The Doctor's Dream (Durer)

#106

Doctors of medicine or learning are equally prone
To slothful napping, succumb to sweetly silken pillows,
Nestling near a cosy stove to warm exhausted bones,
Gone from the universe and prey to the Devil's bellows.
A Venus dreamed can be rationalized as a patient
Appealing for mercy: "Touch me, cure me, oh, please relent!"
The rotting apple she leaves him is sufficient payment.
When Cupid walks on stilts he has no hands free for arrow
And bow, no desire to quicken desire, to speed blood's flow
To love's wound, or, is he the Doctor telling Venus, "No?"
So, the Devil's vapors have failed to stir the Doctor's lust,
And Venus has not tempted him with naked hips to thrust.
Virtue doesn't make one happy, the Doctor's frown suggests.
He's miserable dreaming the goddess's impish breasts.

I See Again In Memory My Dear Udnie (Francis Picabia)

#105

The petal of the first flower we loved
Invited us to come nearer and touch
Its iridescent flesh, waxy and grooved,
To breathe what it exhaled, but not too much.
In time we learned to pluck it up and pull
It apart to make rhymes or to annul
The vow implicit in adoration
Of what soon fades by adulteration.
My Dear Udnie, I remember well your
Arms folded, legs crossed, and insistent tongue,
Your offered throat, and your eyes, green and long,
But your exploded image I cannot restore.
You are, somewhere, no more a torn petal,
While I see scraps of paper and metal.

Enso (Hakuin)

Turn over the road
and shove the wheel
beneath the void.
Make a deep breath.
Nothing and its time
can be destroyed.

Note: This poem, which came to me in a dream virtually complete, is not part of the ongoing, numbered sequence of "Brushstroke" poems. "Enso" is Japanese for "circle." A calligraphic enso is a symbol for enlightenment, strength, elegance, the universe, and the void.

Hotei Watching Mouse Sumo (Hakuin)

#104

Jolly Hotei knows nothing of sumo,
Nor of mice, but of sumo wrestling mice
There is nothing he does not understand.
He blew smoke rings once of Otufuko,
A prostitute whose skin was pale as rice.
Two words he's never said are: "I demand."
He pooh poohs the myth that he's flown, a kite,
When it was his grinning that took that flight.
He likes a game, but doesn't play them well.
Winning seems a tiny corner of hell.
He totes his world about in a bundle --
Gifts for the needy, his bedding and socks;
Or himself, tied in with a knot, trundles,
A circle rolling over pond and rocks.

Reptiles (Escher)

#103

"I do not sense that I have lived this life before."
"Don't you ever wonder if there's something more
Than crawling endlessly from book to cup to floor?"
"Our lives are an endless and parabolic bore."
"I'm happy to sacrifice to enlightenment,
Would our creator boast of being heaven lent."
"I'd know what it all means if I knew what I meant,
Allowing myself to vanish into parchment."
"I'm damn tired of looking at your tail, that I know,
And can't wait to reach the polyhedron to blow!"
"Yes, we all feel it's an extravagant show."
"I can't not climb the set square set there long ago."
"Speak for yourselves!" exclaims the reptile in the cup,
"I'll climb down now. I will never again climb up!"

Harvest in the Black Hills

#102

I've wondered how they kept the blades that sharp
For such cutting when they struggled with scythes.
Hay is tough, dullness only plucked it like a harp;
Why some men left the harvest to their wives.
Today, machines can cut and bale a field
Within hours, but can't increase the yield.
The flung bales crush the serried rows
Of severed stalks, but scattered straws
Defy the yield like impudent scofflaws,
Yet to be turned under by the plow.
We keep our distance, merciful and shy,
And dare not bend a stalk with shoe or eye.

In memory of Lucien Stryk, poet, teacher, and friend.

(Photo taken by the author.)

Light of the World (Peter Blume)

#101

The light of the world is an outside light?
A being of gadgets, cornices, plinths,
And networks of hidden, grinding parts.
What's visible is only black or white.
Its bulb lords it like a petulant prince,
Impatient with the diplomatic arts.
I have two moods, it says, I weep or laugh.
Or, in your language, I am on or off.
We yearn to praise, worry that if we pray,
We shall ignite it when we need it least.
The sunlight would dry up its meager spray.
The Light of the World turns NIGHT into DAY!
Secretly we fear and hate the beast.