Mark J. Mitchell

Poetry

 

 

Wild Parrots

 

The parrot speaks Latin. His accent

is Chinese, blending scholar and sailor.

He drops verbs like sesame seeds.

Still, you listen, lean in close

for each squawked word. He might

answer your question. He has powers—

 

Or so you’ve heard, and the power

of Latin to curse—those flat accents

ordering fate. We all know the might

of that tongue. That’s why sailors

swear in words they learned close

to their cradles. Words are seeds.

 

They know that. They know that seeds

sprout and evil can sprout and that power

can force the wild water to close

over them, sealing away their salty accents.

They are a cautious lot, those sailors,

afraid of what is and whatever might

 

come to pass. That noisy parrot might—

remember the parrot?—miscrack some seed

bending his beak, then screech a poor sailor

onto a broken rock where no power

is strong enough and the only accent

to the air is salt, splashing too close

 

to his face. No. It is better to close

the cage, cover it. Allow the might

of deception to work. Let darkness accent

the day. Fill his box with white seeds

so the bird can find them. Turn off power,

shut the doors. Let all the sailors

 

leave the shore. Put the parrot up for sale or,

better yet, free him. Just forget to close

the latch. Even a cracked beak’s power

could be enough to shake it loose. He might

never notice, may be transfixed by birdseed,

but there’s a possibility of ascent:

A Latin sailor, newly landed, might

find him close to a city, feed him a seed

and wield the power to curse his accent.

 

 

                                                                                                                                     

Long-term Unemployment

 

After her failure as unicorn bait

she folded compass roses for lost maps.

Flat captains dropped them through their sailor’s caps.

They sank and opened like abandoned freight.

Next came a quick attempt to rescue moons

from night’s backdrop—she only slept through that.

She tried to polish used apostle spoons

until they cracked her tiny hands. White cats

began to circle her, counter-clockwise.

She couldn’t count them all, but her pale fears

were blooming. Cool palms slapped against her thighs.

Her lips moved. Words slipped past criminal ears.

They tickled. She sat still, too tired to try.

Eons became days, hours became years.

 

 

 

On a Theme from Miguel Hernandez

Todas las son ojos

(All the houses have eyes)

 

The houses are watching me.

I will not look back at them.

 

I’m plain as wood. Do they see

my crimes? Windows stay open.

 

I never see them go to sleep.

I don’t know when they begin.

 

I’m cunning. I hide my needs

with desires. They are not sins

 

but tricks I learned. They’ll retreat.

Blinds will be drawn. Later, when

 

I’m dreaming, they’ll prowl free.

Closed windows fall silent.

 

 

 

Homage to Magritte

 

A door opens in a window

below the stairs. Panes of glass

cover this floor like tiles,

reflecting the window with a door

in it, lodged between cage wires.

At seven o’clock a train arrives

at the perch, then leaves

through the glass floor, dragging

a trail of smoke spiraling

through a window. Close the door.

 

 

 

Rain

Homage to Supervielle

                                   

The raindrop slides off a palm leaf

and slips into the immense sea.

 

It is lost to everyone.

It can never be found again.

 

But wait—there comes a woman—

talented. She will be able to find

 

that drop that caught so much

more light than all those others.

 

Her slender fingers will pluck

it out from between grains of salt.

 

She needs it to cool her lips

still warm from last night’s kisses.

 

 

 

Mark J. Mitchell studied writing at UC Santa Cruz under Raymond Carver, George Hitchcock and Barbara Hull. His work has appeared in various periodicals over the last thirty five years, as well as the anthologies The Best of the Net. Good Poems, American Places, Hunger Enough, Retail Woes and Line Drives.  Two full length collections are in the works: Lent 1999  is coming soon from Leaf Garden Press and This Twilight World will be published by Popcorn Press. His chapbook, Three Visitors has recently been published by Negative Capability Press. Artifacts and Relics, another chapbook, is forthcoming from Folded Word and his novel, Knight Prisoner, was recently published by Vagabondage Press and a another novel, A Book of Lost Songs is coming soon from Wild Child Publishing. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, documentarian and filmmaker Joan Juster. Bienvenue au Danse, Mark.