I’m all tapped out of apocalyptic poems. Besides, today is not THE END—like any other day, it’s full of infinite endings and beginnings, of infinite winters and springs.
So in lieu of the mother-of-all-end-times-poems, I’m posting a sonnet for winter and a sonnet for spring, the flip sides of every moment of existence. Blessings and peace.
of snow, pocks
in tarnished snow.
Snow of lust.
Snow of cash.
travesty of dust.
vows of poverty
but not silence.
Snow of theft.
Spring’s blind surge awakens rambling epics. Evidence
gushes First things jockey for position. Feet sink
into mud, and revelation looms at the cost of sleep. Even
a car sounds different. The exotic bark of a dog shatters
Orion, spilling sand from a stunned hourglass.
Thereafter, molecules relax and history tries again:
A garlanded mother emerges playing a kithara
as her darlings weave a pedastal, the better to adore
the quixotic colorist: proof that sensory deprivation
binds minions to a redundant diety. Lids can’t filter
catastrophic light. Sap’s flight quickens, guiding
moments trickling toward a slack horizon. And again:
over the years weep scullions at their skinned rabbits.
Peddlers of risk lean into showers of delinquent buds.
According to one Nancy of Wisconsin, who for years has been channeling the Zeta ETs through a brain implant, tomorrow Planet Nibiru will make boom-boom with Earth, paving the way for our drooling Zeta overlords to turn the solar system into their own private Monopoly board. Maybe Nancy forgot to take her meds. But just in case, stay home in your pjs, make a pitcher of martinis and the highest cholesterol snacks you can muster, and lean back in your Adirondack for the most spectacular fireworks display of your short life. Nancy will be waiting for you on the other side.
Y’all have a nice doomsday!
On the eve of December 21, my penultimate end-of-the-world poem, this one from Looms
A deserted city. We’ll have to imagine
it’s in a movie. Beneath a listless dome, walls
crumble into backlit dust. Flames on a hillside swarm,
tattered auburn fishes in the autumn wind. Glints of dying
light fall on unmoored mountains whose thoughts of home
come to nothing. Everywhere, flocks of matter dip pale snouts
into inky ponds. We’ll have to imagine someone watching
that movie. No one left to forget irrelevant seeds. Some left off
praying to the mother of a tarnished idol presiding over a flock
of angels, breath attended by golden lice. Others
paused long enough to view dusk’s leisurely descent
over the white noise of crashing surf. All found something
to swear by before it was too late. Photogenic dullards jazzed
in the waning light. A ship’s captain jingled his coins
before staving in the ship. Embers in a hearth
illuminated fish bones on plates.
Sonnets and Looms are available from the following vendors:
Small Press Distribution
Book City in Toronto
Posted in apocalypse, poetry, poetry press
Tagged Apocalypse, Apollinaire's Bookshoppe, Book City, Camille Martin, December 21 2012, Looms, poems, poetry, Shearsman Books, Small Press Distribution