POEM: "A Small Vexation"

A Small Vexation


Most often said
a comfortable conceit
how unbounded the demands
of saying it right at first
the revisions that go on forever
like she calls you up for lunch
what was lost is what is found
the napkin ring and then her look
the old hooked bill of the pelican
wanting to take all your poems away
unbounded is a powerful word
it might almost last forever
the seawall is not shaking
the city lights remain strong
the million sacred lines
adduced to almost a moment
you're not saying much right now
then she says good night.

 
© 2010 Rob Schackne

POEM: "A Moment Of Translation"

A Moment Of Translation 


My hearts
it’s a dark night
I have lost my way
translating into Italian
trees slap against a window
nearing the end of middle age
imaginable hardships beckon
fasciste streetcars dulce et decorum est
but fuck it it’s all Spring now
memory candles prosthetics
rhyme wobbles with laundry
expression will be blessed
she’s merely asking
for directions
your Dante.

© 2013 Rob Schackne

POEM: "Daughters of Eve, Sons of Adam"

Daughters of Eve, Sons of Adam

I.

Instruments are consulted
the charts are speaking to you again
of another calibration, another song.

In the bush of attractions you see
the almost legible words of love.
You won't get out of this world yet.

You were playing on the beach
when the sudden fright of the birds
started you running and yelling.

Afterwards there's no evidence
of your fear, no canoe-track
above the stars, black or white.

II.

Marvellous. No one left to shout

or cry askance and no shoulders

to look over. No one here today.

No one looks like they’re coming

up anybody’s stairs bearing any gift.

Nothing now parted by hope, by fear.

No one is speaking for their absence.

No one is here. Fabulous examples

move around and lean away.

Likely to be no one tomorrow

or even a meanwhile. So lovely the

blank, the white noise. He. She. It. Them.

© 2012 Rob Schackne

POEM: "You Will Feel Something"

You Will Feel Something


You will feel something vibrating
in the inside pocket of your jacket
on the inside but you were warned
pockets turn to turn themselves out
not very different from the heart

four-and-twenty travel plans upset
but wait you aren’t there anymore
floating down a busy ancient street
the silent moon twists a few degrees
you greet a few old graceless trees

lakeside crows watch the accountants
fledgings peck the eyes of the world
you greet a few old graceless trees
the silent moon twists a few degrees
floating down a busy ancient street

your plans wait high on the high plains
the moon pulses strong with blood
you drift the streets one cinema to the next
but wait you aren't there anymore
four-and-twenty travel plans upset

not very different from the heart
pockets turn to turn themselves out
on the inside but you were warned
in the inside pocket of your jacket
you will feel something vibrating.


© 2013 Rob Schackne

POEM: "Amore"

Amore
                        
                    
Prova di Cuore. Prova di Cura.
Prova di Sesso. Prova di Onore.
Prova di Mappe. Prova di Tempo.
Prova di Famiglia. Prova di Amici.
Prova di Solidarietà. Prova di Alimenti.
Prova di Inizio. Prova di Fine.
Prova di Malati. Prova di Sogni.
Prova di Partenza. Prova di Entrata.
Prova di Parole. Prova di Musica.
Prova di Bambini. Prova di Memoria.
Prova di Sonno. Prova di Felicità.
Prova di Tenuta e Buonanotte.


© 2013 Rob Schackne

An A.E. Stallings Poem

After A Greek Proverb

                                     Ουδέν μονιμότερον του προσωρινού

We're here for the time being, I answer to the query -
Just for a couple of years, we said, a dozen years back.
Nothing is more permanent than the temporary.

We dine sitting on folding chairs - they were cheap but cheery.
We've taped the broken window pane. TV's still out of whack.
We're here for the time being, I answer to the query.

When we crossed the water, we only brought what we could carry,
But there are always boxes that you never do unpack.
Nothing is more permanent than the temporary.

Sometimes when I'm feeling weepy, you propose a theory:
Nostalgia and tear gas have the same acrid smack.
We're here for the time being, I answer to the query -

We stash bones in the closet when we don't have time to bury,
Stuff receipts in envelopes, file papers in a stack.
Nothing is more permanent than the temporary.

Twelve years now and we're still eating off the ordinary:
We left our wedding china behind, afraid that it might crack.
We're here for the time being, we answer to the query,
But nothing is more permanent than the temporary.

(2012)

POEM: "A Short Letter To You"

A Short Letter To You


Gazing once again 
che minchia di lavoro
at the faces in the street 
in the bar at the restaurant 
bloody Starbucks or on the bus 
at the million faces this one 
certainly she is a fine poet 
he’s a dancer somewhere another poet 
that one a spy in another’s service 
over there a child filled with wonder 
but it’s a recalcitrant world 
you know none are actually that 
already the child is largely stunted 
the spy only spies on his neighbour 
the dancer stumbles everywhere 
and she who looks like your poet 
(yes the one who will be the poet 
this one who should serve us all) 
eventually only serves herself 
I know volcanoes don’t rest 
the sun shines the dread wind blows 
you wonder why I bother. 


© 2013 Rob Schackne 

POEM: "Speculation"

Speculation

Ever wonder how it is the uber-successful
the rich crooks (and the apples of their eyes)
the bootleggers, smugglers, top capitalists
corrupt officials, corporate dumpsters et cetera
begin to see all their loot was a lifestyle choice
and their special manna was getting away with it
just when they should’ve seen the end was coming
socked away the money and gotten everybody out
like before the axe cracks through the fancy door
before the shouting and blood splatter on the carpet
before the black boots still have their motors running
and instead of sunbathing on a pretty beach in Thailand
suddenly there are very different lifestyle choices to make?


© 2013 Rob Schackne

An Alan Feldman Poem

A Man and a Woman


Between a man and a woman
The anger is greater, for each man would like to sleep
In the arms of each woman who would like to sleep
In the arms of each man, if she trusted him not to be
Schizophrenic, if he trusted her not to be
A hypochondriac, if she trusted him not to leave her
Too soon, if he trusted her not to hold him
Too long, and often women stare at the word men
As it lives in the word women, as if each woman
Carried a man inside her and a woe, and has
Crying fits that last for days, not like the crying
Of a man, which lasts a few seconds, and rips the throat
Like a claw — but because the pain differs
Much as the shape of the body, the woman takes
The suffering of the man for selfishness, the man
The woman’s pain for helplessness, the woman’s lack of it
For hardness, the man’s tenderness for deception,
The woman’s lack of acceptance, an act of contempt,
Which is really fear, the man’s fear for fickleness,
Yet cars come off the bridge in rivers of light,
Each holding a man and a woman.




(1978)