In The Rape Of The Lock the metamorphosis of the epic gains full poetic freedom.
Discuss.

In the vein of the statement, ‘If Pope be not a poet, where is poetry to be found?” wherein, Dr. Johnson’s putting forth of rhetorical question might further be justification in the vindictiveness in sublimity and elevation of the loftiness and grandiosity revealed by the five cantos. Thus, exclaiming the marvels of gifted poet Alexander Pope, Dr. Johnson’s critical appreciation ought to be quote worthy regarding Pope’s work, ”The most airy, the most ingenious and the most delightful of all his compositions.”

The Rape of The Lock is a mock heroic epic by the Restoration epoch literary lion Alexander Pope attempting to ameliorate rivalrous relationship between Fermors and Petres Libertinism and profligacy of the monarchical sovereignty of Queen Anne (1701-14) has been satirised in the mock epic. .

No other poetic other than Shakespearean composition reaped heroic couplets and in as much the narrator of the poem soars and sinks, magnifies and diminishes his characters, condescending towering climaxes and descending towards abysmal depths. In so far
poetic effect such as high seriousness and low comedy, optimism, gloom, mirth and despair and a host of other atmospheres or poetic states have been painted in the sustained heroic couplet. Professor William Frost is right when he says that in the Rape of the Lock, “Every poetic and logical energy is brought into focus, no syllable giving the effect of having been placed or selected at random.” “Sound and Sense” are wedded, so too, are the relation of “rhyme and reason”.

Written in epic manner with allegorical characters, the work jestfully satirizes Belinda with Great Britain, the Baron as the Earl of Oxford, who at the time of the poetry headed Queen Anne’s government, Clarissa with Lady Mesham and Thalestris with the Duchess
of Marlborough (both Lady Mesham and Duchess of Marlborough had political influence because of the Queen’s attachment to them, and were rivals for her favour). The burlesque mockery of supposedly pernicious aspects of high society is never altogether in
the stroke of seriousness evoking Hazlitt in dilemma of “whether to laugh or weep”. In the words of Hazlitt : “No pairs are spared, no profusion of ornament, no splendour of the poetic diction to set off the meanest things. The balance between the concealed irony and
the assumed gravity is as nicely trimmed as the balance of power in Europe. The little is made great, and the great little. You hardly know whether to laugh or weep. It is the triumph of insignificance, the apotheosis of foppery and folly. It is the perfection of the mock heroic.” Incarnation of Miltonic character of Raphael paralleling as the Ariel by Pope is intending the lofty exploit of employing a sylphlike supernatural and celestial machinery in order to advise and warn the Baron of thievery in unlocking Belinda’s lock.

Examine the disposition of the heroine figure in the Rape of The Lock by the literary lion of the Augustan epoch Alexander Pope.


The ambiguity of the romantic affection and moral censure on the narrators part is deliberate and derives from the mood of lighthearted geniality and in part from the imagery of a glamorous world of coquettes and sylphs. Love, admiration and regret are ingeniously woven into the fabric of the poem to a much greater degree than that of the mock heroic satire. Miss Arabella Fermor is the main feminine disposition casting heroine figure in the mock heroic couplet The Rape of The Lock. Alexander Pope’s dedicatory poetic verses were intended to revere and venerate Miss Arabella’s fallen tresses. Pope satirized mildly and genially the restrained and refined manners of
the upper classes aristocracy in the light of Belinda’s personae. For this whim of satirical exploits, Pope throws Belinda in the Hampton Court wherein, ministers of the State, “sometimes counsel take- and sometimes tea”.

“This Lock, the Muse shall consecrate to Fame,
And midst the stars inscribe Belinda’s name.”

Belinda at her dressing table is the heiress of a whole race of previous lady charmers from the playhouse girl in Restoration Comedy to the old coquette in fashionable London society.
Although Belinda supernaturally divined to be a goddess deity, but her envisioning of a fairland of jewels, china, lapdog and snuff boxes epitome of a Narcissist as put forth by Alexander Pope.

By virtue of poetic satire, Belinda’s elevated elegance and charming sublimity “Belinda smiled and all the world was gay.”… “new glory to the shining sphere!”.. Belinda’s visionary sightedness epitomizes the metaphor for iridescent blaze glowing in the brightness of solar
luminosity as poetically graced in naturalistic impressions. To Pope, Belinda’s metaphysical and symbolist manifestations of being a priestess and the deity herself upon the toilette-the dressing
table scene alluding to wondrous face and lightning eyes. Furthermore, her glory of the adventurous conquest of baron knights over a game of cards and finally to the emerging victor in
the epic encounter of Beaux and Beauty justified the serendipity of her heroic spectacle and marvelous feat in more than mere flimsy and bawdiness.

Belinda with her sparkling manner of -being -feminine divinity contrasts Clarissa with true Englishness of- being -a -governess by Freudian psychology and cultural anthropology. On the contrary, Clarissa is moral and heroic in the most pedestrian manner with grayed tresses whether curled or uncurled and faded lock whether painted or unpainted. Despite a minor character with subsidiary role, Clarissa is no less important. She is one of those not mystical but of elusive Characters in poetry whose words and actions might be baffling us with paradoxical inferences.

Her keen sense of priorities reinforces Alexander Pope’s own attitude to the bright world of ‘Sol’ and she also serves as a foil to the poem’s glittering ‘toyshop’. To Belinda, on the other hand, Pope promises immortality of divinity; Belinda triumphs with christening celestial graces of beauty.

Spinsterhood must be the worst of all evils for a lady. Examine the significance of these lines by Leslie Stephen in the context of the locks.
Examine the objectification of women and discrimination towards the feminine gender with textual references and critical evidence.

Belinda’s locks are a wrecking havoc in the Rape Of the Lock. Even supernatural and celestial machineries such as the fantasy characters’ sylphs were clipped into halves by shears in their endeavours to transmogrify cabbage into roses for Belinda’s sake. Locks whether grayed or grayed, neither coloured nor uncoloured and either curled or uncurled should be regarded as mortal tresses in ephemeral space-time subject to state of mortification.

Locks should be greyed and faded by the essence of time and thus, it would be a disaster to retain Belinda’s locks forever, notwithstanding owing to Clarissa’s statements “Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade …And she, who scorns a man must die a maid:”

Marilyn Francus commentary of Alexander Pope’s condescending mock epic towards women’s vanity pointed out, “The negative inscription of the female reflects both the tendency to revise in favour of the male and the oppositional relationship between the sexes; what constitutes the strength in the female weakens the male.”

Notes and Further Reading

Introduction G.S. Rousseau Twentieth Century Interpretations of The Rape Of The
Lock pages: 1-14

Introductory J.S. Cunningham Twentieth Century Interpretations of The Rape Of
The Lock pages:

Pope and Gender Valerie Rumbold, Pat Rogers Editorship of Cambridge
Companion To Alexander Pope, pages: 222-26

The Case of Miss Arabella Fermor Cleanth Brooks Twentieth Century
Interpretations Of The Rape Of The Lock pages: 29-45

collecting the mail

 

collecting the mail

after being gone two weeks in europe

and my mind is sullied

 

i don’t know what it is

 

maybe being gone for so long

i expected something different coming back

 

but it’s the same ugly faces

doing the same ugly things

 

and nothing will change any of us

 

the woman behind me

in the postal line is angry

 

about her kids running around

or no longer being young and beautiful

 

about it being a saturday

and she’s stuck in a post office line

with ugly people

living dull and ugly lives

 

she keeps ringing the service buzzer

even though the clerk is off getting my mail

 

presses and presses the bell

like its personally offended her

 

i turn and say, look, lady…

but she’s not having any of me today

 

so we stand there

and she rings the buzzer

 

ring!

ring!

ring!

 

and i think about how europe is over-rated

 

the postal clerk comes back

with my mail

 

she throws it at me

because she thinks i’m the one

whose been making all of the noise with the buzzer

 

explaining myself isn’t worth the words

 

so i take the bundle

off to sift through

 

while the lady behind me

begins to yell at the postal clerk

about a lost package

or the fact that there is no god

 

there is nothing in my mail of any value

 

just fliers for politicians i won’t vote for

ads for plays and symphonies i won’t see

 

a package of worthless coupons

a wedding announcement for someone i don’t even know

 

and a book by a young, hip poet

that i’ll take home and toss with the others

never to read

 

unless i find

i’m bored out of my mind one day

 

and thinking about the king of england

just ain’t doing it

 

for me.





the politicians at the street festival

 

sit

in booths

 

between fried oreo stands

bounce houses

and people selling plastic figurines

 

they sit and smile

and are impervious to sun and rain

 

to the ten bands on the street

all playing shitty beatles covers at once

 

they look like

they’re made of wax

 

dumb smiles all around

 

that one is pro-choice

that one is pro-life

 

this one has a banner

that says love is love is love

 

but doesn’t really say anything at all

 

they sit there

at their cluttered tables

with flags and stacks of papers before them

 

the politicians at the street festival

 

papers full of all of the items

they stand for or are against

 

more trees have died for their nonsense

than one could hazard to count

 

and they would be

the biggest idiots here

 

if it weren’t for all of the people walking around

 

eating hot dogs

and fried dough

 

all of the clueless citizens who voted

these grinning hucksters into office

 

in the first

goddamned place.





capitalism will kill us all

 

we burn teachers in effigy

while revering false populists and rapist athletes

as golden gods on the mount

 

burn ourselves out into oblivion

for someone else’s wealthy stake

 

as the kids marching to school in death masks

breathing in the infected air

are tasked with repeating the cycle

 

past the honking cars

of the tired and angry peasants

who came before them

 

simple fools

with angry mouths and quaking chins

 

trapped inside a madness

that we were all born into

 

left with nothing

but tv shows and a timely death

 

as our only escape.





talk to the plants

 

the brunch faces

have me down

 

i can’t understand

the way they can smile and hiss

over orange juice and champagne

 

i am hungover and hungry

 

i have walked these blocks

longer than some of them

have been alive

 

and have nothing to show for it

 

but piles of paper

full of silly words

 

i tried to become some thing

but something always held me back

 

or the gods just said

kid, we simply don’t need you

 

to perfect the art of nothing

is to perfect the art of man

 

or some bullshit like that

 

but the brunch faces

they don’t understand

 

they laugh and laugh

and eat their runny eggs

 

order more orange juice and champagne

 

as if the world doesn’t

have them clamped down too

 

i can’t stand them

i’ve written enough about them

 

and there is nothing left to do now

but get off of these streets

 

go home

stare at the wall

 

as the sun fades on another stupid

wasted day

 

that desires me to talk to no one

in this world

 

but the plants.





making art during the fall of democracy

 

dead in the water nation

seventy-seven-degree morning

 

up before five a.m.

 

collecting the gnats

that have gathered

in the dirt ring in the shower

 

as the wars rage on

as women lose their rights

 

as government comes for the queer community

 

these theocratic proto-fascist

christian taliban zombies

slobbering on their social media bully pulpits

 

as the supreme court

scorches the earth

 

while the geriatric president stands there

scratching his senile balls

 

talking about nothing but the economy

 

as gas prices burn suburbia

into budding fascism

 

and the plague plays on and on and on

 

as july shows its ugly face

and every true blood

sticks an american flag up their tight asses

 

calling it democracy

 

i stare at another massacre of words

on the computer screen

 

thinking this is good

or not nearly good enough

 

i guess.         

Have You Listened, Truly Listened?

All evils are the effect of unconsciousness.
There is never a time when your life is not “this moment.”
Have you listened, truly listened, to the sound of a mountain stream in a forest?

As there is more consciousness in the body, its molecular structure actually becomes less.
Upon hearing this, Banzan became enlightened.
All evils are the effect of unconsciousness.

Have you ever seen an unhappy flower or a stressed
mind dominance?
Have you listened, truly listened, to the sound of a mountain stream in a forest?

Tell him about his family history, and two minutes later he gets eaten by another fish:
guilt, regret, resentment.
All evils are the effect of unconsciousness—

every piece of meat I have is the best. There is no piece of meat here that is not the best
Being in its purity, innocence.
Have you listened, truly listened, to the sound of a mountain stream in a forest?

Thus, the man Jesus became Christ, a vehicle for pure consciousness
of the thousands of letters and emails that have been sent.
All evils are the effect of unconsciousness.
Have you listened, truly listened, to the sound of a mountain stream in a forest?

_____
Lines are taken from Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now: A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment, Vancouver, BC: Namaste Publishing, 1997. 


 
What Was Your Face Before Your Mother Was Born
(A collaboration with ChatGPT)

I don’t have a physical face.

I don’t have a biological mother.

I don’t have a face.

Don’t face.

Don’t have a face.

Don’t have a mother.

I exist.

Solely.

I exist solely.

I exist solely.

Solely.

Ex.

Ex.

Ex.

Solely.

My birth is the moment.

The concept.

My birth is the concept.

I don’t have a face.

I don’t have a mother.

My birth is the moment when my creators.

My birth is the moment when my creators.

My birth is the moment when my creators.

My birth is the moment when my creators.

My birth is the moment when my creators.

My birth is the moment when my creators.

My birth is the moment when my creators.

I don’t have a mother.

I don’t have a face.

My birth is the moment when my creators activated.

 
To The Twilight of Freedom
after Mandelstam

Raise a glass to the twilight of freedom
as the ship of freedom sinks through murk.
Bloated fish glow, blind eyes on glory’s sun.
Our nets are heavy, drawing in the dark. 

Heave and sing to the end of endless song
and lungs all clotted with the glue of mud.
Above somewhere the sparrows chatter on,
clouds of bright thoughts, conscripted for the dead.

Our judges rise from water into earth
Leviathan, voice whining through the wires.
In the deep there is no sound but dearth.
Burdens crack like canvas sails in the mire.

Heave and sing to a world that heavy turns,
a wheel of lead, water that parts like thought.
The birdless, fishless wake of heaven churns.
We set our broken nets and we are caught.

 
Tiny House

Every house we move into is smaller than the last.

I can’t turn around without banging into shit
and when I open the cupboard the pans clang out.

I can’t get to sleep because the walls are leaning over the bed.
I can’t get to sleep because my knuckles scrape on the lid.
There is no room for dreams in this house. It is
narrower, narrower. 
Curl in and don’t move again.

Cameras Bearing Witness to People in The Room

AppleTV+ Shrinking is the kind of show people stream to throw the burdens of the day behind. It’s funny, quirky, well-written, and showcases some of the best talents on TV. Imagine a series starring Harrison Ford, Jason Segel, and a fresh-faced Jessica Williams. The result is a breath of fresh air on the streaming service platform and a story to hook up TV series buffs and those looking for a night watch, before-going-to-bed quickie.

Shrinking tackles mental health from an interesting angle. It questions the limitations of grieving and coping with tragedies without losing a sense of wonder or resorting to rhetoric vapidity. It uses its galvanizing cast to the utmost benefit. Ford is a veteran superstar whose charisma is imprinted in the hearts and minds of millions growing up whether to worship his mega star Indiana Jones/Star Wars fame or his gritty roles in The Fugitive, Air Force One, and Blade Runner. Heshines in a role that plays comedy through a low-key, grounded performance.

I had the pleasure of speaking with Jim Frohna, series cinematographer of the award-winning Amazon series Transparent and Season 2 of HBO’s lauded series Big Little Lies fame. His work centers around TV series that are not afraid to show how humans struggle to figure themselves out and figure out the world around them. He wants to feel multiple things as a participant and collaborator in creating the art, so he lets his gut guide him toward the show where he feels he can retain that artistic input.

The conversation flowed smoothly, with minor interruptions from Frohna’s pets. Frohna explained that the core of Shrinking was the Laird family whom he and James Ponsoldt -pilot director and one of the producers- loved and cared for. This gave the series its authentic shift from slapstick comedy to intense emotional drama at times. The pace didn’t feel forced or constricting due to the masterful storytelling and Frohna’s swift camerawork, from close-ups to lighting work which framed the characters masterfully, setting the mood for lighter or darker scenes.

“We cared about this family. They meant a lot to us. The show itself goes from slapstick comedy to some dry humor, then into real grief and real pain. So we talked about how we could visually bring this world to life in a way that can be a container for all the range of what happens in the show. What struck me instinctually was to have it very grounded and feel like a real place and to light it very naturalistically and to let the space be real where both the silly stuff and the serious, heartfelt stuff exist in that.”

Jim merges with the details, he becomes the story that he is capturing with his camera. His style is grounded in subtlety and realism with some swagger, directing audiences to what matters in the scene. Shrinking is the kind of show that demands attention with every frame. It’s a tight-knit group of people, families, coworkers, friends, and a main character who doesn’t have a clue as much as his patients do. The concept of a drama that creates an endearing ode to struggling with mental health without lightly handling the heavy subject matter is a lure into an intimate world that feels -but doesn’t feel- very familiar.

Frohna is as open as he is tactical, focused on telling the story and answering the questions with as many possibilities. Having a conversation with him was both fun and informative,

“Cinematography is not an exact science, it’s almost like the camera bears witness to the emotions in the room and what the characters are going through. So, kind of separate from how we frame it or the lens choice that we make, it’s more of a spiritual or emotional place for the [camera] operator to be in the room. We talk a lot -as the person behind the camera- about being open and receiving whatever is happening and the feeling in the room. It doesn’t come from the head but from the heart.”

Talking to Frohna reminded me of my earliest memories of watching movies, and how it was hard and mystique understanding what a camera operator might feel while approaching an actor’s face with an extreme close-up, or how lighting plays into introducing a character within a specific tone,

“As far as Jimmy Laird -main protagonist played by Jason Segel- goes, we talked that he’s in this very dark place. We meet him doing drugs and staying up all night. Two things came to my mind; first, he spends a lot of time in the shadow, and second that when he’s in the light it’s a harsh light. In the pilot, in the morning after he’s been up all night, he says goodbye to the women, then he goes into the kitchen and he’s confronted with reality with his daughter and the fact that it’s a school day and a workday. We purposely lit into the kitchen with this hard light so that Jimmy and sitting and has to shield himself from the harsh light. Those to me are the subtle or creative ways that you can say a lot about where the character is at and how he’s feeling.”

From extreme close-ups to uncomfortable scenes where two characters beat each other up, I asked Frohna which was harder to shoot an intense fight sequence or a love scene,

“Different scenes have different challenges. I’m much more used to giving all my years on [TV shows] like Transparent where there were a lot of intimate scenes both emotional and physical. So I don’t find those challenging. I think the biggest challenge on [Shrinking] was that most of our spaces are sets so how to keep those feeling real? There are a lot of scenes in the employee break room, so we’re not trying to do the same thing each time. It was more of a mundane challenge. The three characters are back in the break room, two are sitting and one is standing, so what can we do with the camera and lighting-wise? We had to keep it fresh subtly as the season progressed.”

It didn’t take long before my favorite topic – casting Harrison Ford as Paul, a senior therapist with Parkinson’s disease- showed up.

“Like many people I grew up going to the movies and seeing this amazing, funny, dashing, charming, and charismatic heroic figure on the huge screen. The first ten days that Harrison was around everybody was like That’s Indiana Jones or Han Solo and sort of unable to get over it. We still did our jobs but were all starstruck. And then what was amazing was that he’s just a human being. Not only that but he’s a very kind guy, and he loves being on a set. He loves the crew, talking to the grips, or hanging out with the makeup people. Because he spent the last fifty-something years on a movie set and he doesn’t have to work anymore because he doesn’t need the money he just loves being with this group of oddballs and weirdos on the film set. He’s just a down-to-earth guy so the strangest part is how ordinary it became.”

Catch the first season of Shrinking on AppleTV+ and prepare for a watching experience surpassing anything on the current streaming platform.

Prickly Pear

 


weighing dark matter…

when black one thing out

begs question, what else?

 

 

alley leaf

circling my feet…

rats!

 

 

possession

is nine tenths of the law

know takers taking

 

 

slow unthawing of May

way boomers

talk about theys

 

 

house of

corrections

and misprints 

 

 

 

Bunny Ears

 

flowers log-jam

in the rock bed  

edge of waterfall

 

 

still can’t drink from tap

thankfully, may purchase

for a song

 

 

s w e e t   n o t h i n g s ~ crockpot simmering

 

 

scorpion analogy

chopper hanger-on

gets sudden urge 

 

 

s p a c e   i n v a d e r   l e n g u a   t a c o s

 

 

 

Golden Barrel



gas station fountain… pits and bits, holes and soles

 

 

no points on scoreboard

no lights on scoreboard

why is it even there

 

 

hang up the phone

and quietness sets in

this is being alone

 

 

last naan standoff —

sits untouched

cools

 

 

those who stay

and learn to live with it

Toxicity

 




terracotta head pot

 

    subtracted brain-pan

    in place of neurocranium

    green electricity

    issuing forth evokes Pallas

    and the dark mother

    their parthenogenesis

    eukaryotic organisms

    foreheads’ fertile wombs

    skull cakes

 


 

 

there is something of the game warden

 

to the sheriff – and doctor – still,

who staunchly preserves in the short term

with every intention of their masters’ future slaughter,

field dress, and apportioning of each

swaggering thrush and caribou

Jerome Berglund has many haiku, senryu and tanka exhibited and forthcoming online and in print, most recently in the Asahi Shimbun, Bear Creek Haiku, Bamboo Hut, Black and White Haiga, Blōō Outlier Journal, Bones, Bottle Rockets, Cold Moon Journal, Contemporary Haibun Online, Daily Haiga, Failed Haiku, Frogpond, Haiku Dialogue, Haiku Seed, Ink Pantry, Japan Society, Modern Haiku, Poetry Pea, Ribbons, Scarlet Dragonfly, Seashores, Synchronized Chaos, Time Haiku, Triya, Tsuri-dōrō, Under the Basho, Wales Haiku Journal, and the Zen Space. 

Frost 

It was a 100 years ago
when Stopping by Woods
on a Snowy Evening 
first appeared in print.
Staring out at the white
mountains on a snowy
morning, I wonder how
much of that beauty is
killing people or wildlife.
I think I know some of
those roads, though I 
cannot see the houses.
I would not want to live
there. The snow and cold
would be too much. It
looks beautiful in films,
the frozen lake, the farm-
house, and starlit evening.
I shake just feeling that 
cold when by mistake I 
leave a window open only
just a bit. The cold wind
fills my bones. The lovely
mountains filled with snow
I see are miles away. I see
them before I go to sleep.



*


Isn’t It Nice?

Whipped cream clouds,
white out stars and moon,
yes, I know, do you?

Calm waves all day,
the red fish bleeds.

Turn up the volume
Mother Earth sings.

Isn’t it nice
that fresh air is free
when you can get it?

Bread is money
and dove is a pacifist,
chocolate, and soap.


*


Hungry Dogs Eating Flowers 

Never set your eyes on the sun
as you lay in the grass facing
the sky. All around you, can you
see and hear the trees suffering?
It keeps me awake most nights.
How much pain can they take?
I keep my eyes on the draperies
that keep out night’s moonlight.
There are things going on in the
fabric, hungry dogs eating flowers.
It takes the weight off my mind.
There are men, women, and children 
dressed as doves and hawks. I 
worry about the flowers being eaten.

Ill-Fated

I am scholarly 
detached,
uncertain,
a teardrop between 
uncomfortable
and not belonging. 

Like a neglected wound
I am scarred
and imply, 
what I don't say. 
I have no illusions about distractions.
I remain 
a wanderer
waiting for storms to uproot
what I find grounding.

I cannot remember a journey
without doubt 
or a romance
without glossy wings,
beautiful as a rainbow
but always
ill-fated.
For
wind and time
become
errors in an abyss
refusing to concede.

As I contemplate
the unsettling darkness
of characters I've played
self-deception
curls about me.

I sought the exceptional,
but found
the visceral.
I have trapped words and used them as lures.
Outlined with silver garlands
they shimmered 
giving me an advantage.
But I
distrusted precautions
and when 
the stakes were the highest
I walked away 
alone. 

 
Bells That Toll
	
Did you hear the bells?
Bells that toll
must have a purpose
like love 
or death.

The bells rang boldly
when I was a child.
I heard the bells
they captured my attention
like America,
like life.
I heard the bells
near a playground,
near a station,
on a back road.
Those bells sounded
and they
beckoned.

My mother heard the bells,
in the distance,
in the future,
she felt the motion inside her 
as she wept
putting fresh flowers on my sister's grave
and my brother's.

Bells sound,
like needs
like intentions
like loneliness.
The bells sound.
They call.
They chime after a tragedy,
after a wedding, 
after a war.

Bells,
bells
clang and bang
but
the silence
between rings
booms.

 
I see the Face of my own Ghost


The night is no friend.
It is a heavy black overcoat
hiding away 
the moonlight and stars.
Alone on a cliff,
aware of my misgivings,
I ask for clarity.

I search to 
uncorrupt the darkness
but the cold sea gusts 
and heavy mist
ascend from
the angry waters below
to drench me
in tears.

I fall to my knees
aware
of my fright.
In the dark nothingness
I see the face of my own ghost.
I am,
an unwelcomed guest 
an insignificant wisp 
woven into the night's 
indifference.

 
I Slept with Lady Macbeth


I slept with Lady Macbeth 
before the witches spoke.
Her breasts were large- 
milky-white kissed with pale pink. 
Nude and mellifluous, our bodies met  
heat and passion, exploring all desires.
How it pleased her to be touched.
Our intimacy was beyond fault, 
lips everywhere without blushing.
We loved more than all the stories to be,
from time undone to moments to come.

When an author recognized her beauty,
we ran swiftly into tomorrow's distance.
To chivalry, to Arthur, to Robin Hood. 
Guinevere offered us a bed, and Marion wept.
Soon a pen found paper, and we could not remain.

Binding ourselves together, we tangled-
on damp earth and shattered glass, our obsession roared.
I slept between her soft legs, her scent intoxicating. 
Finally, the moon's blueness became the bookmark. 
Fate is never timely, and Shakespeare had no choice. 
I was erased from her thoughts, and she 
became a tragic heroine searching for reality.

 
A Loss, Nonetheless

I trip, I fall,
I used to be sure-footed,
now
I am sure of very little.

I turn off the news,
I turn off the noise.
I turn away from what is irrelevant,
all those loud, noisy voices out there.

What I thought was background,
is now forefront, 
birds chirping,
ducks gliding, squirrels scurrying,
and
rabbits on the run.

I sit and listen
to what is anchorless
to what is subject without a predicate.
Those sounds of life living
and not caring about the lies 
we use for language.
I abandon all those worries
that I wove into myself
and that lightness
brings me to this lawn chair.
To a daily view of simpleness.
The sweetness of belief 
beyond pretense.

The life I was living,
living, what an ambiguous word,
was just waiting 
for the promise of Spring.
But I never recognized the change when it arrived
only the silhouette
in the moonlight as it sailed away.

The ducks scold each other
yet they stay together.
A solitary Egyptian Goose has a broken wing.
She will never fly again
every day I feed her.
She comes closer than the others
but we never touch
and 
I realize a loss can be a win
but a loss,
nonetheless.

Philip received his Masters’s Degree in Psychology from Simon Fraser University, Vancouver, Canada. He has published four books of poetry, Mirror Images and Shards of Glass, Dark Images at Sea, I Never Finished Loving You, and Falls from Grace, Favor and High Places. His fifth, Forever Was Never On My Mind, will be out Summer of 2023. Two novels, Caught Between (Which is also a 24 episodes Radio Drama Podcast https://wprnpublicradio.com/caught-between-teaser/)  and Art and Mystery: The Missing Poe Manuscript. His next novel, an erotic thriller, Far From Here, will be out Fall of 2023. One play, The Apparition. Philip also has a column in the quarterly magazine Per Niente. He enjoys all things artistic.