Disclaimer

This blog ran for more than two years with no graphics--and it received about 50 page views. I was advised to add graphics; after seeing the huge public that followed blogs dedicated to homoerotic images, I decided to use that kind. The result was a dramatically increased number of monthly page views, and the number has remained fairly steady. Most of the images were found on the internet; although they are assumed to be in the public domain, they are identified as far as possible. They are exhibited under the Fair Use protections of United States copyright law: their function is simply to attract readers to the poems--I receive no economic benefit from them or from the blog. Nevertheless, they will be removed if they are copyrighted and the owner so desires. 1260 x 290

POEMAS EN ESPAÑOL -- 2009: January 8, April 12, August 3 . . . . 2010: January 13 . . . . 2013: June 30, November 28, December 8 . . . . 2014: September 25, November 30 . . . . 2015: July 9, October 22 . . . . 2016: February 12, August 1, December 28 . . . . 2017: March 2, September 5 . . . . 2018: May 10, July 15, November 3 . . . . 2019: August 4, December 5 . . . . 2020: December 1 . . . . 2021: October 12, December 3 . . . . 2022: April 15, June 21 . . . . 2023: January 3, April 2, May 9, June 6.

Thursday, March 24, 2022

THE MOCKINGBIRD

 
for Gilbert


Starting in March the dry laburnum beside the house 
Fountains light frothy clusters that scatter and fall,
 
Spattering the sidewalk, porch and lawn 
With spots and splashes of bright yellow.
 
Now in the cool gray light of dawn, 
The mockingbird flings out his long,  
Steep-scaled, abrupt, and convoluted arias.
 
Unseen beneath the vertical glare of noon, 
All through the deepening blue hours, 
 
Into night’s velvet blackness and the moons 
Stark chiaroscuro, and long after    
                
The silent moon has set, the mockingbird 
Sobs, throbs, trills, spills and spurts and oozes 
His extravagant bel canto.
 
No love duet, this solo burst from the male heart 
That knows no rest and needs no consolation—
 
This is art forcing life, life forcing art 
Out of the purest desolation.





































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