8/14/2016 Four Poems by Joseph V. MilfordSecret Worlds Are Hidden In Such Places in the fading coolness of the other side of the pillow in the small of a woman's back, under the golden peach fuzz there in the syntax of an almanac whose culture of ziggurat has perished under something heavy falling right before the impact crushes it in the sinking Atlantis of your eye after I tell you of the lost continent in silver itself—between the ridges of the most base coin's edges between a hair and a hairsbreadth and a moment's acquiescence between the spinning blades of the engine fans on any highway between sternum and backbone the unchartable mesa between two sand grains an infinite cornucopia the electric world hidden there between membranes I lean down let my ear hover over a pool of quiet water Tragicomedy I don't need any manna I just need some sleep. I probably lose things in the bargains of necessities or niceties, which I think are like hawks hovering above highways. Mainly, I want to show you my monsters and still have a decent afternoon. This is not possible, especially when the hydra asks nine questions of you, and your answers are decapitated. I spit no venom—my greatest sin is making family of people who I never asked if I could do so. Then, I sit at the keyboard cajoling a universe in me, like a lawyer making a plea to a higher power. Just because you didn't know any better or you meant better doesn't mean you didn't foul up something as simple as ice-cream. Lure I was always afraid as a boy That when my father cast out He would tear out my eye with the hook. As an adult, I thought of this In some Freudian way—some fear I had Of him hurting me or going away Or I was bad at fishing if he ever hooked Me. That is what I thought. It would have been, Of course, my fault. Those hooks we all have in our lips Twine dangling from them in life, Those stories obvious to anyone who kisses us. Now I know new secrets-- My father never needed to rend my eyes. I was the fish he longed for—the self Of casting—the rip and rod and reel And abandon—how he thrust into my mother With love or not—how he swam away From us and her through weed and keg. And I know now that those hooks were for Ripping out my eyes; they were for Making new lures, new orbs For this brazen flotilla I ride towards His hospital canoe. I was always afraid as a boy That when my father cast out He was never coming back home, And he didn’t. And I didn’t. And West Point Lake dried up. Magnolia Climbing You say pendulum I say leaf on end of spider-spit sways You say compass I say pine needle in puddle near iron ore You say astrolabe and sextant I say circle of pear’s rump on triangular shale shard You say padlock I say the lips of the chameleon You say computer I say beehive You say combustion engine I say child on sugar You say why And I see a because in nothing special You say mandala I say “duh” You say electric guitar I say quasar harp We tend to mistranslate when we argue a lot Or argue over mistranslations like ergot Festering about to cause mass hallucinations You say skyscraper I say ziggurat You say catapult I say crackerjack Your whole life You tried to break out of the snowglobe (Guess what--the confetti is all over us) My whole life I burrowed under the snow Looking for utopia Who knew you would show up At the same time as me With a pinecomb of history As I held a ruddy pear of poetry We immediately kissed And then went running across the planet Looking for good climbing-trees ![]() Bio: Joseph Victor Milford is a Professor of English and a Georgia writer. His first collection of poems, Cracked Altimeter, was published by BlazeVox Press in 2010. He is the host of The Joe Milford Poetry Show, a co-founder of BACKLASH PRESS, and the editor of RASPUTIN: A Poetry Thread (a literary journal of poetry). https://twitter.com/joemilfordpoet http://jmilford2005.wix.com/josephvmilfordpoethttp://rasputinpoetry.blogspot.com/ http://www.backlashpress.com/ Comments are closed.
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