ON THE LINKS
In the margins of the fairway
A second-story man seeks the dark fantastic
That lurks within the contemplative life,
Rebounding with the strength of twelve men
To cajole the five iron to new highs.
Once the procession of the equinoxes
Comes back down to earth, jarring
The insane root that holds sway
In the minds of many, the autumn foliage
Sees you in the rough,
At sixes and sevens in the bright
If cloud-studded New England day.
This is no two-man show
Whose rich dualism cannot be missed—
An entire fleet of people are counting
On you to deliver the emotional Velcro,
A human thunderclap to shake the trees.
A vertigo in which the buzz is all around,
Reaching the dogleg, one must field
Many tough questions, the paranormal romance
Only ends to begin again, as it is the rotation
Of the ball that matters, the lip meeting the hook,
Hitting the ground to jog past the bean counters
Before fading to the left, relax the hips and shoulders,
Stop and breathe a moment,
This buzzard is a turkey shoot,
No thoughts of negative capability here
Or you may shank everything.
Instead, learn to be instrumental in the process,
Read the waters one at a time,
The bird is in your hand, think wood.
If we had only known what
we know now
Things might have turned out differently,
But then again who knew the message
Was Sicilian in origin,
That they would sell the bear’s skin
Before he was comfortable in it,
Or that the minister would come back
From vacation determined to recover
His lost credibility
In one last-ditch effort
To breathe new life
Into the ancient canard.
In that moment,
In which nothing seemed to change,
As fortune had it,
The cows were lying down in the field.
To visit the old chateau, kindly remain zen.
Grass makes the heart grow fonder.
Here at the institute we burn the candle at both ends
Because for some men, nothing is written;
Because prevailing wisdom tends to falter over water;
And sometimes the mind wanders,
And sometimes simply just because.
Misguided perhaps, I stayed in that station hotel
Many months believing as I did that I would
Never amount to much. Not knowing me then
As you do now, you never would have
Booked us passage on that packet boat,
Had it not been for the blessed missing variable.
A shadow of my former self,
You took me for one heck of guy.
The penny dropped, but turned up roses.
I owe you one for that, maybe everything.
NO OTHER PEOPLE
The spreading lake
and the low hills lent the chessman a noble oaken calm
in their conical hats, and with it a sensibility of division wherein
river and the light paths disappeared into the trees, seemingly breathing
in the generous darkness. Sea to land, night to sky, eye to hand, dog
cat—a calm of self-sufficiency blunting the contrasts, conspiring
those outward forms formerly aspired to, rendering the horses’ hooves
Utterly lacking in charm, his mien was remarkably casual
for someone in
Evening comes far more swiftly in the tropics than in the Mid-Atlantic
states. In heated debate much of the great equation of facts may be lost
forgotten. One or two fingers extend as if the whole hand is about to
into argument. Such is the life of one hand; the other daydreams alone
a maze lined with fine Corinthian leather, bleached and cracked by the
At the sound of the bell, all mad cons went south.
In lieu of coin, a
usurer offers a small phial to two young newlyweds. The
mountebank, clad in red, is blurred in the double mirror, in which from
distance he appears as a school of apples plying the waters. In the phial,
Dark Ages lie sleeping. As the mirage fades and the music begins, our
newlyweds glean that this is no ordinary hunt.
Maybe I was more able then
than I am now, if I understand your question
As the saying goes, one man’s mickle is another man’s
muckle. And so it
goes. The tranquil hamlet of Purview, whose neighbor is Hindsight, sleeps
through the night even as the time of doves nears. But who can or will
as a car drives by in the night rain, what might occur or may go unnoticed?
obesity has its risks, particularly if you are light in your loafers.
lack of tension was palpable, but on the forest floor photosynthesis
in fact occurring, as was spontaneous generation, however minute and
invisible to the human eye. Meanwhile, in Venice, blue held the east
nature tended to express itself in sky. The sinking sun, buckling under
rigors of life, knelt before the impending storm, which punctuated the
drama with an affirmation of youth and the stimulus of lightning. The
unique thing she possessed was a sense of grace foreign to others.
CHRIS EDGAR is the author of the collection At Port Royal (Adventures
in Poetry, 2003), and was formerly Publications Director of Teachers & Writers
Collaborative in New York. Since February 2006, he has been a resident
of Geneva, Switzerland.
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