Narcissists—Where Would We Be Without Them?

  “Narcissism: self-love; excessive interest in one’s own appearance,
  comfort, importance, abilities, etc.” New World Dictionary

          For MAB

A friend of mine suggested that I read
My poems at the open mike, along
With all the other wannabes that seem
Unable to persuade the myriad throng

Of publishers to put their poems in print.
Two poems max! The price? Patient respect
For all those other earnest singers’ faint
Attempts to win their laurels—now, direct!

“Jeez Merry, that’s just plain narcissism.”
(I could not imagine a worse offense.)
Then I thought: what if self-love’s the prism
Reflecting passionate propensities?

If mean egotism, plain lust for fame,
Drive those holy makers to loot the stars—
Their arts and science crafting what we are—
Then, surely narcissism is no shame.
                       (6/8/07)

Posted in Inspiration, Vanity

Blood Pressure

  For SLB, MD

At 77, blood pressure is no longer
A whimsical abstraction,
Something to be humored with a handful
Of pills, and an irresolute debate
Contrasting the merits
Of an apple
With a salty slice of smoky bacon.

This insight exploded
When that old BP
Punched out the retina.
Of my left eye
By quietly bursting
An artery.

The attractive ophthalmologist
(I could still notice that)
Regretted the damage
Was permanent,
But offered some solace:
“It could have been much worse.”

As I struggle with these simple words,
Their force and precision,
I find I need
Still another pill
To suppress
Still another
Baleful
Anxiety.
(6/6/07)

Posted in Aging

An Inquiry Into the Nature of Modern Poetry

                           I
I cannot fathom modern poetry.
Too damn deep perhaps; perhaps too shallow—
Perhaps I bring a mind too long fallow—
Unfertile soil for what it sows in me.

I search for hard edged skeletons beneath
The meat—but find it soft and limp, hollow,
Bloodless, without shape—too often callow
Lamentation: “Look at me! Look at me!”

I want tougher stuff! I search for that brisk
Form, the rhyme, the fierce metrical constraints
That agitate, dig out, smelt heuristic
Ores, mined from our rich veins, rewarding risk
With the exact explosive word—not taint-
ed mush, gone all gooey narcissistic.
                          (5/21/07)

                                  II
Poems must be short—don’t strut Shakespeare, Milton,
All the epicists, dramatists, whose verse
Wallows in endless pentameters, stunned
Language—dull recitative—rehearsal

For the few arias that sear the heart.
Verse can’t sustain its destiny so long.
Verse must strike hard, must hurl its flaming dart—
Consume us now! Not dribble on and on.

Yes! Poems must be engorged, prepared to burst.
Their incandescent lines must, first, set hooks,
Captivate, cater to our eager thirst.
Then, when we are wholly drunk, explode—brook

No escape. Coiled language strikes—our spasm:
Intense delight, word-induced orgasm!

(Or—at the very least—slipp’ry wit-wrought

Lines (storming through breached sensory portals)
Thrusting up gasps—diaphragm-deep chortles!)
                                          (5/28/07)

Posted in Poetry (What is it?)

Sweet Mysteries

I
My wife
Talks to animals.
Most people do;
But my wife
Questions,
Convinced that they reply.
“Turkey and Giblets, today,
Or Ocean Whitefish?”
This to the feral cats
That abide
On our front porch.
“OK, Turkey it is.”
I, of course,
Hear nothing—
Unattuned
To the hum
Of purr.

II
My wife
Places talismans
About the house.
Ceramic turtles
(Created
In her kiln)
Assure good luck.
But, during the Year
Of the Pig,
They must face west!

III
My wife
Made strange
Ceramic
Pendant beads
To dangle
At the neck.
Hard to describe—
Four faces, each
Sharing an eye
Of the one
Adjacent,
Alternately Scowl
And Smile.
“They’re amulets,”
She patiently
Points out.
“They keep you
Safe
From the plague.”
(They sold
Like hotcakes
At the fair!)

IV
My wife’s
A research scientist
With a Ph.D.
In Molecular
Biology.
Clear evidence:
Neither Testament,
Nor Data
Out of sterile labs
Displaces
Ancient Magic:
Hope trumps Fact
And always has.
(5/14/07)

Posted in Joan

A Philosophical Inquiry Into The Nature of Happiness

     For PS

Down at the beach, a friend of mine
Frowns when he reads my verse. “You’re sick,”
He says. “You need a shrink!” Sunshine,
Blue skies proclaim me heretic,

Denier of Nature’s rich trove.
A horde of gay vacationers
Enjoy the hissing surf. They love
The sun, that sea, their “great nation”—

Care-free—for them, the writhing world
An aberration best ignored.
Perhaps they’re right: the bright sea furled,
Sweet music, warm air, pleasure hoard.

But this same friend emailed the news:
Eight troops killed; fifty blown to bits
At market yesterday. Abuse
Down a tad today—just twenty

Dead—so far. Yet, the sun smiles bright.
Soft airs caress. Why give a damn?
My life’s too short. It’s not my fight.

Drat! I cannot tamp it down. Like
Bartleby, I know where I am.
                                       (5/7/07)

Posted in Illusion, Luck, War

A Philosophical Inquiry Into The Nature of Hell

Listen to Marvin read A Philosophical Inquiry Into The Nature of Hell

Hell, of course, is a state of mind.
It’s not eternal burning flesh.
It’s not stuffed up the fat behind
Of some corrupted monk. The crèche
Of living Torment is the mind
That can imagine justice, peace,
And sustenance for humankind
Without the power to unleash
Wit, wealth, and energy to bring
About that ample, holy end.
Bleak impotence—what here I sing—
That’s all the Hell you need my friend.
                                      (5/6/07)

Posted in Pain, Wisdom