Wednesday, October 14, 2015

Dated Poem of Grief

Denver
March 2009

Why have I been routed through Nebraska?
In March there are no cornfields
here.

Intense sunshine and a prairie wind bake
the tarmac. In Denver, wasteland
at the junction

of Colfax and Laramie, I traced
ghosts of lost poets.
Oxford Hotel 

at the corner of Wazee, near the new
ballpark. Does the Windsor
where Neal

sought his father and slept with a dwarf
stand. Pope Benedict is being
taken to task

for sheltering child molesters, pastor fides.
In four years he will
resign

sanctimonious me? No, I report what I find
in the New York Times:
normalcy evolves

through bricolage to construct the world
historical stage. Poland
perished

in March 2009, all of her ministers, almost.
The plane fell from the air into woods
near Smolensk

where the Soviets had executed 20,000
soldiers of the elite officer corps,
1940. Also, Iran,

today, urged a Sunni and Shiite alliance in Iraq.
Apparently, there’s less poverty, this March
in Bihar state and Charles

has won the Nobel Prize. I’m fading
into a half-comatose
dream state,

allegory and fact replace
suffocating reality.
My rhythm

is dated, New York School. My listening
includes tubas and horns,
Calle 13,

Residente and Visitante, who support
macheteros and praise
anti-imperialistas.

A thread binds my mental fatigue
and my daughter’s
research.


She studies the role of women in constructing
Iranian identity, ash-e anar. Some
hint of consequent terror.

Interrogations by schizophrenic police in Shiraz,
who mock old Marxists. O mourn the loss
of imaginary companions,

Benjamin at Portbou! and celebrate the music
of brothers from Puerto Rico!
But why am I

abandoned in Lincoln with its shorn fields
and how is anyone able to suffer
the loss of a daughter?

Donald Wellman, from Roman Exercises


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