The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Roger Fogelman


A girl sits on a balcony. Above her headó
Which, tilted, loosens a flood of hair,
Which she, conscious, has spilled unconsciously
From out of her motherís graveóa small bird sits,
And closing its eyes from heat or ecstasy,
Literally climbs to heaven on her own voice.

Down below, flowerpots line the balcony
And wait to be wet so they can be dry again;
Lower down, gods walk in the streets,
Appear, are lost, and attract the attention
Of the girl, who is quite unconscious of the bird,
Having fed it, and besides, is Greek, and young, and fond of men.

This is how I remember itówith the sun not dancing,
Not playing hide-and-seek with the clouds, but pouring
Its light out down into the souls of men,
Which rose, and looked at one another, and said
"This is good; let there be light." Which brings us round
To theology again, with the bird singing its eyes out
Over the girl sitting on the balcony above
The cool interior courtyard, and below, the men.


When the frost is on the pumpkin
And in blossomís the pawpaw,
Then a mighty herd of yoghurt comes
Thundering through the draw,
And all the birds in cages get out
Their aerosol
To spray the passing yoghurt, and
Catch them as they fall.

When the clams are wet with ardor,
And all card-carrying krill
Dance at their union gala
In tuxedoes, as they will,
On vacation hard-worked pinnipeds
Try their best to get away,
And the whales come up like
Thunder on the trams to Baffin Bay.

When the schools are closed forever
And educationís rife,
Then you, my child, my soul, I hope,
Will graduate to life;
When the gloaming gleams with
Wonder and awake the day dreams love,
As your father loved Sharonah,
And the hand longs for the glove.

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