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RESURRECTION OF TIME NOW DEAD
BY A POET GOING BLIND, 11.
La principessa, your
purple-painted finger
On the old bronze handle that opens
The opaque doors of old shelves
For a view of a grayed silver patter
Embossed with a pattern
Of savoy cabbage leaves
That once held precisely peeled and parsed apples
Was a revelation of history, the change
From feudalism and its castles to capitalism.
Espaliered coats no longer hang
On the backs of gold silk cushioned, brocaded chairs.
Your blonde hair was bungled
And undermined by the flexed muscles of wind.
Soon, after the intrusion, you will go
To be alone in a room embellished with elegant skulls.
RESURRECTION OF
TIME NOW DEAD
BY A POET GOING BLIND, 12
The sun scalds the
driftwood,
Its wrists and fingers burn red;
Its fires underline the bleached shells.
Waves lift up to put crystal balls
On long, crystal stems that amaze
As inventories in air mattress factories.
The cactus by the sea is a circus:
On each green oval a performance of black ants.
RESURRECTION OF TIME NOW DEAD
BY A POET GOING BLIND, 13
All the desires that enslave us were brought
Into our bodies by coral-colored cargo ships never built.
The sailors were fisherman without hook, line, or pole, no
Rod or reel, who fished in the fishless dark waters
Of our unconscious while the fishermen wore blindfolds.
I once knew an Eskimo who wore in summer igloos
A Japanese blue silk kimono decorated
With orange snowflakes falling on a yellow pagoda.
Her life was free play among aporia after aporia.
We worked together to save baby seals
From the unhappy youth who roamed the ice,
Chiding themselves for not building bee hives.
The Eskimo in her kimono was always happy
In the summer atmosphere with cracking ground.
RESURRECTION OF TIME NOW DEAD
BY A POET GOING BLIND, 14
In my backyard walk, my shoe scraped
Away a covering of sand and I discovered
A lost doormat. On the doormat was printed:
“Welcome to the opinions that are spoken
About onions in this house,
Their globular bodies of translucent layers,
So thin and thick that they become opaque.”
“Welcome” the word brought back memories
Of my salad days at a tent meeting,
The preacher wore a blue baseball caps
Danced in the blank spaces
Made by the wires from a microphone.
The event was on the Sunday
That I went to a Supermarket,
Brought a half-dozen onions,
Placed the six white onions on a white table,
Contemplated their configurations.
RESURRECTION OF TIME NOW DEAD
BY A POET GOING BLIND, 15
A dark emblem was seen on the sand
Underwater in a weedy pond.
It resembled an emblem of Francis Quarles,
But lacked the correct behavior
Of Quarles’ religious scenery.
This emblem was like a medieval garden
In which all the flowers had wilted,
And the goldfinches only left feathers.
It spoke with its spokes of dungeons
And a time when dwarfs
Wore bright clothes and told jokes.
When humpbacks were hired
To interpret the symbolism of dreams.
When ladies with white cone-shaped hat
Walked among potted orange trees on stone balconies.
The light change, a cloud
And a small amount of rain,
The emblem shifted its connotations.
I saw a burgomaster beat a non-taxpayer.
Duane Locke, Doctor of Philosophy, English Renaissance literature, Professor Emeritus of the
Humanities was Poet in Residence at the University of Tampa for over 20 years. Has
had over 5,000 poems published. As of February 2004, 5,102 poems published.
Over 2,000 were published in print magazines, such as American Poetry Review,
Nation, and Bitter Oleander. In September 1999, he became a cyber
poet, added over 3,000 poems published in E zines. He Is the author of 14 print books of
poetry, and in 2002, added 3 E books, The Squids Dark Ink, From a Tiny Room,
and The Death of Daphne.
The entire
Spring 2004 issue of the magazine Bitter Oleander will be devoted to a 92
page interview with Duane Locke and will include a large selection of his poems.
Forthcoming in Potomac Review an article by Donald Ryburn on the poetry of Duane
Locke. He is also a painter, having many exhibitions, his latest at the city art museum in
Gainesville, Florida. A recent book, Extraordinary Interpretations by Gary Monroe,
published by University of Florida Press. A photographer as well, Locke has over 184
photos in e zines. He does close-ups of trash tossed away in alleys and on
sidewalks.
His old biographical notes, published many time, are now
obsolete. The notes stated that he lived in an old decaying house in the sunny Tampa
slums, populated largely by drug dealers and the homeless.
The house was condemned by the city of Tampa inspectors, and after his living at this
location for fifty years, he was forced to leave within six days.The forced move was due
to the fall of the bungalow in his large back yard. The bungalow contained a priceless
literary scholarly library which is now under debris. An army of inspectors descended and
decided he could no longer live in his home, so Duane Locke left Tampa to relocate in
Lakeland, Florida. He lives by a lake with swans and many wild birds. The fall
was a “Fortunate Fall,” for he now lives in a more desirable and pleasant
location at Lake Morton Plaza. The only disadvantage is that he can find no trash to
photograph, no broken beer bottles on sidewalk, no litter as it was in Tampa.
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