Michael Gessner

Cinq poèmes

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All Things

 

All things struggle to be,

or to be known, 

seed to sapling, 

creatures from the womb—

what thing does not struggle 

to be born, then struggle on—

to consume; death 

is a struggling too.

 

Lovers whispering in their rooms,

flowers in their box of flowers,

how the desert struggles to bloom,

to be known by sun or rain,

or for something else unknown

which is struggling itself,

even the darkness itself

wants to be known.

 

 

Girl at the Deer Head Inn

 

Before the first set I noticed her

talking to the drummer, both doing

a lot of nodding, so I knew they were

in sync about something, and she was next 

to me at the bar when she turned and smiled once, 

before fumbling in her purse then heading off

for the ladies’ room.  I turned to my friend

John, and said, “She’s gone a long time,”

and John said, “She’s not taking drugs”.

But could he be sure?  John is the Master

of Certitude.  I don’t disagree. 

         

   Well, here she comes, all rosy and glossy

   ready for the drummer.  John chats her up, 

   and I overhear—she attends Julliard—

   and here she is at Deer Head Inn,

one of the oldest jazz venues

in the country, on the ‘scat cat’ circuit

between NYC and Philly, waiting for

the set to end so she can be 

with her drummer.  “She was gone 

too long; she must be on something,” 

I said.  I knew my suspicions were right.  

They had to be.

 

  

            

Grimoire 

 

In this ensemble of senses, 

on a good day the adorer 

becomes the adoration 

 

just as the adorer becomes 

the adored.  On a good day

orchards inhale themselves.

 

Charge

 

You are my ambition.

And if it is true, we become

what we admire

then you have mistaken me

for someone else;

passion’s explosion.

 

The Stevens Walk

 

People Google me all the time

but they get Hollie Stevens instead,

“Queen of Clown Porn,” dead

at 30 from brain cancer.

 

That’s how he found me,

the dreamy-eyed academic

looking for a pilgrimage,

so we followed the granite markers,

 

thirteen of them for the stanzas

in the blackbird poem.

It’s the walk my father took

each day from home to work

 

and back again, past Elizabeth Park

            a favorite of his, where one morning—

            after I grew up and moved away—

            he found nuns by the pond

 

            painting water-lilies.  He’s not

            so popular now, Google has him

            rather low, some things he said—

            I don’t know—I remember

         

            the nuns’ “queer chapeaux,”

            the holly tree named after me, 

            he could not see the dog shit in the fallen

            leaves, or the nuns swishing flies,

 

            but the dreamy-eyed did, and he

            had to scrape the crap from his shoes

            standing there on the little stone bridge

            routing a stick around his soles,

 

            and he took so long, I drifted off,

            left him there.  I would have shown him

            my house with the holly bush named after me, 

            but he cared more for his shoes than me.                                                                                                     

                                                   

 

                                                     

Michael Gessner has authored 14 books of poetry and prose.  His latest is NIGHTSHADES, which came out earlier this year. His more recent publications include Allegro (UK,) The American Journal of Poetry, Calliope, Innisfree, North American Review, and Thimble. He lives in Tucson, AZ. Bienvenue au Danse, Michael.

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