Five Poems
by William Doreseki
Eclipse Light
Eclipse light blurs our shadows
and rinses the blue from the sky.
The marsh whimpers with hyla.
The pine-tops bleaken as gloom
cancels their bright pollination.
Not a total eclipse but almost,
the sun losing its virtuosity,
temperature dropping four degrees.
We do this every twenty years
or so, revising the cosmos
to support our latest disbeliefs.
We wander up and down the road
while the occlusion ripens
and the colors fade into drab.
Then the healing begins, the light
thickens a little, the sky opens
to its proper palette, our shadows
now crisp enough to resist
superstitions crawling after us
with leathery dog-tongues dangling.
Moose Brook Brimming
Moose Brook stumbles over rocks
exposed by its gusts of erosion.
We gaze at the reckless flow
caused by the warping of spacetime.
Einstein knew a thing or two
the way we know angels don’t exist
yet exert massive influence.
The brook is headstrong with melt.
No angels, but wanton forces
prod and mock the sudsing current,
accounting for its outraged look.
If we could flow with such power
we’d smooth ourselves into success,
both worldly and the other kind.
The brook tolerates and even
thrives on a rough geometry
that could easily break our bones.
Maybe we also would thrive
if thaw bulked our modest egos
the way it has bulked Moose Brook,
roaring with unfiltered lust.
Le Poème du Néant
The drizzle of conversation
in our local café leaves
everyone sodden and sullen.
The usual gossip has failed.
The ironies of seasonal angst
seem too absolute to enjoy.
We sit before lattes and sneer
at each other for wasting lifetimes
in choosing the proper verb.
Our doctorates tried to define us,
but their cheap paper quickly pulped,
leaving us ignorant as ever.
We can’t enter the talk around us
without blunting certain instruments.
Rain hisses in the doorway,
daring us to step outside.
We’ve nothing to say that weather
can’t say better, so we turn
our backs to the local effects
and drown ourselves in our drinks.
Coffee Break
Loons punctuate the marsh pond,
editing a murky text.
Parked facing the water, we nosh
blueberry muffins and snort
coffee from a shared paper cup.
The loons inhabit the landscape
more firmly than we ever could.
Their intelligent dives always
scoop up the proper size fish,
which they swallow with a smile.
We can’t plumb the underworld
with such precision. Our minds
are too ripe with memories, too shy
to probe even the shallow spots,
which the April sun indulges.
Muffin crumbs drop in towels
we’ve spread on our laps. Soon
we’ll shake them out and drive away,
leaving the loons indifferent
and the text of the pond unread.
Square Notes
Sweating, Jazzman blows a square note
that sparks on earth, water, and air.
G sharp F, A, and a low C
rain ash on the tittering crowd.
The vocalist steps up. She also
emits square notes so rugged
their edges wound the audience
so we savor the tang of blood.
Square notes aren’t chords but simple
geometries given flesh enough
to enflame with illicit passions
we need more than liquor or drugs.
Some musicians can shape them
on the piano, but mostly sax
or trumpet source these apparent
cacophonies to alert us
to organs not even the best
surgeons have attempted to plumb.
BIO: William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. 2024). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.