Storm of Verses

Waiting for the Storm 

The air is lugubrious with impending rain and awaits

The roll of thunder, the flash of electricity,

all promised for weeks. The heat never abates,

hangs from the drooping trees, wanders the city

like a confused old man, almost always late.

Contumacious is the night, the weight

Of contention never resolved or violence released,

Only expectations, only failures of the state

To exercise its powers, and all those dark deceased

Followers dragged by clouds across the slate

Like squealing chalk designed to irritate.

Our patience has been tested, and never ceased

Until the dawn brought dew, and dew a date

That could not fix itself, unfold what had been creased

And offer solace where everything was desolate.

In the Dog Days nothing  can be written

And rhymes back up, rhythms faltering, words mate

Promiscuously, produce sterile verses

As when a half-dozing typist dons her heavy mittens

And goes through sluggish motions—what a fate!

Lugubrious or not, it’s not epic versus

Tragedy, but comedy and farce I await.

Winter masks the carnival of ancient beasts,

The wrestling bears, the howling wolves, the wodewoses

And the gnarled old faces of the fairies, all the feasts

Of archaic ritual, all the disguises and grotesque poses,

And all the magical chants, dances and orgies,

Muffled mummery, witches, all a mockery of Moses

After his descent, the mount, tablets raised,

His eyes adjusting to the scene—naked breasts

And dangling genitals around a bovine idol—

Then everything the Law declared had to be rephrased

From shards of rage, and anger everywhere to bridle,

Thus giving to the inarticulate and bullish model

New meanings for a nameless deity,

Unrhymed and silent in the Holy City.