Too Many Arrows

by Brett Rutherford

     after Meleager, Greek Anthology, V, 215

Love, listen to me.

If not to me, then heed

my interceding Muse.

Sleepless each night,

pining for Heliodora,

all I can do is let

the Muse direct

my weary stylus.

Why, sly godling,

does your little bow

send arrows only my way?

So many have pierced me,

all writ with the name

of one lady, over and over

inscribed "Heliodora,"

that I am more porcupine

than man. I bristle, I bleed

with all the fire-fletched

shafts. What can I do?

Do I have to insult you,

prompter of marriage,

and instigator of progeny,

the delight of maidens

and pining youths?

Must I write here:

See Meleager, poet,

murdered by Cupid.

Be A Good Sport

by Brett Rutherford

     after Meleager, Greek Anthology V, 213

This thing of Love

that possesses me

has a boy's love

of ball games.

Watch, as I rip

the heart from my breast

and toss it your way.

Catch it, Heliodora,

be a good sport!

Play ball, I plead

with my little Love.

Toss not my heart

away where any old

passerby can find it

and seeing my name on it,

mock me for a fool.

Love's game has rules:

with one hand or both,

catch my throbbing heart.

Then, cupped in those

tender fingers, gently

return it to me, or throw

it to your sister there,

she almost, but not quite,

as fair. Play not the foul

of dropping it, ah, no!

Fever Dream

by Brett Rutherford

Off to the hospital then,

if it is not too late.

I go on foot, wild

the wind of late

October buffets me.

At the arrival gate

where ambulances

bring those who come

only to exit by way

of the morgue,

the Angel of Death

swoops down

along with leaves

and torn-off branches

to block my way,

a clotted cloud

made of black gauze,

a sooty skein of rag

with nothing in it.

It blocks my way,

and I must tear

this rotten shroud

away to pass.

And I do, I do.

A high-desk nurse

refuses to admit me.

"You came on foot,"

she tells me.

"That means there's

nothing wrong with you."

Around the back I go

to another wing,

where I find others

just like myself,

each swatting away

a rag-doll Reaper,

some on all fours

crawling up slope

to the healing place.

I am in and out

of a makeshift bed,

in what feels like

a basement corridor.

A robot arrives.

Prongs force my mouth

open. A light shines in.

Four beeps, a flash

of blue light,

and it wheels away.

No one explains.

At last a doctor

tells me to follow him

to a consulting room

where I am told

I have Chajeebie's

Syndrome. Thank

the gods, not COVID!

"I can't deal with another

of these," the elder doctor

says. "Call in my son."

Hand over mouth, he flees.

A nurse comes in.

"We called a car," she says.

"But what about treatment?"

I ask. "Treatment?" she scoffs.

"Don't you know Chajeebies

is a termy?"

                      "Termy?"

"A terminal condition.

You'll be gone by midnight.

The car will take you

to Allegheny Cemetery.

They'll show you a little

movie, and you can pick

a plot you like.

"Have a nice day!"

Book Row

by Brett Rutherford

London had its
Duck Lane, where
witch trial tomes
and bound-up
sermons rotted
unread, amid
the novels of the day.

New York once had
"Book Row" which ran
down Bowery way
from Union Square
to Astor, mostly on
Fourth Avenue. Bums

in the doorways, dust
everywhere, piles
of books on carts,
sidewalks clogged
with the unsold —

Three dozen shops
catered to the
improvident collector,
the impoverished scholar.
On a bad day
you came out sneezing,
found nothing,

On a good day
the unexpected treasure
that would change your life
emerged from behind
some other title, tucked
and forgotten, its price

a pittance. Better
than venery and its venison
outcome was biblio
mania and the small cry
of surprise, the fear
that the clerk would recognize
your steal and up-price it,

the moment you came
into the light again,
that volume clasped tight,
as though you had robbed
a bank, or jousted a knight
to win the book of spells.

O, the things we found
and carried off, those
rainy Saturdays
when Book Row called!

A Prague Mystery

by Brett Rutherford

There is a room

that has no door.

Within it, one

who watches all

from a narrow window,

is motionless,

and has been still

and silent now

a half millennium.

Churches have flamed

as sky-bombs fell;

the synagogues

no longer call

the Shabbos crowds.

Yet all who pass

say they see him

seeing them

through leaded glass.

As mothers fled

this way and that

trapped in vain flight

from Holocaust,

he saw them all,

the rich, the poor,

street peddlers who

raised their starved arms

in supplication,

resistance men,

collaborators, all

in melee and storm;

all prayed, all died.

He does not sleep.

His stone eyes fixed

and open, have no tears.

Golem, the help

that did not come,

Golem, asleep

because they killed

the last rabbi

who could make a door

where there was no door,

who could say the words

to make flesh of clay —

Golem, the smiter,

defender of the defenseless,

who shall summon you?

DO NOT FEED

by Brett Rutherford

Poets are

the pigeons

of literature.

They cloud about

heroic statues,

take residence

in cathedral spires,

though neither great

nor holy. They are

hungry, always,

needful, nesting

mournful, mating,

more of them

each time a war

memorial springs up,

freighting to

and fro the messages

they claim they get

from the gods themselves.

Arrogant birds!

Pay them no mind!

Of A Sudden

by Brett Rutherford

For days the monotonous

dog-bark next door

has begged for it,

and it has come.

My view from out

my kitchen window

which yesterday

was summer, now

trumpets October.

Overnight, this autumn

picked up its paints

and palette, lifted

a brush and swept

ochre and tan,

red flame and orange,

blanching the oak

to crisped hue.

Who summoned Fall?

The merely rustled leaves

of summer, rattle now

in sideways wind, as

handless umbrellas

scoot for the horizon.

Last week's firm asters

wither to paper thin;

no more the bees will deign

to pay them homage.

Squirrels dart paranoid,

hide winter larder

in our flower pots.

This being

an election year,

dark pests are everywhere,

lantern-flies belting

us like biblical locusts.

Look, friend, there's one!

Stamp underfoot,

as one might a Nazi.

Free leaves, refusing

the bad news of climate,

defy the sooty air,

torn loose, ejected,

or self-immolated

from too much bad

philosophy, go

to ground, to ground,

only to be swept away.

The sky hangs gray.

Clouds threat to sog

the encumbered earth.

Porch man ignores it all,

yells out to all who pass

dark prophecies

of guns and a dishonored

expresident, of plots

within plots within --

Who summoned Fall?

Whom should I thank

for this minor-key

symphony? I ask --

an owl "who"s back —

the question

is its own answer.

What is, is,

and what is not,

mere cobwebs

in a deluded brain.

October has come.

Summer is gone

as though it had not been.

Why do I so dread

the coming of November?

Bringing Home the Bacon

 by Brett Rutherford

You’re late. Is that dinner?
Put your club by the door.
The child is not home yet,
God knows where’s it’s gone.
Maybe for good this time.

Sit. The broth is ready.
Same as yesterday.
What’s in the sack? Looks
like it’s still moving.
Is that blood on your mouth?

Anthropocene

by Brett Rutherford

When giant beasts roamed forests
sweltering, and boiling seas
brewed monsters ammoniac,
when Titans tread volcano’s edge’

sinkholes appeared in one place,
while in another, peaks
jagged with metallic ores
reared up to pierce the sky.

Ice vanished, replaced by storms
whose displaced waters
roared with rage, and fell
again upon the stunned ground.

It was not a kind earth,
brute with physics,
savage in every season,
sorting the myriad of life
with cancellation, apex
species crushed down
to the fossil record.

The Why of It

To see the world
from within it,
above and below,
inhabiting each
and all of its beings,
not self-effaced
but self-expanded,

to sort significance
from noise and boredom,
to put aside all pain
for the sake of a thing
made only of words —

this is the calling.

Sunset Rhapsody

by Brett Rutherford 

Eye-blinks,
brush-strokes,
things no sooner seen
than forgotten

unless
the words come,
or the brush speeds past
the drying of water
hastily, hastily
before it is gone —

Red light above,
black water below
horizon-sky.
Foreground of forest
some parts still lit,
some parts in silhouette —

Ravens on high,
arrowing about,
while in the hedge
one whippoorwill
stands still —

Gale-swept corn
tilts eastward,
sharp eyes peek red
in shrubbery
and under fallen
oak branches,
trees’ loss
their newfound
mansion —

The high grass moves.
The hare hides.
Snake closes
all-knowing eyes —

In twilit pines,
something is about,
hungry for flesh —
foxes bring down
a limping doe —

Bats swoop to scoop
the almost invisible
midge and gnat,
summer’s last harvest —

The spider laments
the coming snow,
web never big enough
to catch and keep
a full larder —

Moss, lichen,
mushroom, fern,
sleep, or die!
Rock shelter,
south-facing trunk,
warm rills
of water melting:
they will get by —

Maples, if you
could only hear them,
chatter with leaf and root:
“Frost coming!
Oh, what’s the use?”

St. John's Eve

 by Brett Rutherford

Gather the spores of ferns
on St. John’s Eve,
when fireflies
and will o’ wisps
are wont to flicker.

Sprinkle the brown dust of them
about your cap and cloak,
and you may dance
with the elves and fairies
invisible, and 
unmolested; reach

into the cache
of buried treasure
and bring up gold,

or even, if such
is your desire, stand
at any crossroad
and converse
with suicides.

Last, walk home
slowly and silently,
lest you alarm the hens
or rouse a dog’s
suspicions.

Fern seed shaken
from off your garb,
greet then the dawn
with a secret smile.

The Fingers

by Brett Rutherford

I watched an old man
confront an unfamiliar
soup. The color off,
the scent of spice
was not a familiar one,
the broth of what animal
boiled from bone, who knew?

When no one looked, he
tentatively touched
the not-quite-steaming
surface with finger three,
left hand, known since
the Middle Ages
as the line to the heart,
able to test for poison
or spoiled meat; one dab,
and the inner voice
said yea or nay.
Rings we put here
for safe-keeping,
silver and gold
in the Sun’s keeping.

The finger first
we use to point
was once the archer’s
best friend, bow-
pulling scite-finger.
Now we merely indicate
with it, imperative,
finger of Jove.

Of the long finger,
the impudent one,
the less said, the better.
Unsleeping Saturn
in Tartarus rules it,
and disconnected ones
are sometimes seen
scaling a trellis
to annoy some virgin.

Almost forgotten,
the little digit, is said,
if raised, to fortell
bad weather, but more
than not, it serves
to clean the ear of wax.

As for the thumb,
unruly, brute, and
lascivious, wise men
and alchemists assign
it to the rule of Venus.

Fingers fine and agile:
if they play Bach, and type
without your looking,
who knows what they do
while you are sleeping,

or even if the ones
you wake with are the ones
you went to bed with
the night before?