new graces

Feeling great, literally, in the birth of our first great niece, Zoey Marie with her folks in Missoula. Baby and mother Taz and father Zach all doing great, and here is a humble poem towards that: http://lostmenagerie.blogspot.cz/2018/04/today.html

Also, I've finished a smaller play than the ones I had written last year (Codex Orange set in Golden Valley, Echo Chamber set in Billings). This one is entitled "The Bereaved" and is set in Vienna, near where I teach twice a year. Any feedback and distribution would be welcome! https://meta-metaphysics.blogspot.cz/

wishing everyone a happy Spring, now that it's here!
love,
Dan

Where Poetry Fits In

The Waste Land, Lines 60-68

Real is a city.
Poetic maps it out.
Unreal paints it with brown fog.

With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.

Real are the people.
Poetic sees them flow.
Unreal follows them uphill and over the river.

So many ...so many.

Real are the landmarks.
Poetic calls them king and saint.
Unreal casts them as characters.

London Bridge is falling down.

Real is the time.
Poetic counts with sighs.
Unreal begins at the final bell.

Hurry up it’s time.

Real is life.
Poetic feels the seasons.
Unreal sees death undone.

In my end is my beginning.

Real feels weary.
Poetic hangs its head.
Unreal fixes eyes to the pavement.

I would that I were dead, she used to say.

We live in the life of real.
We breathe with the power of a poem.
We wonder in the realm of unreal.

In my beginning is my end.

(For the continuing series, see http://simorghpress.blogspot.com/)

the emu

Anything? about the

passing of my days,

let alone the hubris that

I own them, anyways?

Okay. I saw the emu

west of Gloriette again—

ever scoping for its mate,

a now to codify a then.

You nod in recognition

as if the bird’s a star,

strutting to indulge

a sense of who we are.

Imagine that it knew

the gleaming of my eye

from when I paused

before, flighty passerby.

To think it’s moved a

thousand miles a year

within a chainlink fence,

to wonder why it’s here.

Wait in faith until a

hard-to-figure croak,

indicating something of

an early time we spoke.

I fear a future walk

will find the emu gone—

Schönbrunn swears to

God the glory will go on.