Friday, April 14, 2017

Two New Poems

Here Are Two New Poems by Carmine Giordano


We keep celebrating
the old fictions, Antonio--
seas parting, 
men rising from the dead,
prophets flying in the skies,
the divine right of kings,
monarchies, dynasties,
reasons for war, righteous conquest,
fraternity, equality and liberty,
home of the brave
land of the free--
as though these 
ever were or really are
pieces of the known world
like meadow grass or rain
falling hard and cold
on the limbs 
of the great sequoia.
These are rather,
the twisting abstractions 
we toy with in our playtime, 
the dumb-shows
we stage for our amusement--
this conscious dust we are,
lately arriving from the stars--
not knowing what to do,
how to shape 
our random moment's being
shining with brilliance,
hurtling ourselves with valiance,
silly, stupid and monumental,
through the void,
across the infinite dark.

*                      *                      *


There's an empty seat, 
on the crowded subway car
next to the old man, black,
snoring, and stinking
in the clack and rumble 
of the railway track,
his hooded head bobbing 
rank against the window glass.
Not one of the rush hour people
wants to sit near him
as though propinquity--
some smell, some body fluid--
would breed contagion.
His name is Horace.
He is dreaming of the laughter,
the warm water in the bath,
her broad arms holding,
the pride she had of him,
her love hugging him so close--
he could not breathe

for all the joy.

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