eatpoetry

Ovid in the Third Reich

by Geoffrey Hill

non peccat, quaecumque potest peccasse negare,
solaque famosam culpa professa facit.
Amores, III, xiv

I love my work and my children. God
Is distant, difficult. Things happen.
Too near the ancient troughs of blood
Innocence is no earthly weapon.

I have learned one thing: not to look down
So much upon the damned. They, in their sphere,
Harmonize strangely with the divine
Love. I, in mine, celebrate the love-choir.

political poetry

call this political poetry!
let Mayakovsky applaud!
but still, the television talks.

glowing faces giving names,
searching, scraping for the game.
i could live off hate all day.

who must feel shame, CNN?
who’s my enemy, Fox?
but let your voices mute, let

the dead glow die…
they all say so much, while
silence never let me down.

© 2009 Constantine Kulakov

anorexic house plant

(for c.s. lewis)

i’m like that anorexic house plant,
sagging languid in your corner,
turned from the sun — but young.

spreading deep, i believed only in dirt:
drank the powders mixed in waters,
worshiped roots, said “there’s no sun.”

then the Little Birdie spoke,
“if i called this cage my home,
i would clip these wings alone.

here, no one goes un-bruised.
we just watch the sun change hues.
look! see it lift its glow to you…”

© 2009 Constantine Kulakov

you were no blond bombshell

You were no blond bombshell,
no steamy, lace flashback—
who guards shrapnel as rare?

You were that immortal brooch,
a small, silver earth, breathing
for my moist palm’s approach.

I like you that way, glowing,
a memory — it carries me
through the anti-romantic decay.

Now, I’ll watch your fireworks blast.
Or laugh, forget, just hoarding
the metal veins of our past.

One day you’ll sit across me:
you the dentist, me the poet.
I’ll feel the brooch in my pocket.

© 2009 Constantine Kulakov