MESSAGE FROM CONSTANTINOPLE

The point of the horseman is that

Nothing about him is real -- not his flag

Nor his boots nor his shouted message. -

Even his horse, white and lathered after galloping

All the way from Constantinople --

Is made up because it would be cruel

To make a man run so far without

A horse to keep him company.

Since first I heard of them -- horse and man 

In a high school history class long ago

They have periodically visited me

Waving their red flag, the horseman

Standing in his stirrups and shouting

CONSTANTINOPLE HAS FALLEN TO THE TURKS;

THE MIDDLE AGES ARE OVER! This surprises

The people in my regularly scheduled dream

Which takes place in Heian Japan and is part

Of an occasional series curated by Lady Murasaki.

The inquiring ask "Who are the Turks?

What is Constantinople?" The active ones

Run after the horse, hoping he knows

Where he's going or at least a way

Leading out of the dream.

A WORD OF ADVICE

I'm quite charming but note:

My name is Jasper and I wear

A pencil-thin mustache

To trust me would be ... unwise

(Did I mention that my speech

Is filled with ... significant ellipses?)

HOUSE GUEST

Though she appreciated her doing the laundry,

My grandmother was embarrassed by the banshee

Who bewailed my grandfather's death.

No other Jews in Brooklyn had a banshee;

Just like Max to have inherited something so peculiar!

Though Max was long ago buried in Montefiore

The banshee showed no sign of leaving

(At least her ear-piercing wails gradually diminished

To a disconsolate mutter.) Esther told visitors

The banshee was an unbalanced relative

Whose troubles had made her slightly transparent.

One cannot ignore guests because they're disconcerting;

When Esther brewed her 3 A.M. cup of tea

She always made another for the banshee,

Putting in a half-teaspoonful of sugar.

DREAMS

The slave complains that his life

Is bad enough but, really, is it fair

That he's lately been having dreams

Meant for the king, filled with clerks

Arguing bitterly with monsters over issues

And omens the slave finds uninteresting?

Worse, many of the dreams are in languages

Unknown to him. The king apologizes

And sets aside funds for tutors

Who teach the slave new languages.

When time, amusing itself, makes the slave king

His old dreams are at the palace but they

Refuse now to acknowledge him.

LEFT BEHIND

The stickmen angels my father drew

Are still around. I see them sometimes

Arguing with each other or sitting

On a bench arbitrating the law suits

Birds constantly bring against each other.

You think it easy to make an angel

From five circles and six or seven lines?

Try it. Then ask your drawing for something -- 

A recipe for fish, say, or your cat's real name

Or the reason your neighbor's pear tree 

Holds so deep a grudge against you.

REFURBISHED

Because the war has gone on so much longer

Than was expected some of the older poems

Have been recommissioned and need

New personnel. The forlorn verse I wrote

To you back when I was in my twenties

Now have no punctuation and are filled 

With shining words from underpaid chatbots.

I've met my replacement who seems

Much too young and much too nice for the role.

It could be worse, I know; your substitute

Is disturbingly good with close-range weapons.

INEXPERIENCE

 

The dream runner, a rube from the sticks -- 

New to the job and still smelling of hay --

Messes up, of course -- showing the reels

Out of order, running one of them

Twice and then running it backwards.

He interrupts the story (the old one

Of me searching Paris for cherry tobacco,

Lettuce and a pint of skim milk)

To show clips from World War II 

Warning soldiers against foreign women

And then some from World War III

Warning foreign women against soldiers.

He insists it all makes sense or will

Once I've been dead for a year or two.

WHEN IT RAINS

The samurai

Put up

Umbrellas

Except one

Who says

The first drop

Of rain

That touches him

Will die.

THE CULPRIT

Hermes confesses that he let

Alcibiades take the rap for

Removing the penises from

The Athenian herms. "I was weary,"

He said "of being known as an

Ithyphallic god. I was the first thief;

I invented stringed instruments;

I know how to get to Hell and also

How to get out of it. I am ruler

Of every place where roads cross."

ARTIFACT

The black onyx mirror is now

Safely locked away. The Museum

Will, for a fee, let favored visitors

Ask it a question. Often the answers

Involve fresh human hearts or the grief

Of venomous reptiles but sometimes

It just says "go ahead and ask her"

Or shows you how you'd look with your hair

Parted lower and on the wrong side.

PRESENCE

An old woman with

A basket of eggs

Makes her living

Wandering

Through the works

Of Domenico Tiepolo.

The saints usually

Ignore her but the soldiers

Call her by name and,

Once in a while,

Buy a few eggs.

NONCE

If my father were alive I'd ask him

About the notion that gods

Call themselves into being when

There's some purpose for them

Or because they feel like it 

And then dismiss themselves

For a little while, for a long while,

Or forever but not before leaving

A review of themselves for the record.