PATIENCE IN BED.
Posted: March 22nd, 2011, 9:16 am
Patience peruses the pages
Of Ezra Pound, is caught up
In the Cantos, especially those
Written in Pisa at war’s end.
She loves Lorca, the poems
And plays, wishes she could
Have kissed him, is saddened
By his murder much before
Her time, what a waste, what
A crime. She shuts out the
Sunlight through the windows
As she lies in bed, shifts herself
To a more comfortable pose,
Lets the pillow caress her head.
Rilke often rouses her, reads
The poems aloud; the book
Tucked on the shelf between
Hemmingway and Chaucer,
The leaves well thumbed.
Matisse once slept in this bed,
At least in her head, she’s had
Picasso and Van Gogh too; she
Just awaits the slow arrival of
Rothko. She misses them all once
They’ve gone. Mother said she
Wasn’t quite right in the head,
Mother’s silent now, Mother’s
Dead. She’s sent out an invitation
For Bukowski, but he hasn’t replied,
Despite her having most of his
Books packed tight on the lower
Shelf to be near at hand for her
Nightly feed and read. Father had
Her locked away in some mental
Place, to keep the neighbours in
The dark, to save face. The sunlight
Plays on her features. The birds are
In song. She moves to her right side,
Stares at the wall, listens for sounds,
She waits for Jackson Pollock to call.
Of Ezra Pound, is caught up
In the Cantos, especially those
Written in Pisa at war’s end.
She loves Lorca, the poems
And plays, wishes she could
Have kissed him, is saddened
By his murder much before
Her time, what a waste, what
A crime. She shuts out the
Sunlight through the windows
As she lies in bed, shifts herself
To a more comfortable pose,
Lets the pillow caress her head.
Rilke often rouses her, reads
The poems aloud; the book
Tucked on the shelf between
Hemmingway and Chaucer,
The leaves well thumbed.
Matisse once slept in this bed,
At least in her head, she’s had
Picasso and Van Gogh too; she
Just awaits the slow arrival of
Rothko. She misses them all once
They’ve gone. Mother said she
Wasn’t quite right in the head,
Mother’s silent now, Mother’s
Dead. She’s sent out an invitation
For Bukowski, but he hasn’t replied,
Despite her having most of his
Books packed tight on the lower
Shelf to be near at hand for her
Nightly feed and read. Father had
Her locked away in some mental
Place, to keep the neighbours in
The dark, to save face. The sunlight
Plays on her features. The birds are
In song. She moves to her right side,
Stares at the wall, listens for sounds,
She waits for Jackson Pollock to call.
