an airbrushed shrub,
dropping off tubs of artillery and sport drinks.
And another eco-safari van is idling in the lot.
Trees not from these parts are strapped in,
plastic tabs where there leaves had been.
And moss, the color of meat cooked well done,
hangs like streamers. Some, copper, like chains.
I’m asked to play the role of a trapper, you, a parrot.
Things we didn’t think interactive are now cutting us,
making it difficult to tuck back our hair, take in air.
A heron, stucco-white, tidies up its display case.
It gets by on “a diet of tide-sounds and saddest of scripts--
those most silent of vowels like its italicized essing-
out through the algae, wings forever at-a-loss.”
I can only finger its history. You, its Day-Glo’d disfiguring.
Copyright © November 2017 Map Literary and Mark DeCarteret
Mark DeCarteret has appeared next to Charles Bukowski in a lo-fi fold out, Pope John Paul II in a high test collection of Catholic poetry, Billy Collins in an Italian fashion coffee table book, and Mary Oliver in a 3785 page pirated anthology.
