Sonnet that Only Exists in the Tropics
It’s organic he says fleeing into swamp culture
leaving behind the years of espresso and Roquefort
observing the way that light illuminates the mud
that thickens the water a haven for all types
of menacing organism it’s fundamental he
repeats locked inside a bathroom as refuge from
the hellscape of his family trying to find a distance
where he might recoil at a non-alarming pace inside
him is a certain darkness that evades the moonlight
that fails to propagate the shrilling of tree frogs
the screeching of owls this magnificent heat
that even nightfall can never break a sweat as
pungent as sex divergent across the infrastructure
of conduit the taste of nectar on his tongue.
Sonnet for the Inner Suburbs
You were still a distance before the city line
where the fires were burning flames swelling
like an ocean of narrative Cy Twombly
flower-kissed in orange and red a desert
blossom that seeds the dreams of a dying planet…
remember the concept of millions and how
it expanded beyond all limits remember the shape
as gesture that surrounded the idea of seasons
fading now into unrestricted congruence
it’s a time for craftsmanship to resurrect itself
after all these years of specialization it’s time
to work on the shape of our bleeding gums
and the frightful condition of our once fragrant
gardens where weeds are spreading furiously.
Stained Glass Lights Up a Sonnet
Taking this as a harbinger of time still to come
these brass and silver memories of childhood religion
tall and bone-skinny in long black robes and white
collar the choral trills and pocket change
that clinks into the collection plate blue hair
and crinkled skin everything observed from
a place of never-sanctioned mockery the leaves
are falling in the churchyard horse chestnut fruit
splits open spilling out the rich brown seed
ancient language on ancient stone that fades
back into forgotten centuries the stained-glass
windows are dull from outside but once
within the light spills color opening up the space
where kind-hearted folks are sitting quietly.
Sonnet for Friendship in the Workplace
A mystery is welded into platonic irony sharp metallic
edges glinting silver in a concrete world harsh
sounds are magnified echoing through a cavernous
space when attempts are made to define the exact
meaning of friendship parameters mapped as axes
as a graph is formed in n-dimensional space where one
is always gleaming edging light through bandwidth
defined as elegy beyond the wire perimeter you find
a meadow sinking into indigo as day’s end looms
there is still sufficient visibility cars leave one by one
a delicate dance of compact spacing home is just
a metaphor for temporary relief hoping there will be
no rain tonight because the one thing everyone is sure of
is that this grid has been breaking down for decades.
Sonnet on Post-Coital Tristesse
The taste of nectar was on his tongue but his feet
were frozen into blocks of ice as he walked through the rain
just another man in a long dark overcoat a brimmed
hat protecting his head from the weather a head full
of memories of oiled torsos slithering and naked
in an overheated room of breakfast mornings
with coffee and eggs and fresh fruit driving though
the sunlit valley with the snow-capped peaks all around
and the sound of laughter the softness of memory
and touch and a heart-bursting tenderness and then
so suddenly it was over and now he walks the city
blocks oblivious to weather driving his thoughts
like a nail into the firmament watching it crack and split
apart rendering into darkness elliptical darkness pure.
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Paul Ilechko is a British American poet and occasional songwriter who lives with his partner in Lambertville, New Jersey. His work has appeared in many journals, including The Bennington Review, The Night Heron Barks, deLuge, Stirring, and The Inflectionist Review. He has also published several chapbooks.
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The Making of Books (stills)
by Encyclopaedia Britannica Films 1947
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