Poetry By
Mark J. Mitchell
Published on: 12/5/2012
The Romantic Vandal
I write her name on my shadow And leave both behind. Walls, sidewalks, fences— I've tagged them all. You've walked past her name, Ignorant of my invisible graffiti, But it makes you nervous, Like an itch you can't reach. You remember an old lover, A face that won't form. You sniff a familiar scent, Look for a car you once drove. But there's nothing, Just a shadow That doesn't match your shape, With a light patch Where a heart might be.
Published on: 12/4/2012
Improvisation on a Theme from Aragon  : Chanson du Miroir Déserte, Elsa, 1959
Here is a song from a vacant mirror Abandoned in a hallway slightly askew Forgotten limned with dust never quite new Glass waits patient before tarnished silver I watch you slip out and in arcane doors Composing your face without ever looking I see your tremors how your hands shook Things That you hope are hidden are my daily lore I'm tired of lurking glanced at but unseen That's not your worry I always spot you Wrapped in your smoke clouded in your youth I hang to reflect your cigarette dream I'd attack you but you'd never know it I'd take the plains of your face the retreats Hardened against hope that are your teeth I'd conquer you with my faint blue tint I await every post-coupling triage When you renew your face dust off your smile I am the only witness at this trial A cloud a gray ghost a silver mirage
Published on: 12/3/2012
Suburban Sutra
Two sons of a noble father Share hamburgers with him Around a familiar table, Under comfortable light. Everyday words spill out, The things that continue, business, Sports, masking fear of impermanence Seated just across from them. The noble sons of the sagging father Suddenly notice that he doesn't notice. Hearts crack. Tears hide. Sorrow Is mundane. This is no parable.
Published on: 11/30/2012
After A War in the Middle East
So Hector's body left the field at Troy And Achilles' followed down that low road, Their swords left to rust, to be found by boys Unschooled in arms, their war some episode To study later. The boys make up games Without Greek glory and no warrior's code. Hecuba is dust, Priam lost. The names Of those great ones are hollow as the earth now. Just this bare hill's left, below it a plain Where weapons appear while they tend dull cows. They don't know a blind man will make a song About how their fathers fell, about how Their mothers were carried away as toys For strangers just as long vanished. Wild toads Hold more interest for these orphans. The fame Of warriors can't be cooked. And boys, somehow, Must eat--to grow proud, grow vicious, grow strong.
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