Feature Poet:
Larry Mallory

A Brief World from Our Sponsors

Think, please, of socialist leaflets crushed
black underfoot innocent pavements.
Here are parks where the statues have lost
their names. They greet each sunrise
with eyes that have been open all night.
The blind saxophonist wants to change
places with the guy who plays the bagpipes.
Pigeons insist, a few chromosomes
difference and they would have been doves.
The leader of the beggars' union
sighs and says, "Oh, what the hell?"


Spring Hill Variations

What is there to say
now that the prince's ball
has been such a disappointment?
The dawn, it will show up
rosy fingered, even though
you didn't get the last olive.
Call that a clichˇ, if you want to.
Your unconcerned neighbors
still have their favorite ways
to brew their coffee,
pare their nails,
torment their children.
True, at the very last instant,
just before the photographer
snapped the shutter, that tall guy
in the ridiculous quilted sweater
stepped right in front of you.
And you were smiling so beautifully.


Urban Pastoral

The dogs run in the park.
They are dogs of the city,
dogs who know some things
and do not know others.
They are dogs with pedigrees,
dogs without ancestors,
dogs that would pose for pictures.
The camera would catch the red glow
in their eyes. They are dogs
that dream of the relentless hunt.


Ancient History

The best place to hide is some place
that does not exist. You can't sit
in your grandfather's chair, he has smoked
his last cigarette. And besides that old house
burned down all those years ago.
Or was there always a patch of scorched grass
in that spot? More trees and horses will die
before that question is answered.
Wind and water will sweep through
the permanent valley. Frogs will still sing
their muddy songs, though newspapers
report they ought not to. Things are mistier
when there's frost, and there are fewer snakes
to worry about. In the defunct library
books you've never read explain this.
If you expose yourself at the top
of a ridge, you'll become a target.

Larry Mallory is a New York City Poet who is currently guest editing the the literary magazine, Solonica. His work has been extensively published and will appear in the upcoming anthology, Split Verse. You can reach him at lpmallory@usa.net

 

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Gemini

Fleshly janglers, open praisers and blamers of themselves or of any other, tellers of trifles, ronners and tattlers of tales, and all manner of pinchers, cared I never that they saw this book.


The Cloud of Unknowing

When I was only three
a man walked in the rain
along a street in a large city.
He had no umbrella,
there were holes in the soles
of his shoes, his feet were wet,
his hat was soaked. The man
stopped at the window
of a luncheonette and looked
inside. It was hard to see
because of the steam tables.
The man fumbled with the change
in his pocket and decided
he did not want lunch.
He walked further and stopped
at a window that was open
to the rain. From inside came
a duet from an opera. It was
a scratchy record that played
on a 78 rpm machine. I should know
this opera, the man told himself.
He wanted to pull the opera
out of his cloud of ignorance,
but just then he thought,
this is the kind of rain
a man can stand in. It is not
that rain that howls and stings
and punishes the flesh, nor is it
that steady deluge that feeds the crops.
It is the kind of useless rain
they say rains on the just
and the unjust alike. Later
he bought a pack of cigarettes
and had a drink. He remembered
the name of the opera. I should have
known it despite the scratches, he said.
That was August, 1947.
We were moving into a new house.