A Summons

by Brett Rutherford

Toru Dutt! Toru Dutt!
All night long,
that name resounds.
I wake, I dash to find
she died at twenty-one,
a poet, a fiery Bengali,
a genius whose pen
spanned England, France,
and the lore of Hindustan.

Her books are now before me.
I tremble. Her star
soars now, by her own will,
elected to join the others.

That poems may not die,
the poets' shades call out.
So great are some,
that a name suffices.
Toru Dutt! Toru Dutt!

Her trumpet clarion sounds.

Stained

Pyramus and Thisbe, by Andreas Nesselthaler, 1795
Public domain from Wikimedia.

by Brett Rutherford

Mulberries turned red,
because two grieving lovers,
each thinking the other dead,
committed suicide.
Had not one clumsy lion
come along, had Thisbe
not wailed at finding Pyramus
self-slain, and followed suit, the fruit
would droop as pale as moonlight
and we would gather the white berries up,
in delicate garlands, leaf and all,
to drape the edge of a lover's cup.

The Unexpected Guest

by Brett Rutherford

     Why now? And why you,
     darkening my doorway?
                                       — Apollodorus

You, that man-shaped shadow,
threshold-hovering,
what is your business?
Old comrade, come to stay?
Or new one, heaven-sent
in search of the night-joys
my house is famous for?

Who sent you? Oh, that one --
my name inscribed, I see,
on the back of his calling card.
You'd might as well come in,
as a storm is brewing.

You are of age to choose.
Why hesitate, just like
some indecisive cat?

What now, you wavering
phantom, or play of light?
In? Out? Make up your mind!

Summer Nights on Ore Mine Hill Road

by Brett Rutherford

Moths pressed
against the window,
drawn to the light --
or was the random
tapestry of wings
a message --

help us, we choke,
coke-oven smoke
and smelter, fumes
from your rolling autos,
all poison us --

each summer
there were fewer, then
fewer still, now none
as both they and the house
are mere ghosts in the woods.

What were
the nightjars
asking for, anyway?

That same persistent
whip -- whip --
whippoorwill call.

Did respite come
for Poor Will, ever?

What tread at night
as the watch-dog howled,
making a large-pawed
circle around the house?
Grandma slept through it,
but the two boys wide-
awake in terror heard it,
three times circling --

was it a bear
from the high rocks above
or something sinister
that even the Indians
hereabouts
would shudder to name?

What did it want?
What does anything want
in the wide world
but to be left alone?