The Sleep of Priests

 by Brett Rutherford

The bishop’s weak lung
wheezes at night
beneath the blankets,
not gone, not even
“disappeared” like those
arrested and vanished
in the time of strict
government. As soon
as he closes one eye
the air sac expands
and it blasts one note,
one drone
like the idiot half
of a bagpipe.

Don – don – don
Donde – donde – donde
Where – where – where
the unburied dead,
the unabsolved,
the ghosts denied
the moment of unction?

Don – don – don,
Donde – donde – donde,
one note from
dusk to dawn
in thirty thousand beats
of monotonous asking

where – where – where
our blackened bones,
our dust, our skulls
a-crush beneath some
concrete stadium?

Lung-bladder ghost,
Guilt’s bagpiper,
vacuum bag inhaling
his withered prayer.
No sleep for him!

He tosses and turns.
Some black-robed brothers
have helped the Government;
others have hidden students,
professors and artists;
others have waved two hands,
ten fingers wagging, heads
shaking no, eyes firmly closed.

Nothing, I have heard nothing.
I have not read the papers.
I will of course
light candles if I am asked.

How many sleep well?
How many sleep at all?
Which of them heard
the executioner’s confession
and said nothing in turn
to his own confessor,
passing it to God only
without a further thought?

How many imsomniacs
hear lung or heart,
ribcage or ear’s cavity,
or an ever-throbbing vein
that will not let them sleep,
echoing:

Don – don – don
Donde – donde – donde,
Where are the Disappeared?

Man of the Hour

 by Brett Rutherford

Those mouse-like men
     who ousted Gorbachev
while he was up in the air,
and far from the border;
oh, how brave they were,
belling the cat’s absence;
and then they fled
to their Moscow apartments,
under the blankets in a vodka stupor.

All knew the routine.
Glasnost had played itself
as the long arachnid trap,
predictable as tide or snow,
or a lesson in dialectics.

A liberal Spring, a little thaw
to bring the poets and liberals out.
Then watch them, count them.
Make lists. Prepare the officers
for the sudden clampdown,
boxcars to the always-open Gulag.
All hail to Party chairman,
whoever that turned out to be.

But this time, it did not go
as the planners intended.
It only took one man, one
near the apex of power, to prove
that cycles are not eternal, hope
no poison beet on a string,
a false promise in a pot of borscht,

one man to say, “Not this time.”
Make no mistake: Boris Yeltsin
ended the Communist rule of Russia.
A great bear, a man without fear.
He did not need to be sober to win,
just a little more sober than
his cowering enemies.

No one knew how
it would all turn out.
That it came out differently
is what we need to learn.

The Plural Visitation

 

by Brett Rutherford

Now cut that out! I have weathered a lot

of discord in this urban arena:

the fenced-in barcarolle of neighbor dogs,

the rising and falling of conga drums,

the melodious yowl of cats in heat,

gunshots or backfires, airplanes and truck-horns,

the underground rattle-roll from tunnels,

the swell and deep shudder made manifest

by continental drift — somehow I have slept

through all of that. So now it is you:

The rag and wraith of a banshee I have spied

before (one blighted Hallow’d night I watched

one extricate itself from a tangle

of unyielding shrubbery), but that was

you in the singular, your lonesome cry

dissolving to a wisp of midnight wind.

This Brooklyn visitation is plural!

Twelve pairs of bony hands reach out to me,

from a hen-pack dozen of whirling shrouds.

Faces, if you can call them that, jut out

with insect eyes or blobs of black jelly.

Their twelve-part chorusing, from ruddy bass

to the highest squeak-screech of violins,

piles the diabolus in musica

and partners every howling note chromatic

with its half-step brother, an elephant

falling on every organ key at once.

All this, and on and on for hours, all this

from your wingbeats thrust into my window.

Who sent you? I am not even Irish!

Therefore, these whistles and yells cannot be

addressed to me, you howling telegram!

You have the wrong building entirely.

The errant Kelly, the drunken O’Brien, 

Leary with all his guns and bombs, have moved.

And why, I ask, come you in committee,

the way you dropped en masse for Spanish Flu,

or the starvelings of potato famine?

Oh, friends have died, and some died horribly,

but one by one they left me, unsummoned

by anything that tread night’s canopy.

When my time comes, I will see a raven,

a bard’s beckoning, a stately ibis.

Again, no son of Celt or Eire sleeps here.

The cat is Siamese, for goodness’ sake!

So gather up your mealy, dustmop heads

and flap on off to somebody else’s

premonition of death, you silly birds!

The Jupiter-Saturn Great Conjunction

by Brett Rutherford

Goya: Saturn Devouring His Children

Two giants approach, their masses swollen
with age and pride. One, facing us, will pass
before the other, back turned in scornful
enmity. Rings peep like ears from Saturn
as Jupiter and all his companion
satellites take pride of place and orbit.

Back turned to Saturn-Cronos, his father,
Jupiter calls out in scorn: “You, frozen,
turgid in your ever-colder banishment,
you almost ate me once.” No answer comes.

He turns his eye outward, now, accusingly:
“You swallowed my brothers and sisters.
Have you at long last no guilt for your crimes?”
From icy outer rings a bell-tone stirs;
a moon peeps from behind the old planet,
but Saturn, as ever, utters nothing.

Though all was settled long eons ago,
there is no end to conspiracies:
Saturn has eighty-two satellites still
contesting the Olympian election,
clinging to lies and a tyrant’s coat-tails,
while Jupiter is the acknowledged king
with only seventy-nine companions.

“They love me,” boasts Jupiter, “and I, them,
while you have only courtiers bound by dread.”
Now, squinting at sun with his one red eye,
the king of worlds winces as gravity
ever so slightly tugs him back Saturn-ward

and the sullen, yellow-brown cannibal
shrugs, its face and brow inscrutable, its moons
ice-cracked with slogans braying how Jupiter
was not a proper god and the Olympians
were better locked up in their father’s belly,
a fit prison for ill-born imposters.

Nothing will come of the great conjunction,
for the gods as they are, on their planets
wage an incessant strife. Wait twenty years —
it is the same story told once again.
Avert your gaze from Saturn’s armory,
shun Mars and his war-cry. Venus, for love;
fleet Mercury for gods’ inspiration;
Sun ever-rising with beneficent rays;
Moon, the world’s clock with tidal urgings,
and Earth itself, shelter to demigods
and Muses: abide if not obey them,
and leave to Titans the terrors of war.

  

Where Is My Golden Butterfly

 by Brett Rutherford

1

I am deep into the unforgiving heart
of Latin Lucretius: De rerum naturum.
“Where is my golden butterfly?” you ask.
I close the book. Together we search
the tabletop, the floor, the window-box.
“Oh, it has fluttered off, and now is free.” —
“Keep looking,” you say, “for I fear the worst.”

Next to the pantry door, it hovers there,
now paralyzed, atop a dusty web.
“Set it free!” you cry concernedly.
“It is too late,” I say, “for even now
the black spider has already kissed it;
its orb and legs already spin its shroud.
Its wing-beat gone, it has no power now
to escape the poisoner’s cruel caprice.”

With broom I pull the whole mess down,
and do not chide your neglect of dusting,
as not just one, but twelve subsidiary
webs, each with its own arachnid tenant,
collapse into a nebula of death.
You do not speak, your trembling arm extends
a pointed finger to the out-of-doors.
And so your favorite thing, now dead-alive,
drops down into the ice-fringed compost heap.

 

2

My dreams, so many levels deep these days
are full of others’ unhappiness,
not my own memories in Freud’s jumble,
but all the sad domestic misfortunes,
work rivalries, the sting of sociopath
bosses, days jailed in false arrest, theft-loss,
the broken promises, abandonments,
the blame for crimes you didn’t even think
to do, but everyone assumed you did
because you are so not like the others,
cop-stopped, or grabbed by men in an alley,
when they barred the door, or showed you to it,
said things behind your back you full well heard.
This is what your dreams are made of these days,
not the good sex you’ve had; not one prayer
spread out like a Sunday picnic blanket.

I dream, ten levels down, and cannot leave.
Not one of these events happened to me.
They are spattered by other sleepers tied
in the webs of coma: they broadcast out
as their attendants turn them, fill their veins
with sugar and salt, air bellowed in-out
as their suspended-animation thoughts
cascade into the cosmos. Had I not
the strength of lucid dreaming, I would be
on the brink of my own madness.

Yet I have learned from this a truth profound:
the mind blanks over pain, and even death
and loss. The people have one thing only
that cannot be taken from them: their pride,
an angry wound whose only medicine
is justice, served cool and implacable.

As the rose before the buffeting frost,
the butterfly too beautiful to die,
is turned and bound by the indifferent spider,
all nature screams to me: unfair! unjust!

 

3

You have lost your golden butterfly,
and now I cannot read Lucretius.
I am thinking how good it felt, that one
small efficacious burst of power,
when I trampled black spiders underfoot,
and there seemed to be, for just one moment,
that … much … less … evil abroad in the world.

 

 

First Snow

 

by Brett Rutherford

 

i

No breath of wind

disturbs this perfect canvas:

dwarf roses, faded, leafless;

twisted branches gray and brown;

intricate overlay

of pristine snow, pyramidal

tracings of every line and arc

in flakes of fallen crystal.

Suspended within

     this latticework

a thousand rose hips burn

like sour radishes

or petrified cherries,

a memory of blushes

and blood-flushed passion

caught unawares by winter.

 

ii

An hour later, I pass again.

The snow’s calligraphy

is still untouched by wind.

Rose hips still beam

their ruddy messages.

The sun has slid

across the ice-sky

to its low-slung zenith

and one hundred

astonished roses

have opened their petals —

     dying as fast

     as they unfurl,

their wilting edges burned

by unkind frost,

 

virgin Juliets

no sooner born

     than entombed.

The suicidal blooms

lean to the sun, pleading

their disbelief of darkness,

the impossibility

of sudden perishing.

 

Love comes unbidden thus,

as the capricious rose.

 

Rev Feb 2018