Spiders, Long Island, Maine. by Elizabeth Burke
A PAGE OF SPIDERS
The spiders seem to want to crawl away,
Out of the drawing with its printed notes
Onto my desk top where, perhaps, there’s prey
For them to draw into a net that floats.
But I am building this fleeting cage of letters
Out of the drawing with its printed notes --
I have no wish to be the prey in fetters,
Although I have no other choice, of course,
Except to build this floating cage of letters
To fend the spiders off until remorse
For the misprisions of my days is lost
In spinning filaments without recourse.
The price for living – an atrocious cost,
A page of debts that cannot be repaid,
For the misprisions of our days are lost
In filaments of time gone retrograde.
The spiders seem to want to crawl away --
A page of debts that cannot be repaid --
Onto my desk top where, of course, they’ll prey.
PAST SOUNDS OF SINGING
“…his poems are like singing from the cemetery.” – Rhina Espaillat
When we stroll out by evening we are wary
Of our route. We would not like to hear
The sounds of singing from the cemetery.
Although we know there is not much to fear,
We whistle past the churchyard lying there
On our route. We would not like to hear
The sounds of singing burdening the air,
Emerging from the boneyard on our course.
We whistle past the churchyard lying there --
We wish to hear no aria; even worse,
A chorus of old voices made of stones
Emerging from the boneyard on our course.
We care no whit for what the wind intones
As we go strolling through the evening shades,
No chorus of old voices made of stones
Should shadow us through streets or country glades
When we walk out at dark. We should be wary
As we go strolling through the evening shades
Past sounds of singing from the cemetery.
EVENSONG
On lines from Dylan Thomas’ “The Hunchback
in the Park.”
Until the Sunday somber bell at dark
Made dozing tigers jump out of their eyes
By casting its summer song over the park,
Drenching us daylight creatures with surprise,
Startling the nurses near the willow grove --
Until the tigers jumped out of their eyes
We had no notion it was time to leave.
But evening calls and it is time to go.
Until next weekend there is no reprieve,
For we must work or study and the zoo
Must bide its time among its ponds and fountains.
Evening summons us. It is time to go;
Shades lengthen, shadows fall out of the mountains
Onto the streets where we must travel home.
We may not spend more time with ponds and fountains
But travel the ways and byways we have come.
We must arise, begin to travel home
Because the Sunday somber bell at dark
Casts its evensong across the park.
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