Marsh Hawk Review is an online poetry journal sponsored by the Marsh Hawk Press collective. Marsh Hawk Review will appear twice a year, under the revolving editorship of collective members. Each issue will offer a selection of poems solicited by the editor, in addition to new work posted by poets in the collective.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Daniel R. Schwarz

April 1, 2008: Codicil of Daffodils

Dedaelian:
creative man.
Dedandielian:
putative poetman.
Dandelion.

Begin: hands wedded to keyboards,
wrapped around coffee cup
before winter daylight.

Daffodils spring
ephemeral, precious,
bursting brilliant yellow
drawing light to exuberant fragility.
reminding us of daffy droop,
white, wilted,
decaying, rotting stalks,

Daffodils:
Source of effusing, oozing
poetry of rebirth:
Wordsworth, wordsmith-- wordbirth?
To:
Slidofad--
Sliding off ass of winter
into precarious midwinter spring--
Jump ebulliently into crevices of seasons.
Play, silly dilly.
Odd liffs, riffs, lives loves
Idles, dos, sod, odes,
Odors, olfactory.
Have we left out (as) scent/ essence?
Heterogeneity of budding sounds,
heterodoxy of Daffodils
(Dedalian/Dedanielian) midrash.

Enough: Our yellow book
has let a thousand flowers
bloom.

*******

Meditation at 95

“I am living too long already; what’s the point?”


Surviving my own children,
awaiting impatiently for death,
is this honey of generation?
Alabaster hair,
bent shuffle in worn slippers,
muffled words not heard--
often directed towards others,
as if I were a vase,
inanimate antique--
scents not smelled, sights dimly seen.
My riverblood runs dry
heartpower pump fails.
Bones rot, bowels clog,
physician’s prattle,
often written out in crayon size letters
--”hypertension,” “polyuria,”
“vertigo,” “insomnia”--
as if I didn’t know I had,
like skeleton outstretched,
outlived my life.
Were parchment of face
memory’s receptacle,
eyes the stored impressions
of lifetime’s knowing,
I could live with sense of
ending soon to come.
But No! what’s left is bits
and shards of memory,
childish fears repeated,
spectre of incontinence,
patronizing smiles,
sounds from moving mouths.
So I, return to my shrinking corner:
Self--self alone and only self--
dissolving into air, dust.





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