A Preview of My New Book, This Poem, That Poem

 As I mentioned on FB, a sample of items from the latest book, This Poem, That Poem.  The first three are from the first section, "A Few Minutes Past the Hour;" the fourth is from "Thinking Like a Greek."   

The Funeral of Jennie Carlson Bourgo (Spring, 1952)

 

Both Jon and I were little boys,

and adult noise

was everywhere.

We must not stare.

 

There was some reason to be here,

that much was clear,

though Dad was mum,

and Mom seemed glum.

 

It was too hot, our collars tight.

None saw our plight.

Ringed by flowers,

we sat for hours.

 

Cain and Abel

 

Eons back in times of fable,

Cain killed Abel—

our starting point

put out of joint.

 

The first man born was first to kill,

a human skill

we rightly dread,

but will not shed.

 

The second was the first to die.

We could ask why,

but to what aim?

We know the game.

A Poem for My Diamond Jubilee

 

As I approached my seventy-fifth,

it seemed a myth,

some line from song,

to live so long.

 

If genes were all, I would be dust,

bereft of lust,

caught in the chill

that comes with still.

 

Instead I’m here and on my feet:

I feel the beat

and write my verse.

It could be worse.

 

The Best Laid Plans

 

“Actions always planned are never completed.”   (Democritus)

 

The aim we had, that perfect plan

too soon will wander out of hand.

 

Chance may hold sway and won’t be spurned;

here is the lesson to be learned:

 

all our work and best provisions

may necessitate submissions  

 

to the workings of cruel fate,

which never gets the story straight. 

 

 

My TV Appearance June 2020

 Here's a link to a TV appearance last June.  I am reading some of the work I posted on October 26, my winners in this year's state poetry contest.

https://www.bctv.org/video/poet-michael-bourgo-6-26-20/

Video of Mike discussing some recent work

 Here's a short video in which I discuss some of my recent work:

 https://youtu.be/Rb95tI9QnQ4

May 3, 1808 by Francisco Goya

 

May 3, 1808 by Francisco Goya

 

In his later years the Spanish artist

worked from the land of the deaf,

a state that may not ease life

but often among the very great

finds its role in art, the mind

adrift from all save its visions.

Incensed by Napoleon’s invasion,

and drawing  upon demons

he found in the depths of  silence,

he painted the horrors of war

and its violence to our humanity

at a pitch unmatched until Picasso.

Here, faces and bodies are posed

incredulous before the atrocities

of the French firing squad:

the Christ-like innocence

in the central figure, his arms

outstretched, as if on the cross,

joined by companions praying,

eyes and hands imploring mercy,

a pietà awaiting the arms of Mary—

all victims of a faceless monster,

the ordered ranks of legs and rifles                                                                                

formed into a symmetry of death, 

opposing the chaos of the terrified

caught in the jaws of gross evil,

the suffering of the helpless

in the last moment before the bullet.

 

Third Place Award, Pennsylvania Poetry Society, 2020

 

Each Day

 Each Day

Each morning it’s the same--

both of us are on watch--

did he or she get up? If yes, 

all is good and we proceed,

for life is still our familiar:

we can relax once more 

over coffee and puzzles,

wander through the morning

as the sun goes on its climb

until it’s time for lunch,

and when sandwiches end,

as the sun begins to slope

and we are both still here,

we decide what’s for dinner.

Second Prize Award, Pennsylvania Poetry Society, 2o2o

A Dog in Heaven

 A Dog in Heaven

My wife wants to rejoin Maisie in heaven,

but I offer little encouragement--doubt is

a lifelong habit I’m not about to shake,

though both her tears and my old age 

have softened the edges: I’m unsure

of anything anymore, let alone heaven,

and even less about the afterlife of dogs;

but she remembers walks along the bluffs,

the way that Scottie adored a picnic,

recalls her futile barking at deer, 

the much-feared encounters with a skunk,

which, happily, never took place,

the sweet puppy smells the first night

that we brought her home to the cabin,

and that warm, furry presence sleeping

between our legs on cold January nights.  

Jerrie talks about Maisie’s wagging tail,

her tireless, crazy love for tug of war, 

how the dog seemed to relish travel,

its rewards of rest areas, motel rooms,

and old pals to greet at our destination;

and her fondest wish is to replay 

all those moments, but she’d settle

for any future time she could share

with that small dog bouncing beside her;

she can describe what they would do 

in the most careful details, no less real

than the days when she talked with Maisie, 

and her yearning is so earnest, so tangible   

that it assumes the mantle of reality--

the best-conceived of my realisms totters

before such fervor, and it is now clear

to me and all my rationality

that no philosophy can refute a dog.  

Second Place Award, Pennsylvania Poetry Society, 2020

Before I Go

 Before I Go

Before I go, once again

I want to find a columbine

flourishing among the weeds

in some woe-begotten waste;

hear a bird I do not know,

whose song will make me shiver

like the first time I heard 

a wood thrush off in the dusk;

walk around an old oak

beneath its generous branches,

and feel the loyalty of its years

as it grips the soil beneath;

stand under a winter night

with its blanket of stars 

stretching from one side

of the world to the other;

and be so close to miracle 

I feel the breath of eternity.

First Place Winner, Pennsylvania Poetry Society, 2020