Art and poetry on page and stage



Geoffrey Jacques


two golden-winged butterflies run after each other through the bush an unseen cry hovering about, pointedly sharp

clear light, ringing bell, gentle fountain
a faraway gadget’s roar, a dancing fern

in the heated wind little gnats flitter
while beyond the door, the abrupt quiet
like the wind wheel not far away

& the long shadow creased with pale yellow
framing the mild nap of the day, its dippy container
its annoying talk, its coy etiquette


for Amiri Baraka

much of it is cliché, an impractical turn
the naked ladies in the garden
& rarely here, an unbalanced view

& when I give over to the feeling
— just to mellow the edge —
you take my breath away

we all saw it coming, “that late death”
but the double-talk? a crumbling walnut
fuzzy like a worn blue potholder

a tiny bird feeds, white bud to white bud
each palm branch dancing in the temperate light
next door, man & machine jar the tableau

& if our judge, the wind, will permit contemplation
& if we’re absolved, to forgive might be golden


— so the difference between the ways you relent when questioned & the way this leaden mold is wrapped reveals a Tomfoolery overwhelmed by uneasy recall an element playfully humbled by grace on the other hand, you could point to where the bulk of the litter is stored that might make a difference or you could take your time griping interrupting the histrionics with cold tea & if you then hitch your wagon to a star — did I just say that? — your reputation will look more like a go-between like an emerging purple flower