Nature Morte
an hourglass of air, a second apple
a brace of plums, a saucy pear,
more rifts of air, a smiling banana.
three brown and hirsute kiwis–
once round, now doubting their roundness
(roundness doubted by us, rather)
and rightly–they’re no longer so round.
See–one apple’s duller–
duller than its fellows, anyhow,
duller than the day it was set there, fresh-scrubbed;
nor does the pear float so saucily.
Not to worry, they’re still wonderful–
delicious in their crenellated way.
Didn’t someone once say ripeness is all?
And uber-ripeness, still better?
Now they’re for painting–a Cezanne?
Now to be cobbled into abstraction,
feed someone’s pathos, fire a soliloquy.
Everything’s changed. In the new light
even the blue’s different–
only the air’s the same.
© Christine Karapetian: Social Study 36: sized 3.5″ X 4″-or– reversed at 4″ X 3.5″
Girl Jumping Rope
’Round and down and up she fly
’mac the tar and tick the sky
down she cuzzes up she why
skip to the rope my farthing.
Moth to Flame
Moth to flame:
some other time.
I’m going home–
thanks all the same.
That Night in Montauban
There is the port down there
jammed with pinkish boats–
they ride the silver tide
up and down up and down.
It’s quiet here.
There is the mountain hoarding the sun’s gold
to no very clear end–
it gilds the little waves.
The lanterns hang a-swing
like hand-rolled stars
everything orderly,
the laws of the sky–
we were never there, not you nor I
let us dance, dance like we did that night in Montauban.
I follow my star
I don’t much care where
over mountain peak
or to the dump.
Following a star can be fun, you know,
supposing many lovely side-shows,
so it’s westward ho, till it’s gone, then,
on the road till dawn:
then, we had the princely choice
to fold into ourselves
or just go down to dinner
you loved me, i could tell by your voice–
let us dance, dance like we did
that night in Montauban
August 26
In the US now we have Dog Day—
‘wretched excess,’ purr the cats, and,
‘a fine way to part fools from their money.’
Woof! Mere jealousy.
Pity, when envy meanly interferes
with the shuttlings of sentimentality.
Requiem for a French Restaurant
Florent, Florent
that it should pass
your manic grin
helas, helas,
Florent, Florent,
to a boy from Astoria
a pretty good restaurant:
Florent–
sic transit gloria!