Introducing
Mark J. Mitchell
On A Theme Of Matthew Arnolds
The scholar gypsy never moved. He stayed
as still as the center of a record.
No sound escaped him and he never prayed.
He held down the same corner everyday
without interest, without being bored
this scholars a gypsy who always stays
just where you leave him and he never strays.
His eyes are gray, solid as a steel door
that keeps out sound. He never stalks his prey
They come to him, docile as some new-spayed
puppy. They want to lick the secret lore
off this scholar. Gypsies move. He stays
right there. Women hope to lift him up. They
offer hands, coins, looks like raindrops and more
sound than he can escape. They never pray
like mantises but they hunger for play.
He avoids their elastic powers, ignores
non-scholars. This gypsy will stay,
escaping dead sounds. You dont need to pray.
Geomancy
Because our window leaks I have to dry
the globe by hand. Its an old map, antique.
Am I causing an ancient drought? Killing weak
rain forests, long ago fossilized?
Can sympathetic magic really pierce
times curtain? Of course not, magic is just
an antic of light in afternoon dust,
or the spell of a note conjured with fierce
passion by a dead man. The rainy day
tosses fantasies against the cave wall.
Its easy to mistake dream for the real.
Its just a storm system coming our way
out of the shaken north and raindrops fall
on an old world. Dry it before it peels.
Coffee Cantata
For JSB.
You dont want your coffee too sweet. You want
that crisp snapan unknown animals charge
through hidden landscapes. The ghosts of mountainslarge
enough for lost gods. You want steam that haunts
your glasses, darkness pulling you awake
and drowning you in mystery. And that spice
you cant quite placea dish a strange mother made
only once. It tasted strongnot quite nice
and not safe. Swirl your spoon. Theres a lost chance
that might rise here. That makes you want to march
to seas that dont appear on maps. Unparched
deserts call you. Its ritual distance.
You want coffee to lead you. What you want
today is something you cant seea break
of birds into an impossible sky
a girl whose face forced a window to shake
with beauty. You recall her lost, dark eyes
and nothing else. Steam rises. Odors daunt
your vocabulary. Time to forage
for words and sip the heat. You become charged
with black purpose. Morning rises, less gaunt
than your unsweet coffee. Whats left to want?
Ides
Starres are poore books
George Herbert
Dont listen to stars today.
Draw no birth charts. Just play
games with Tarot. Look at the tree
behind your house and forget what you see.
Throw all your coins at the sky
and let them land, just as blind
as you are. You may let morning show
you crooked paths and streets, then go
wherever restless feet might lead you.
There is nothing here you must do
until some other picture-perfect day
Miss Death comes to knock on your gateless gate.
Warm-Up Sonnet
Iamb iamb iamb iamb iamb
An image metaphor another phrase
That leads them deep into a tight verse maze
Iamb iamb trochee iamb iamb
(Hard rhymes are worth their weight in trick effects)
A bit of room here make an open space
Where words can breathe and danceno, erase
Thatjust let lines lead to what comes next:
Now change the subject, change the tone and make
A statement. Say some thing or show some thing
Related to what came before but take
Some chancesthrow a kiss into the ring
Of myth or draw a lake that is a lake
And nothing elsejust blue. Then make it sing.
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