Eurydice’s Complaint

Published March 13, 2013 by rlmcdermott

I ask for gray;
he gives me blue.
I ask for light;
he gives me night.

A willful god,
my god he is;
this god
who all the gods resist.

I write him poems;
he writes me songs.
I am his lyre;
he does me wrong.

I cannot stop
this love I feel
it turns my heart into a wheel.

I turn and turn
and only see
that turning brings me
back to me.

What kind of love
is this that stings
and brings me
to this narrow road?

We climb and climb
and never see
an ending to this misery.

He looks ahead
and I am found.
He looks behind
and I am gone.

We are a paradox
this man and me–
a story,
a myth,
a mystery.

A Sailor’s Fate (For SJ)

Published March 8, 2013 by rlmcdermott

shoes by the door
a red cap hung
on a coat rack
a giant’s jersey
a man’s ring
a loved painting
we are nothing
but gestures in
these moments–
what does grieving
have to do with death

the moon
the cherry blossom
the blue wisteria
cannot stop the bird’s fall
everything goes to ground
and we are weeping
in the middle of a bright afternoon
taking pictures of ourselves
to remember we are still alive

we leave
the people
we love
in the places
where they lived
and say goodbye
to red-haired boys
as gray battleships
Bataan
Missouri
Wisconsin
come in from memory
and we bury
our love at seaSJ Mac

Writing Poems In Tokyo

Published March 8, 2013 by rlmcdermott

can you find them
laying loose on the ground

letters about color
color about words
words about you

what a fool
I’ve been to think
that language
can save me

that love can fall
from the sky
and make poems
out of glass and steel and concrete

an old man sat beside me on a traffic island
somewhere between Tokyo Station and Ginza

he smiled

I threw a word at him
he caught it in his hat

he knew me for what I was
someone who would always be waitingFlowers

Words

Published March 8, 2013 by rlmcdermott

I am thinking
a poem can save love
a poem can save a life

I open the book
I close the book

the man across the hall
is crying out blue words

I do not speak his language

knotted words are
tightening in his chest

what keeps the
secret of a heart

a poem
a song
a picture
folded in a well-worn wallet

who are these women
and what do they mean to him

I open the book
I close the book

not even love can save a lifeFlowers