A Lute and a Lyre
for Nicole Markotić
Would you know the difference
between a lute and a lyre?
Did he radiate the terror
that prevarication brings
when replying to such questions?
Yet the quality suggested by
a pneumatic drill does not quite
accord with the liar’s paradox.
Were you, perhaps, a ringside
paramour? All her
autobiographies suggest
a casual lust, although
vapid desire might also be
suitable in these occasions.
What tends to be spoken in such
moments automatically
defers to idiomatic
equivocation. If you
prefer a jump-start, I would
suggest the quail skewers.
My insides are out of order.
My outsides depict a man
comfortably in his 50s,
although the dinner jacket shows
signs of wear. Perhaps we should
signal for car service. From
the far side of the lot, it
was difficult to get a
visceral sense of what went
awry. Still, we squinted and
wondered at the long ricercar
that shocked and left each of us
somewhat aghast. An astute
listener could discern the treat
of a clandestine fugue, but
if it were me, you wouldn’t
have recognized the frugal
treatment afforded to this line
of questioning. A quiet
adagio can carry
far, but formal attire yields
despairing discomfort. We
all want to cry but wont of tears
is teased from the unsuspecting
attendant who smirks while
suggesting a coat check. For
if we admit ghosts, then
this hotel is teeming. And if
the planets align, do they form
a quixotic team coming
together to be set in
popular songs? If I doubles
for us and you doubles for
them, then who doubles for those
who didn’t buy the book? Now
that is something to sneeze at.
We may have to double back,
finding reason, but no rhyme.
And yet he rhymed off his reasons
with such detachment, the echo
subsided almost as quickly
as I read the onscreen news
screamed as though doubt was left to me.
We decided not to attend
the performance which was
nevertheless unavoidable
and deemed the matter closed, or
perhaps I am mistaken.
I’ll have to get back to you, but
did you mean me when you said ahem?
Was it the knees that tease
from the far periphery,
and your rhizomes that tasted
of tar? Do you remember
just how far we have gone? And
so we strained for a hint of
a motive or a suggestion
of harmony before the horns
came walking back into the picture,
but there can be no coda.
He liked a twist or at least
an unmet expectation.
A motet to arouse an
emotional shrug of the
shoulders, a crossing of the
arms, or even a craning
of the neck. What is left when
the music ends? A small sedge
of cranes by the shore, seeming
to exhibit complete
disinterest. Is it such
a problem to believe, when
watching the sunset, that the sun
will appear in the sky again
tomorrow? Do you prefer
a king’s pawn in online play?
The delaying move failed yet we all
witnessed the hesitation,
more becoming much less. An
analogy to armies
will only, my friend, stymie
appreciation, more struggle
than dialogue, a responsive
algorithm. For weeks we
awaited Fred’s reply, the
ritenuto fell into place,
but such a tremendous fall-
ing. The alteration between
tension and release witlessly
breathed yet shunned. He suggested
tweaking the lease, but the ricercar
returned. They seemed a bit fried,
yet flexible, lax even.
Our seats were in the wings
and with a wonderful air of
ease one leaned into the sense of
staggeringly sustained sounds;
we now were fewer than when
we began the film, the questions
no longer lengthened the lines
that sent us to seek in other
works a particularly
permeable yet arresting
eek.
Ought
for
Ted Byrne
No ought from
a gee whizz,
not from an
if only either.
With only a
scant familiarity,
his parents
settled
on Ulysses.
The sycamore’s
obligation, if you
will, differs from
the owl’s, yet
neither it nor
the sparrow
sees the similarities.
As a child, he
would seize any
opportunity to
slip the knot
leaving none the
wiser, but
got on without
a dropped word.
From a bird’s
eye view such
machinations are
achingly acute,
if the owl’s grief
is measured
against the
griffon’s.
From early on, we
grasped a rough
intuition, a raft
of rules not quite
a code. A coddled
owlet – this hope
becoming a nested
expectation.
An old woman
reading Beckett
on the bus.
What was
I supposed to do?
Waiting for neither,
by god, it was
difficult to live up
to his name, dispossessed
as he was of courage,
cleverness, and conceit.
Consequently, the heart
of the problem
was not easily
pierced, grasping only
a blunted understanding.
I kept my knives
in the knife-box, gently
rubbed my hands
and whispered something –
something about flesh
and wine, but my
companion began
to sing. One does
not need to be
a saint to break
bread with the poor.
A poor comparison
made poorer still
by the single-minded
conceit; a sympathetic
glance is no
substitute for a
continuing contract.
We were barely
noticed when we
slipped in late,
with time to fulfill
our familial functions,
a confessional
monologue missed
all my marks. We
left over-nourished
but under no
illusions that an
enlarged heart is
the same as a
generous one.
At this stage
any strange
deposition is
unwelcome. No
edicts either to
deter fate. The rough
ground is not
to be smoothed
bit by unbidden
bit. He answered
the call, or rather,
there was an
answer to a
call, side-stepping
the scorpion’s
sting.
Well then, what
account can you
give? To chase
the response,
you must return
the call. His parents
were forgiving of
all but him, or
so it seemed. Did
you turn down
the offer? For what
it’s worth, the antidote
is not always laughter,
while the anecdote
you are seeking,
even after we’ve
forgotten the imagined
freedom to take the
time to carefully
consider Kantian imperatives
from the swallow’s
perspective, pondering
the malady most
likely to curb this behaviour.
The road might not,
in fact, be as hopeless
as it seems; nonetheless
a habit is not necessarily
an addiction to its
demands. As the sparrow
flies so the cure for
prescription. Sometimes
the journey is immaterial
when being there is what
matters most. If there is
no ought out of is
from this,
what if
a simple delight
in the dilemma.
