The Absinthe Man's Sonnet

The absinthe man has learned to hold

His glass just so; the fountain pen to hang

About his fingers like the sugar-drip of gold

And green. He listens as the wormwood-woman sings

A song of long ago; the sunrise of a day

When fair and far-born fairies came, west

Across the world, until an evening they bore away

Their songs from human ears, the last great test

Of man—to listen to them still, and learn their fire

Like old Prometheus—to hear the lie

Of history and turn away, to fight and never tire

Of unraveling the gift a wormwood-woman gives, by

And by the spirits of elixirs fall upon

And fade a cube of stars: the absinthe man writes on.

[Absinthe Drinker by Viktor Oliva]

Naming Hurricanes

My dear, the sun is out;

Let’s you and I become a storm

And with our fingers push them all about

The sea, those creatures of the deep which form

A dizzy dream until it is our wont to sleep.

The stars have crowned your head, your

Eyes are winking clouds below your brow,

The moon. Four windy arms will smooth the shore,

East, West, North, South: A bed of sand—until we laugh and blow

Our tiny lighthouse candles out.

And, crashing there, we sigh

And grow still; until—until

In our death we share a living breath, and as we die

This hurricane is you and I.

Oenone

Oenone, in Greek mythology, a fountain nymph of Mount Ida, the daughter of the River Cebren, and the beloved of Paris, a son of King Priam of Troy. Oenone and Paris had a son, Corythus, but Paris deserted her for Helen. Bitterly jealous, Oenone refused to aid the wounded Paris during the Trojan War, even though she was the only one who could cure him. She at last relented but arrived at Troy too late to save him. Overcome with grief, she committed suicide.

--Encyclopedia Brittanica

Oenone by Andi Malisheski

There is a sickle moon that rises on the rock

Where you once tended sheep, as lowly men must run

On bare earth, to catch the wandering stock

And drink from springs that catch the searing sun.

I felt the burning of your footsteps long before

They found you here; the almost-man, the simple boy,

An Heir to avenues of war

Who broke the walls and wives of Troy.

You are the poison of wind

Behind a thousand sails.

List: on the bravery of pennies

You're the only ones who dare stand where you do
In the cracks and crevices of the world

You are not afraid
Of subways at night,
hot parking lots,
the filth of supermarket floors,
sewers and pipes,
lint-filled pockets,
forgotten piggy banks (a gift from Aunt Alice),
of cupholders and dashboards and the space between the seats,
of the dark and close beneath sofa cushions,
of washers and dryers.

You are not afraid to
Be thrown in the toll way baskets,
Tossed in a hobo's cup,
Trashed with the lunch trays,
Stepped on by important people,
Picked up for luck (for better or worse),
Dirtied by car tires and
Dripped on by oil,
Cleaned again by rainwater,
Covered in oxidized blue-green,
Smothered by leather wallets,
Hidden in ladies' purses,
Sat on and strangled in the pockes of blue jeans,
and Handed between strangers
Dumped in a register.
Others do not see you-- the waste of copper and zinc.
But some see the promise of increments.

You're the only ones who dare stand where you do,
In the cracks and crevices of the world.

Variation on Adrienne Rich

"Poems are like dreams: in them you put what you don't know you knew."
                                                                            --Adrienne Rich

Poems are what you put dreams in like you knew them: you don't know you.