Dennis Barone
Lamentations
It is the gap I fell into
yet neither a new planet
nor a black hole. I might
have been alone even
if others were present.
And what could I have
said to them or told
myself? I noted the wall
paper and its coincidence.
We were gathered in our
hometown yet everything
felt so foreign.
Outside the younger kids
rode their bikes north
to the park or south into
town. On Main Street
someone parked their car
in the pharmacy lot to pick-
up a prescription and
someone else pulled along
the curbside by Pietro’s to
pick-up a pizza to bring
home for dinner. Some hike
in the near-distant hills
and others stumble from
the Trackside Inn.
The six o’clock train arrives
and then departs for the next
town. Everything spins
except inside where we wait
still as stone for tall ships
and fireworks, for celebrations
of all sorts planned by
committees hand-picked.
I am too much who I am
and not enough anyone else.
What if we confess?
There were years before
we met and plenty of time
apart even after we met
in heavy wind and rain.
It has been six months
already! And if I confess?
Never did my spirits
require to be tranquilized
by quiet and repose.
I could go six miles or
so with my head held in
my hands. I would, too.
I might be the only one
honest enough to confess.
I am who I am.
Just ask.
A child becomes sick and the
doctor is summoned, but the
child dies. And the doctor
arrives on a donkey and the
child’s father throws the
donkey off a cliff. The
father moves to America.
His son buys a motorcycle.
The father sees it inside the
house and the father throws
it down the stairs.
Arise woman and weep in the night.
At the dawn of your vigil open your
heart wide as the oceans. In praise
of God raise up your hands
for the breath of children weak now
with hunger at the end of each street.
Hoard of Jerusalem:
hunger in Hebrew is raav,
a snake in an empty mouth.
(after Erri De Luca)
Three Hours
arc lamp –
return to earth
surely no disgrace
how it’s put together
cosmos pocketed
idyll
autobiographical verse
defiance intentionally a rule
mess some forward emotion’s call
disapproval disapprobation disappointment
disappear
it’s easy
the revolution from fifty various
names: one’s reason --
carnival
to envision heartland,
surely no disgrace
return to earth:
business rates, city time,
rope-snake
salvo fraught comparison
no effect has cause
no ceiling needs a street
terrific turnaround
next
necessity obliges neologism
about someone, a something
a cause
someone, something
never
once gratis
terrific
The Library
(after Paul Eluard)
Absent my cola day here
Absent my puppet at the harbor
Absent the table absent the edge
Absent the image soiree
Absent the arms career
Absent a corona day’s riot
Absent the marvel the tweet
Absent the pain block the journal
Absent the season’s finances
Absent too my shift on aware
Absent the tank so late and noisy
Absent the black loon I so wanted
Absent the stamps’ lure eyes on it
Absent the aisles may also
Absent the million days hombres
Absent the mouse my new age
Absent the sewers the courage
Absent a blue epaulet faded
Absent the forms skin still wants
Absent the coaches gay colors
Absent a tan physique
Absent the sentences evil says
Absent the routes deployed
Absent the places key to boredom
Absent my mansion reunited
Absent fruit copied in dough
Absent my minor Etna chamber
Absent my sheen go man it tundra
Absent sense orioles addressed
Absent melancholy melody, night
Absent the trembling demand for day
Absent the odd jets of mint air
Absent the photo few bit
Absent a touché accordion
Absent the front of my animus
Absent shock its tent key
Absent the victory day surprises
Absent the levers a tent gives
Absent an Odysseus to silence
Absent my refuge the truth
Absent my fairest and cruel days
Absent the mirth the moon and
Absent what solitude knows
Absent the marches to the morgue
Absent the sanity we renewed
Absent the risk that too
Absent missed parts absent sylvan air
And for the favor done
You recommence my feet
Mask, No Mask
Those books of yours are doorstops
at the eyes and not in the hallway.
At present there are no Raphaels or
da Vincis in Hartford. Great care must
be taken not to scatter dust, the pasture
land of dreams. Backstage everyone is
cheerful: their shoes like the walking
trees of Louisiana, at least when they
move. Sometimes numbers add up;
sometimes they lessen, but never do
they provide Caesar a pizza. Such
notes of bliss betoken the wastefulness
of a leisure class. Historians can only
speculate from fragmentary evidence
which Biblical verse now must be
quoted. Someone else pulls danger
from his hands, someone else pays tribute.
Return to your book: the rearrangement
of living patterns across an entire
metropolitan area. It isn’t difficult to get
caught up with an illusion: the long-
poem all throughout its length
defining terms. I hope I haven’t been
calling on your sheet of paper: bold
and resolute. It wasn’t my choice that
others sit in one of two chairs. We
agreed, though, that as residents of
Connecticut we would not go to Velda’s
party. We don’t read out loud either.
We sit among a peloton of strangers
where slightly to the left a luminous
quality might hang free from its braid.
Sweet Indolence
Wallenstein himself has responded.
His terminology is well-accepted.
I offer you a good book and best wishes.
It is not known where we go,
but we start. It is done.
I do not want to repeat the catastrophe
of last year: to be rich but not content.
It is recommended most of all to respect
the opinions of others. Twice Wallenstein
was involved in unpleasant scenes
in the town square. Those who walk
in the world do not worry about
direction. What do they wish to say?
Sarcasm will not translate well.
What do you prescribe to maintain a balance?
Some have an ear for music. Wallenstein
pried up the stone that lay across the mouth.
He always seemed ready to help the poor
and the weak. We know, to some extent,
our interior psyche; the inside of our bodies
not at all. It is a fact that our daily
life is frantic. The doctors
say to eat cheese in moderation.
The poetry of life. The judges acquitted
Wallenstein. We are a people who seem
to have lost a sense of others’ suffering.
Perhaps it is better so. Life is full of magic.
Places that do not live in our
imaginations have little significance.
Wallenstein is afraid of dying. They
say laughter prolongs life. Here one eats well.
I have made a reservation. Come on!
Others can’t wait to get here.
Lilac
You need to remember
that it was snowing
little words that backfired.
Then you need to remember that
labor is nothing fancy,
nothing at all more than
or less than wing beats
of geese off in the distance.
All the colors of Mondrian’s
Boogie-woogie collapse, ever-
darkening our chamber. Now
closer to bloom, I recall
shampoo and leather. The
taste of turkey on my tongue
offers up rough occasion;
some texture to a world
far from those distant geese
and their incessant honking.
Reunion within the triangle:
forty citizens of Paris may exit
the frame; others may enter.
Off to one side a line forms our
boundary of sight. If I could
make myself the gendarme of this
scene my arm would rise
as if to mimic the structure’s
steel, halt these walkers moving
into and then out of the frame.
Halt – my signal would say
and then I would add “look”
and continue “we are in a
city of lights” and voila the tower
would glow as forty or so
citizens of Paris pause to remember
where they are and I would say
“ca va” and I would say
“maintenant” and a split second
later I would know that I had
decided my figure in the center,
the one with the chapeau, that was me
turning another image side-ways
to see the length of those lines and
across town our mayor counts
potted blooms hoping for tourists
far beyond all accumulated harvest.
Our neighbors have prepared the flowers,
the fruit, and the cloth. I stand as we
proceed down the boulevard and
my little brother looks up to me.
I do not fall as we proceed, as we
march on and on. I find courage
enough to look into our kitchen.
The lights come on as I enter and
once more I hear Ozzie and Harriet
argue about dinner as if it will be
their last meal. Such pilgrims hesitate.
They wonder what will be. They turn
side-ways to predict the length of their
lives and their footsteps move beyond
those French doors
and jangle through a sharp-edged book.
Lamentations
It is the gap I fell into
yet neither a new planet
nor a black hole. I might
have been alone even
if others were present.
And what could I have
said to them or told
myself? I noted the wall
paper and its coincidence.
We were gathered in our
hometown yet everything
felt so foreign.
Outside the younger kids
rode their bikes north
to the park or south into
town. On Main Street
someone parked their car
in the pharmacy lot to pick-
up a prescription and
someone else pulled along
the curbside by Pietro’s to
pick-up a pizza to bring
home for dinner. Some hike
in the near-distant hills
and others stumble from
the Trackside Inn.
The six o’clock train arrives
and then departs for the next
town. Everything spins
except inside where we wait
still as stone for tall ships
and fireworks, for celebrations
of all sorts planned by
committees hand-picked.
I am too much who I am
and not enough anyone else.
What if we confess?
There were years before
we met and plenty of time
apart even after we met
in heavy wind and rain.
It has been six months
already! And if I confess?
Never did my spirits
require to be tranquilized
by quiet and repose.
I could go six miles or
so with my head held in
my hands. I would, too.
I might be the only one
honest enough to confess.
I am who I am.
Just ask.
A child becomes sick and the
doctor is summoned, but the
child dies. And the doctor
arrives on a donkey and the
child’s father throws the
donkey off a cliff. The
father moves to America.
His son buys a motorcycle.
The father sees it inside the
house and the father throws
it down the stairs.
Arise woman and weep in the night.
At the dawn of your vigil open your
heart wide as the oceans. In praise
of God raise up your hands
for the breath of children weak now
with hunger at the end of each street.
Hoard of Jerusalem:
hunger in Hebrew is raav,
a snake in an empty mouth.
(after Erri De Luca)
Three Hours
arc lamp –
return to earth
surely no disgrace
how it’s put together
cosmos pocketed
idyll
autobiographical verse
defiance intentionally a rule
mess some forward emotion’s call
disapproval disapprobation disappointment
disappear
it’s easy
the revolution from fifty various
names: one’s reason --
carnival
to envision heartland,
surely no disgrace
return to earth:
business rates, city time,
rope-snake
salvo fraught comparison
no effect has cause
no ceiling needs a street
terrific turnaround
next
necessity obliges neologism
about someone, a something
a cause
someone, something
never
once gratis
terrific
The Library
(after Paul Eluard)
Absent my cola day here
Absent my puppet at the harbor
Absent the table absent the edge
Absent the image soiree
Absent the arms career
Absent a corona day’s riot
Absent the marvel the tweet
Absent the pain block the journal
Absent the season’s finances
Absent too my shift on aware
Absent the tank so late and noisy
Absent the black loon I so wanted
Absent the stamps’ lure eyes on it
Absent the aisles may also
Absent the million days hombres
Absent the mouse my new age
Absent the sewers the courage
Absent a blue epaulet faded
Absent the forms skin still wants
Absent the coaches gay colors
Absent a tan physique
Absent the sentences evil says
Absent the routes deployed
Absent the places key to boredom
Absent my mansion reunited
Absent fruit copied in dough
Absent my minor Etna chamber
Absent my sheen go man it tundra
Absent sense orioles addressed
Absent melancholy melody, night
Absent the trembling demand for day
Absent the odd jets of mint air
Absent the photo few bit
Absent a touché accordion
Absent the front of my animus
Absent shock its tent key
Absent the victory day surprises
Absent the levers a tent gives
Absent an Odysseus to silence
Absent my refuge the truth
Absent my fairest and cruel days
Absent the mirth the moon and
Absent what solitude knows
Absent the marches to the morgue
Absent the sanity we renewed
Absent the risk that too
Absent missed parts absent sylvan air
And for the favor done
You recommence my feet
Mask, No Mask
Those books of yours are doorstops
at the eyes and not in the hallway.
At present there are no Raphaels or
da Vincis in Hartford. Great care must
be taken not to scatter dust, the pasture
land of dreams. Backstage everyone is
cheerful: their shoes like the walking
trees of Louisiana, at least when they
move. Sometimes numbers add up;
sometimes they lessen, but never do
they provide Caesar a pizza. Such
notes of bliss betoken the wastefulness
of a leisure class. Historians can only
speculate from fragmentary evidence
which Biblical verse now must be
quoted. Someone else pulls danger
from his hands, someone else pays tribute.
Return to your book: the rearrangement
of living patterns across an entire
metropolitan area. It isn’t difficult to get
caught up with an illusion: the long-
poem all throughout its length
defining terms. I hope I haven’t been
calling on your sheet of paper: bold
and resolute. It wasn’t my choice that
others sit in one of two chairs. We
agreed, though, that as residents of
Connecticut we would not go to Velda’s
party. We don’t read out loud either.
We sit among a peloton of strangers
where slightly to the left a luminous
quality might hang free from its braid.
Sweet Indolence
Wallenstein himself has responded.
His terminology is well-accepted.
I offer you a good book and best wishes.
It is not known where we go,
but we start. It is done.
I do not want to repeat the catastrophe
of last year: to be rich but not content.
It is recommended most of all to respect
the opinions of others. Twice Wallenstein
was involved in unpleasant scenes
in the town square. Those who walk
in the world do not worry about
direction. What do they wish to say?
Sarcasm will not translate well.
What do you prescribe to maintain a balance?
Some have an ear for music. Wallenstein
pried up the stone that lay across the mouth.
He always seemed ready to help the poor
and the weak. We know, to some extent,
our interior psyche; the inside of our bodies
not at all. It is a fact that our daily
life is frantic. The doctors
say to eat cheese in moderation.
The poetry of life. The judges acquitted
Wallenstein. We are a people who seem
to have lost a sense of others’ suffering.
Perhaps it is better so. Life is full of magic.
Places that do not live in our
imaginations have little significance.
Wallenstein is afraid of dying. They
say laughter prolongs life. Here one eats well.
I have made a reservation. Come on!
Others can’t wait to get here.
Lilac
You need to remember
that it was snowing
little words that backfired.
Then you need to remember that
labor is nothing fancy,
nothing at all more than
or less than wing beats
of geese off in the distance.
All the colors of Mondrian’s
Boogie-woogie collapse, ever-
darkening our chamber. Now
closer to bloom, I recall
shampoo and leather. The
taste of turkey on my tongue
offers up rough occasion;
some texture to a world
far from those distant geese
and their incessant honking.
Reunion within the triangle:
forty citizens of Paris may exit
the frame; others may enter.
Off to one side a line forms our
boundary of sight. If I could
make myself the gendarme of this
scene my arm would rise
as if to mimic the structure’s
steel, halt these walkers moving
into and then out of the frame.
Halt – my signal would say
and then I would add “look”
and continue “we are in a
city of lights” and voila the tower
would glow as forty or so
citizens of Paris pause to remember
where they are and I would say
“ca va” and I would say
“maintenant” and a split second
later I would know that I had
decided my figure in the center,
the one with the chapeau, that was me
turning another image side-ways
to see the length of those lines and
across town our mayor counts
potted blooms hoping for tourists
far beyond all accumulated harvest.
Our neighbors have prepared the flowers,
the fruit, and the cloth. I stand as we
proceed down the boulevard and
my little brother looks up to me.
I do not fall as we proceed, as we
march on and on. I find courage
enough to look into our kitchen.
The lights come on as I enter and
once more I hear Ozzie and Harriet
argue about dinner as if it will be
their last meal. Such pilgrims hesitate.
They wonder what will be. They turn
side-ways to predict the length of their
lives and their footsteps move beyond
those French doors
and jangle through a sharp-edged book.