[Originally published on March 12, 2016]
She steps into the church, unprepared, underdressed,
just to shake off the downpour, the street noise defied
by a coffin-lid door slowly sealing inside
with the shadows her hurry to go un-confessed.
The interior, drably antique, monochrome,
now resounds with a murmur. It lowers and falls
from the black porous mass – lace mantillas, knit shawls –
shabby light-of-the-world blearing down from the dome.
Botticelli and Venus, come quickly! This green
Primavera in Underworld pales at the slow,
almost glacial relentlessness telling her No,
you’re but one of the houseflies that buzz on the screen.
It’s a struggle to get to the door, to the air,
to the sounds of street traffic, the rain on her hair.
| Copyright © 2017 by Eric Meub Eric Meub, architect, lives and practices in Pasadena. He is the adopted brother of the artist, Susan C. Price. They respect, in their different ways, the line. |  |
If poets could be properly paid in our mercantile world, the authors of perfect poems like Eric Meub’s wouldn't have to sink their spirits into commercial grinding machines.
ReplyDeleteNot a word out of place.
ReplyDeleteIsn't that the truth! I used "perfect" with due deliberation.
DeleteI enjoyed it even more than the first time. Thanks, Eric!
ReplyDeleteMe too! And I feel that way about every one of Eric‘s poems that have appeared on Moristottle & Co. He deserves a laureateship. (Is that what it‘s called? Yes! The word has been around since the 1520‘s apparently.)
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