Richard Fein"LITTLE FISH THAT WALK--PLEASE," years ago I heard that last line of a poet's protest poem about the harpooning of a whale. The words struck me deeply, though I've never boarded any Green Peace boat that dared to steer in front of a whaler. "The Lord is my shepherd," "And miles to go before I sleep," "This above all; to thine own self be true," each reader, each listener is haunted by some poet's line. With me it's little fish that walk--please, those words follow me, dog me, and I don't know why, for both poet and poem are in no anthology, and what's a whale to me, or I to a whale. That's why after crumpling and tossing away a failed effort, I presume to take yet another blank sheet and between the blue lines dare compose a Hamlet's Hecuba, trying with seductive syntax to stoke readers' passions and to ring through their darkest, happiest, and most serene moods. Do words shepherd souls lost on the road to Babylon by veering their paths into blinding revelations or do they merely outline the deeply rutted tracks those souls have already made. Maybe this little fish will write the lines defining the difference or answering the please in that forgotten poem. GUIDELINES Poets should submit a batch of no more than five short poems or two long ones. Why batch? Why not one of these terms: collection, (only if the bard is a lapidary, and his creations are gems) sample, (fine for urine or stools) specimen, (too close in nuance to sample) store, (too commercial, and how many editors pay for poems?) manuscript, (OK for those editors who do) heap, (might be accurate for some submissions) digest, (but if you're confronted with a heap, you might heave) mass, (produces an inertial yawn) ana, (only for confessionals, but they're all passe since Plath) miscellany, (not for thematic editions) anthology or compilation, (but if a poet reaches this level, then editors submit to the poet) lot, (submissions are lotteries and not a lot succeed)? How about bouquet- a bouquet of five short-stem poetic wild flowers, or two long-stem versified roses, or one bashful sunflower? DARK VALENTINE If a dragon seduces, then it's without fiery breath, for fire is flagrant but seduction is insidious. If any dragon seduces, it's a Komodo dragon and it has no wide wings or nimble feet like a cheetah's when it chases a gazelle. This dragon is no warm-blooded, fast-moving, sleek cat whose heart nearly bursts during the chase. The dragon's heart always keeps a metronome-like beat. And when this dragon hungers there's no chance of escape. Cold-blooded patience outpaces hot-blooded speed. The Komodo's mouth holds a toxic brew, a poisonous bromide of bacillus and spit stirred with a forked tongue. First the kiss, the deadly hickey, that faintest Judas nip, then those that are kissed might try to flee, but once the kiss is laid no victim can run from its own defiled skin. Corruption courses through the blood, that slightest scratch swells to a raging boil, rising fever addles the brain, legs buckle and collapse,festering disease weakens the will. All this takes time and the pursuit may last for many miles, while the dragon's tongue flicks the air following the sweet scent of decay. But once the dragon's teeth has caressed its quarry's flesh, seducer and seduced can never really part. This deliberate stalker follows a singular track-- with belly close to the ground, with squat waddling legs that never rise from the dirt, with mouth agape and fangs finally and fully exposed, with deadly saliva drooling from its lips- until the beast at last is ready to devour the flesh of its desire. BEARER INSTRUMENT, only those with too few would put their names on one. Millionaires have too many and little need to, for everyone wants to know their names. These papers easily slip from fingers to oil the wheels of commerce, making all transactions fluid. Buying factory seconds, buying diamonds, buying crack, giving to the Salvation Army, it's all the same to the legions of Washingtons. And those unknowns who inscribe their names on the green, what do they hope for? Dave Warden proclaimed his name in red above famous George's face. I accepted his name, no questions asked, for that is the purpose of a bearer note; its tender cancels its history, except Dave's name, which carries on through the chain of custody. Dave, did you want someone to know your name? You've succeeded. I've inscribed a solemn oath. "I won't forget you Dave," that's what I wrote in flaming red behind George's back under, "IN GOD WE TRUST." I bought a soda with my pledge. Perhaps the instrument will boomerang back to Dave and give him a thrill, for what it's worth. MINUTE HOPE A new watch, this time digital, a Casio perhaps, but not a Rolex for seventeen jewels, a gold case, or clearest crystalis neither needed nor desired. He needs a stalwart, more plebeian, band-across-wrist friend. Analog watches are not dramatic enough, but a digital would bring him face to face with the flashing fourth dimension. Years ago his last watch died, when the hour hand stopped somewhere between 9 and 12. The glass was too scratched to see exactly where, and he was too drunk to care precisely when. But now he has rewound or claims he has. He's still a panhandler, not for food or even alcohol but for blinking hours, minutes, and seconds. Once again he desires to be a timekeeper for any watchless passerby who asks for the time. And then he might actually be approached on the street instead of avoided. I check my watch, for it's getting late, and those who need watches have something or someone to be late for. I give him four quarters, enough for two more hours on my parking meter. He rubs his naked wrist and hopes that someday someone once again will be checking a watch over and over waiting for him to arrive. PYRAMID SCHEME No hobbling zombie with a Russian stage name. Tahnah leaves don't exist, bacterial spores do. The archaeologists died one by one. The germs entombed for five thousand years unleashed. Pharoah's vengeance unwrapped at last. The mystical curse executed mundanely. Tut-tut be disabused. Nothing is mystical. But a curse exists. It's the structure itself. See how the sides lean toward the apex. The wealth and sweat of thousands culled to build stepping stones. Plunder from everywhere gathered in one tomb, so one son of the sun could take it all with him. Here it all began: the subserviency to betters the lash, the pocket-picking, the funneling upward to one point exalted above all the rest. The curse was built stone upon stone. It's still with us. |