During the present
Emergency my great uncle
Dan has agreed, grudgingly,
To play Hermes but only the
Psychopomp bits. Caravans to
Hades will leave each
Afternoon at 3:45 and arrive
By 11 the next morning because
That's how long the Twentieth
Century train took to get from New
York to Chicago when Dan
Rode it in 1938. Those wishing to book
In advance are advised to purchase
Tickets from Dan's wife Jenny and
Not from Jenny's brother Joe.
The purpose, old Ruskin said, of Art
Is to arrest a sunset. Never mind the charge;
We'll figure one out later. Mixed, unlicensed colors
Have smeared streaks across the sky?
Rely on it; something illegal's happened!
An ancient Greek actor, if he'd read the manuals,
Spent hours before performing lying
On his back, summoning the voice
Of the character he was going to play.
He'd lie down again afterwards,
Letting the voice and character go.
This was a dangerous moment;
An interruption might leave him half Orestes
Or two-thirds Queen Jocasta.
His wife had little money so the tombstone
Was roughly made and the lettering's uneven.
After two thousand years, though, it still
Wishes you well, passerby, and wants you to know
That Stracco the gladiator fought fairly, won eight fights,
And would've won nine but for a treacherous judge.
Portunalis was the god
Of keys. Or, some say,
Of harbors or gates
Or perhaps the warehouses
Where the Romans kept wheat.
There's no record of anyone
Ever praying to him nor
Sending him thanks for
A found key or because
Their stored wheat stayed dry.
Forget about sacrifices! His flamen --
The Flamen Portunalis --
Had only one job which was
Once a year to ceremonially grease
The weapons held by a statue
Of Quirinus, a more important god.
That a poem's now been comissioned
For Portunalis puzzles me but,
Though I write poems, I don't know
Why most of them are written.
When I was in college I wrote
Any number of poems in which Death and I
Were close friends. In some we rode motorcycles;
(He'd trouble keeping his robe from getting tangled;
The wind blew his cowl back as we sped along.)
In others we wandered or looked for work
Or called each other on the phone or had fights.
I haven't written like that in years
Content to deal with younger Deaths,
Either children or young businessmen
Who'd feel ridiculous holding a scythe.
Ono No Komachi, standing by the river,
Informs the air that the spring rains
Are three weeks over-due.
The Master of Rain smacks his head,
Saying "Fool of an Immortal!"
