Friday, June 26, 2009

Four poems by Levy Wagenmaker

by Levy Wagenmaker


dead-weight is what
flutters away
on the cold winter breeze
the obituary pages
'he's my brother, he ain't heavy'
don't sing
it's disrespectful to sing
in the presence of dead-weight
words will do
the same words over and over

let me take my leave
out in the open
under the sun
someone old
nothing new

let the part of my remains
caught in words
ride the summer breeze
rising above my ashes
where you scatter them
my dear
my dear



a window-pane
and rain begins to fall
translucency cancels out translucency
patterns like parallel gashes
the first impression possibly
of someone unfamiliar with rain
which you and I alas
are not
well versed in dark clouds
we are
but let's not take this inside dusk
for gloom let's take advantage
of the fact that we can see
what goes on outside
although anyone on the outside
looking in
will stare from the light into blinding shadows

no need to draw the curtains then
this rainy day
let me make love to you



taking a bow will not necessarily
let you shoot arrows
a dervish has more in common
with a twister
than a contortionist
the skin of my hands is soft enough
but not as soft as the skin of your breasts
leniency is from Latin lenis
but penitence is not a partially parallel
poena gave us penalty
a free kick
a wee dick
it all hangs together
come to think of it


the logophile

a filter and a philtre
are very different concepts
an oyer and an oyster
also if otherwise
filter evolved from Germanic felt
philtre from Greek philein (to love)
to love wisdom is philosophy
a misogynophile loves woman-haters
some think the world of oysters
singly to be opened with a sword
or by the dozen snottily
but as for me I am
a logophile
a lover of the play
of consonants and vowels
the reason why I would not be
a lion or a mouse
I'd rather whisper words
than roar
nothing overwhelming then
just the right word for
just the right ear (or the left)

Author bio:

Levi Wagenmaker is a retired journalist, living in the Netherlands for most of the year, and in France for some of it, with three bitches, two of whom are dogs. Enamoured life-long with language (and languages), for reasons immaterial to the act he writes poetry in English only, even if he could most likely manage it in a few other tongues. His poems have been
published online more than in print, and Google will tell the curious what, where, and when.

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