Saturday, November 6, 2021

Rob Manery : Two poems

 

 

 

The Circle is Not Named
for Bob Hogg


The circle is not named
to be drawn in a triangle
 

even to the uttermost
for even the scientist

is lost in the terrible
midnight.
We were

glad to get the meat
and never fashed

for kitchen. Along the
furrow here,

the harvest fell
on the table

beneath each
busy hand,

the light ceases to be
mere words

that defy the thought
of anything essential

to any of them,
sinking into

the emptiness
of mere chance.

What's the point
of reading

if it makes you feel
uncomfortable?

The table was a large
one, room yet

for a distinction
between overweariness
 

falling into sleep. Who's
interfering with which?

At all times an other I, that
same other. Perhaps we've

come the wrong way. The original
number disturbs

nothing
but ants about this

hill carried on
by the unseen

language is always
a mosaic work, made up

of associated fragments,
not of separate

molecules. The man
recovered of the

bite, entertained only
with the air of

words from the box
to the basket.

He had placed
a flower in a vase

on his desk and
pretended that he

could not understand
my
German. The elbow

of a hedge jutted forth, wraps
and furs lay in heaps

on the chairs,
overcoat

on the table. When
he does
sit up 

and takes notice
he doesn't so much

as come with a thought,
knowing that you think

it's because of my
solitary manner of life,

putting me in mind
to have these

inexpressibles altered,
who dare, like him,

to think out loud.
Those who know

how the wheels turn
are always bored

at the top
of the furnace.

Who could answer
with fewer words?



 

No Bus In Sight
for Clint Burnham


An alarm clock
         
sounds in
the apartment

         
down the hall.
Outside an

         
empty U-Haul,
gracelessly

         
towed. If we sit
in this seat,

         
it does not betray
friendship, only

         
frailty. No bus
in sight. A moment,

         
slightly longer
elsewhere, signifies

         
now
only in a
local sense. Since

         
Christmas, we have
travelled one hundred

         
and fifty-two million
kilometres round

         
the sun, despite a
complete lack

         
of upward mobility;
a penny dropping,

         
exhausted by the
effort to remain

         
non-judgmental,
for lack of

         
a better conception,
for in Wayne Manor,

         
one must still
dress for dinner.

         
The trains are
running late. Do

         
you suppose it’s
customary, no, to accumulate

         
paregoric allegories
to assuage detained

         
travellers? The vegetal creeper
traverses the trellis while

         
we await your arrival.
What does it mean

         
to understand love, for instance?
She patiently explained the

         
procedure for drying
the seeds. We are at sea,

         
he suggested dryly. The engine
cut halfway up the

         
hill, a loose estimate
admittedly, and not

         
easily conceived like
transferrable skills.

         
A 20-minute ride
a year ago, but

         
an old man is
still left standing

         
in the light
rain. Now is the time

         
to plant the bulbs, before the
first frost. What is the

        
difference between
a concept and

         
an idea? A reference
that only persons

         
of a certain age
perceive as poetry.

         
Waiting in the rain
is not poetic. She shivered

         
as she sat on the
partially sheltered

         
bench, a table
of schedules lay

         
between them. Well,
it was him

         
who clothes
the kettle, but now

         
is itself cloaked. What
would it mean

         
to wait demurely?
It seems that I

         
have been of little
assistance in these

         
matters. You didn’t
notice, why would you,

         
certain gestures, a preference
to make haste

         
dismissed out of hand, out
of time. This is what

         
is remembered when we
listen to music. Was that

         
you? There were noises
they didn’t particularly

         
want to hear getting
through the thin

         
walls, everyone living
in the building

         
at once. At one
time the bus went

         
directly downtown, but
there are silences throughout

         
the night, a subtext
circumcising our living

         
situation. She gradually
sifted through the newspaper

         
notices, acclimatizing to
the cold rain. Put

         
the wood in th’ hole
from a sub-dialect indifferent

         
to the hours of listening
to another’s television, a

         
din not yet remote,
or a responsive relief,

         
not the repeated thud
of parietal lobe

         
rubbing against the idioms
of a certain school

         
conflicting with the
familiarity of neighbours.

         
A loin-cloth left behind
in the bus shelter, drops

         
of rain making riverlets
on the windows

         
of the train, obscuring
the view, but loving it

         
just the same. Anticipating
a particular gesture, parsed

         
peculiarly. At what
point do we admit

         
we’re mistaken? I thought
I saw the orange lights

         
of the bus, but perhaps
plastic caps cast

         
reflected light, wooden
slats surrounding the

         
concrete slab on which
the structure rested, for

         
in that instance I was
convinced he was a changed

         
man. His grandmother
would exclaim ‘for the love

         
of God’ while his father
would mutter ‘crissake,’

         
an epithet for any
eventuality, absent

         
a viable alternative,
members only.

         
What if I said
I like peeling

         
potatoes? The placement
of your hands

         
suggest you may be
uncomfortable

         
with this suggestion.
Was it gorily

         
depicted or were
sensitivities misplaced?

         
She was wearing
a military surplus

         
jacket when we
met. My corner

         
of the desk
was overrun

         
with stacks, so
I had to balance

         
it on my thigh.
He spent hours in

         
silence attempting
to master the daily

         
puzzle, but I was more
surprised than puzzled,

         
thinking we could catch
the last bus, but

         
of course the lateness of
the hour had eluded

         
him. Don’t we always
have a situation?

         
Considering the predicament
in which she

         
found herself, the notion
of melting into a crowd,

         
the crow’s evening migration,
without a pot to cook

         
it in, and the dinner
was only a small failure.

         
Of greater significance
was the complete lack

         
of envy for the kettle.
This was a conversation

         
he wished to avoid, for
he found it impossible

         
to explain his lethargy.
If the current is cut,

         
there will be no
bread, the bills remain

         
unpaid. No allowance
for allergies, the joy of

         
others through these
flimsy walls has no

         
paregal, what?

 

 

 

Rob Manery lives on the unceded territories of the xʷməθkwəy̓əm (Musqueam), Skwxwú7mesh (Squamish), and Səl̓ílwətaʔ/Selilwitulh (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations, where he is the editor of Some, a print-only poetry magazine, and the author of It’s Not As If It Hasn’t Been Said Before (Tsunami Editions), Richter-Rauzer Variations (above/ground press), Many, Not Any (Some Books) and the forthcoming ELEGIES (above/ground press).