Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Two Poems (Halvard Johnson)

Operative Light

Facing the music snatches of dialogue he said,
"Does your head hurt?" she said, "No"
moments when everything seems personal summery clothes
make me nervous sweet defilements something wholly primitive
Carrying my scrapbook giving in to nothing killing people
because I like to woken by a sudden shock of pain
nobody gives us anything hair combed back from her forehead
coming to our rescue shining water under the streetlights
Plunging downward drifting down beside her familiar,
troubled world wanting to say it out loud living on credit
extending one hand toward the sun a little like standing
on the corner shaving the dog for the summer
Slapping the surface of the table having been dead
for years now jumping up to see if you were really there
sitting on the church steps balancing the dream against
the falling light glad that you're okay
Sitting with the gun across his knees massaging his knuckles
moonrise white over water listening to her pretending
to listen to him flights to some distant cities true, but separate
clear as could be in the silent air thinking of the evening coming up

Old Man in Sky
On the chosen day, September 22, at precisely 8:44 GMT,
the old man appears just where the sun would normally be.
The earth--its surface--unfurls itself from its globe and perks
up its ears, waiting . . .
Looking something like a Mercator projection, but without
the distortions, the edges lean forward making the whole thing
sort of concave like. The old man explains that he, looking
just a tad like George Carlin, but with more hair, has finally
found the time to come around and see what wonders he hath
wrought here. He says things seem pretty much okay, on a planetary
scale. Folks are being born and dying in pretty much the right
proportions. All in all, he says, he is pleased with his handiwork.
But, he asks in conclusion, Vas you effer in Zinzinnati?

Halvard Johnson's newest, Remains To Be Seen, is just out from Spuyten Duyvil press. Older, Changing the Subject, is with Red Hen Press (2004). Older still, Eclipse (1974,) was the third of four originally issued by New Rivers Press between 1969-1979. Another recent two, are with Hamilton Stone Editions,, where he is on the editorial board. He lives, and writes, with Lynda Schorr, in San Miquel de Allende, Mexico, and is our fearless leader/dispatcher of Truck (I feel privileged to have had his ear at the conception of this "self-propelled vehicle".

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