Poetry By
Michael Kalisch
Published on: 6/3/2010
The Masque of Blackness
…My picture, fashion'd out of wax, Stuck with a magic needle, and then buried In some foul dunghill. Holding back among the shadow Like some Websterian effigy A wax-work horror flick'ring On solid stone and oak. Its severed hand spreads forward Maimed by torturous vice An ashen remnant clawing At the bloodied face of Remorse. Reach Out! Hold it! Let you and it touch hands, Know your fate and future, and begin to understand. Meet and know yourself, the first time anew Know the morbid statue staring, is mirror-brother to you. Hold communion, and pray, with your dark double dear See the flesh beneath the face, strip back the wounded years. Touch the sanguis agni to you lips, now stained with red Know the charnel chamber and the church, and the twilight of the dead… Enough. Enough for now. Step back, back into the fold Of light. Let all this be laughed off a night-horror, or a trick Of light, caused by dust upon your spectacles; clean them now, Clean them in earnest and erase that vision, erase that phantom from Your sight… But the glass is clear. The glass is crystal clear. So close the shutters Draw the curtains close Stand now within it, within darkness. Stand. Reach not for rail or wall. Let darkness guide you To the arms of your brother. He'll murmur in your ear. And you must listen. Or be damned.
Published on: 6/3/2010
The Brittle Age
And when you fall into your brittle age, With the print grown too small upon the page, Spine creased and folded, skin torn paper thin, Teeth chatt'ring hollowly at the draught edging in; When the bedpan's unemptied, dishes pushed aside, Television calling the times of next high tide, Know, know then that you have not slipped Quietly, gracefully into that long good night, You have not faded like an ocean sunset, but tripped Rather stumbled, waxed half-dead by phosphor-light; You have been broken against the rocks, churned And shredded, feebly splintered and returned Clawing, in soiled underwear, at the page Unfocused and unending, of your dull and brittle age.
Published on: 2/17/2010
Poet's Corner
Those fierce young men High-collared, hollow cheeked, Courted chaos With a proud and wretched despair Sitting slim-hipped In hush-tight huddles Mackintoshed shoulders squared Smoking dimly over candled tables, over coffee cups. And what do they come home to? Full shelves and empty beds Floors unswept and a chattering cold A pregnant silence and bills unpaid To a prostitute Muse, For a few dross lines.
|