All night the beggar queen dreams
on her throne of words, striking
match head after match head to flush
the dawn sky salmon. I watched it
change color that way only once, sleeping
on a beach in a borrowed blanket.
Sandpipers and gulls left imprints
on wet sand. Above, birds flew
ahead of a curtain of coming rain.
The air smelled of sulphur,
of phosphorus, of gunpowder—
residue of some resplendent
catastrophe, as if a column of fire
or a city were burning somewhere;
as if a fire-stealer were returning
to the world red-handed. Glowing baton
in each hand, mouth full of knowledge:
heart an ember oblivious to danger.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
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Oh my, yes. And good job working in the tagline to Marly’s blog!
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Hey Luisa and Dave–
What a frolic! Oh, I am honored!
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In fact, thoroughly tickled! I shall go to bed right now and dream about it till 6 a.m., when the cudgel of reality lowers its boom.
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Glowing baton/ in each hand, mouth full of knowledge:/ heart an ember oblivious to danger.
APOLLO DESCENDING
It is a fiery birthing: after the lonely call
of the last gull that darts after the last
glow of sundown; after the sandpiper’s
song peters out to a lost bird’s chirp;
after all the images have crept under
these breakwater boulders to surface
perhaps as frenzied dancers casting
shadows swaying underneath this tent,
this caravanserai of dreams; after this,
on a throne of palaver, a fire-bearer
lights the torches that fence us all in.
Like Apollo’s captives, we cup flames
in our palms and sing polyglot hymns
to the beauty of words while we shower
our paths with pellets of fire, as we crown
the beggar queen with a flaming nosegay.
—Albert B. Casuga
06-08-11