─ ·𖥸· ─
Black Bough Petals
The ferry juts out
Across the Mersey.
And as I turn to look back
A tiny figure, walking
Along the promenade
A tiny figure, walking
Along the promenade
In jet black clothes
Takes his dog for a stroll.
As the ferry sails,
This already small figure
Recedes.
And later I think
Of all the other figures
Who, without knowing,
Have dug themselves deeper
Into me than many
Friends and acquaintances.
Accidental impressions of
Unknown men.
And earlier,
In Chefchaouen,
Blue city with a blue sky,
Two gentlemen in shades
Smoking outside a café,
Sitting closely in silence.
They take no notice of me, but
I see them now even clearer than
On that sun-drenched morning.
And I think of
A tall Austin hotel.
Looking out at
That tiny figure,
Paddleboarding down below.
He never thinks of me,
Even now, and he
Never will.
But who am I
To object, in the
Face of such
Unconsented intimacy?
Some day these figures
Will meet,
Unencumbered.
The dog walker,
The coffee drinkers,
The paddleboarder,
And the orange-jacketed
Pedestrian, running for their bus.
And the Californian paraglider,
Veering for the beach landing.
And the parking lot attendee,
80 metres away sitting
Quietly with a torch and raincoat.
They will, at some point,
Meet, and discuss their assessment
Of me,
At some eternal tribunal.
They debate whether I have
Treated them well, and whether
They themselves have contributed
To their host’s inner peace,
And speculate, afterwards,
As to what their purpose is.
And what purpose do
Any of us need, except to be
Immortalized in figurine form,
As a lingering silhouette,
In the mind of some ferry-bound stranger?
─ ·𖥸· ─
Dawn
The dark sky, soon to be cut down
So brutally by the sun
And cherished by none—
Except those who confront themselves—
Halters its sterile movements for a while.
Calling it silence would be
Less than meaningless.
The moon, and its man, linger.
He hums from above, though none answer.
The old man sighs as cosmic radiation
Drenches him.
Those planetary memories decaying.
“What is the difference
Between Naming and Being?”
He does not ask again.
He is soon to be buried
By himself
After climbing Montes Apenninus,
Looking out ceremoniously at the
Verbally conquered craters of
Tycho, Copernicus, Kepler and Aristarchus.
The futility of the conquest astounds him.
Somewhere in that body is a brain
And somewhere in that brain is a mind
And somewhere in that mind is a sadness.
But here I am staring in horror
From the window sill
As the sun begins to feed.
(As they come and go, the women may indeed
Speak of Michelangelo,
But who will speak of themselves?)
Somewhere in that sadness is a sickness
And somewhere in that sickness—
As he sinks into the regolith
He wonders if we should all
Re-name ourselves
─ ·𖥸· ─
After Origin
Adroit little sparks
Populate a mind not unlike
Homer’s.
Together the ghosts
Of ideas and men coalesce
Through shared combination.
But only once (if ever)
In history.
Death awaits Diomedes
In the mind of every man.
That pale king.
He, friend of old Nestor,
Danced on the beach before battle
To a disco of his own delirium,
Later swinging at gods and demi-gods
That were (in fact) merely
Wretched and contorted men.
None of whom asked permission to
Disturb the Universe.
Assassins prowl between iterations of this story,
Keen to slice him from our Human drama.
He often dies of sudden onset future perfect.
(“How vainly men themselves amaze”,
To win back one of these perfect days)
But memory resuscitates him.
As it will
All of Us.
And even ends like these seem to Homer
Rather lifelike.
Elliot Murphy 