a lonely winter night’s song

a year went by and then another

another orange summer chased by the rains

and now the snow is on the mountains again

soon we’ll have frost where there now is dew

another winter’s here and no sign of you

your memory was supposed to fade away

but fonder the heart has grown

grown steadily like the poplar trees

that we planted along the canal that feeds

the fields that together we ploughed

tall they stand proud and stout now 

and with their leaves all dancing their heads sway

in the winds that will bring back the birds to the lake

and if only they would bring you too

what wouldn’t i give, what wouldn’t i do

to share with you a thermos of tea

watching another sunset from the hilltops

with our heads in the clouds and the town at our feet

and our airy conversations carried by the breeze

when you always mocked thoreau

were fascinated by chatwin’s books

and by sartre and proudhon 

and though you thought nothing of his poetry

had behind you door that one photograph of rimbaud

him in harar, standing brazenly in white  

harar, where they feed the hyaenas at night

i remember the last conversation we had

though how could i have known that then?

it was on the hill beyond the last aspen stands

where we’d gone riding far outside town

at sunset the sky was shredded into flaming bands

and you were thinking out aloud

about why - when they can fly to distant lands -

do the crows keep coming back

why don’t they just fly on and on

and now you’ve been gone so long

while here i am, alone with this quaint old song

as the days get shorter every day by a furlong

and sooner descends every twilight
ahead of time at dusk the cold nights arrive

all day in the fields to stay busy i strive

but what can i do when the blanket of stars unfurls

above clear violet skies? lonely by the coal brazier i sit

singing, if you’ve seen enough of the world

won’t you deign to pay me a visit?

for now the snow is on the mountains again

and soon we’ll have frost where there now is dew

another winter’s here and

it’d be nice to see you

why i sometimes don’t respond

the many me-s and the numerous i-s

so many people their faces the same

they all respond to my name

all lost in disguise

it’s never over

who knows where one will end up

and whom one will end up with

what if frieda had returned to the kids

what-ifs of the past and those before us

encumbered by possibilities we must live

what if emily wasn’t lonely

or what if she would’ve met shiv

who knows if we will meet again

and if once again we’ll kiss

every infatuation is the love of a life

every moment fated bewitched

for who knows which way life’ll swing

who knows what trajectories we’ll take

or the way that things’ll shape

who knows if we will meet again

and if love again we’ll make

so you’re still growing it?

so you’re still writing poetry?

you heartlessly say

the last word dropping from your lips

like a crumpled sheet of paper

rolling out of your hand into the bin

yes. i’m still writing poetry

there’s nothing i can do about it

it’s like people asking me

if i’m growing my beard

it grows, there are no two ways about it

not unlike your armpit hair

unless you check it with satin care

no? now where would you be

without your cosmetic weapons?

so i don’t have a choice, really

poetry just happens

for we’ve changed in ways that can’t be undone

i wish i could remember your voice

the way it sounded over the old box-

type telephone with its revolving dial locked

that was my first brush

with restrictions. when we couldn’t make

any calls and had to wait

for people we loved to think of us

then

after waiting all morning with bated breath

i’d be whispering for the sake of my

innocent two-bit privacy - any that can be had

at a common telephone. choking

on tears, hoping you wouldn’t notice

i’d say the line’s bad

i wish those moments i could steal

from those days now long gone

or that i had one now

an old box-type telephone

to transform your voice

bring back that sound that feel

like paint flaking off rusty steel

the yellow and beige highlighted

with a hint of diffused green

and in the shadows instead of black

just a blue deep

or a purple strained

i wish i could feel

that unadulterated love once again

or how secure you made me feel

if only i had an old box-type telephone now

maybe we could go back to the times now dead

when i still listened to all you said

when our worlds still overlapped

and we could still talk

even if the line was bad

yes, i wish i could remember you voice

the way it sounded then

but come, these are an old man’s ramblings

for when have telephones ever repaired men?