Poetry By
James Hutchings
Published on: 2/10/2014
A Cool and Green and Downward-Sloping Path
A cool and green and downward-sloping path invited me to walk. I never asked if sly and secret mute malicious wrath lay leering under shady sheltering mask. How restful ran the plunging path, how soon came time to trudge the high and homeward way. The still, serene and slumbering air of noon blew bitter with the dying of the day. The towering trees that broke the burning beams and stopped the sun as spear is stopped by shield were courtiers whose cold and cruel schemes were early laid and all too late revealed. How quick and cool the downward path and then how hard and slow the struggle home again.
Published on: 2/5/2014
The Death of Pan
As I was sailing on a starlit sea a voice cried out across the waves to me. A grieving, golden voice, wine-wracked and broken. I saw no ship, and knew a god had spoken. It spoke but once, and this is all it said: "At Palodes, cry out 'Great Pan is dead.'" We came to Palodes at break of day and sailed into a darkly-wooded bay. Who dares defy the gods? And so I spoke though all that I could see was ash and oak but from those woods came wailings of despair of grief too great for human heart to bear. One man went mad, another fell down dead and we who lived took up the oars and fled.
Published on: 2/3/2014
They Say the Sirens Left the Seas
They say the sirens left the seas for other suns and skies than these to hook the hearts and maze the minds of sailors of unearthly kinds. They say the sailors searched in vain from Baffin Bay to Port of Spain and seagulls swarmed them as they crossed to shriek in mockery of their loss. They say, they say, but who can tell? They say so many lies as well. The sirens left, no matter how and all the seas are silent now.
Published on: 1/29/2014
Saranac Prison
Well, morning has broken. The men have awoken and terrible slow is the journey as I shuffle in line for a meal fit for swine and I curse at that Goddamn attorney. Well there ain't any cheer to be found in this year of our Lord Eighteen Seventy Eight. When you're done with your slops then the day sorta stops and you sit in your cell and you wait. There's a worn-out old drunk has my cell's upper bunk and nine tenths of the time I can stand him. Now he wants me to know if the law let him go he'd be back to the wife he abandoned. "Oh, I'd no longer shirk from my share of the work. I'd be faithful and never would stray." Why you lying old toad, you'd lie drunk in the road and be back behind bars in a day. Well a preacher was sent and he bade us repent and he had a whole passel of reasons but I sit in my cell and I hanker for Hell for I'm getting damn tired of freezing. It appears that in Maine they're real fond of the rain and I wish I could get up and run where it's hot and it's dry and there's blue in the sky and the world could forget what I done. I can wish as I may but I'm here anyway with the rain and the cold and the snow so I sit on my ass as the day doesn't pass and there's eight hundred more left to go. And at last darkness falls and it hides the high walls but the drunkards and cowards and me hear a hammering hail on the roof of the jail to remind us we ain't going free.
Published on: 1/27/2014
The First Verse of Bon Jovi's "You Give Love a Bad Name" as a Shakespearian Sonnet
You smile, and shine as if in glory garbed Yet virtue is not cut to fit you well For, like the rose, the root of you is barbed And you who promised Heaven furnished Hell. Now I am chained—nay, more than chained, am sealed Within a dismal prison, buried deeper Than secret sins, nor will my captor yield; How bleak a hope, when Passion is my keeper. You face me like an arrow poised to fly And I a stag at bay, with no escape Nor any will to fight, and so I die My murderer a fiend of fairest shape. How Love must blush, to hear herself defamed! I die, shot through the heart, with you to blame.
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