Monday, November 05, 2012
Don't fiddle with the gadgets in the pantry;
Go scrape the ice from birdbaths and tree-houses.
In the town of Marblehead, denizens are spry --
The water-works, the mine-shaft, what else gives?
Woods were foliate, back when, with veined nouvelles
At seven-three-thirty, at fourteen-five-point-six.
Night practices her scales, the lissome singer,
When insular starlight glozes our dismay.
The repertoire's impertinent: loose change,
Moon over Winnipeg, astral patty-cake.
Is this production feeling its oats? We need perchance
Full recompense for all those graceful oafs
And two-bit, three-bit players -- they gave us much:
Bright colors and a cheerful mise-en-scène.
An echo of a celibate shibboleth,
Eerie and wan, sneaks in beneath the harsh
Snarl of neighbors bickering over snowbanks,
Drifts of the white stuff blocking the Johnsons' driveway
Through which a snazzy Merc Cyclone is wont to roll.
The argument makes a crumpled, dusky din;
Trees overlook the ringing ... Time out! Zut! We need
A respite from rambunctious hoi polloi,
Drawn-out retreats at abbeys 'mid whose groves
Howl wolves, wail owls; every now and then
Wafts the lyric plaint of Philomel, alias Biffo Bailey,
On a leafless bough, alas, or winging high above
The wounded earth, with its parties and its rhetoric,
Breeze of a charlatan, jocular, sublime.