Published Wednesday February 20, 2008

POETRY BY
Jal Nicholl
© Jal Nicholl 2008

Wednesday 20-Feb-2008 11:47

RETORT MAGAZINE ISSN 1445-7164

The Wandering Jew, or, The Incarnation

Wishing not to offend those eyes that might—
Who knows—be looking, he sequesters his crown;
Ubiquitous (especially here), childless
And celibate, the old orphan takes his seat
Among the congregation. There being nothing
To console him but newspaper and bad coffee,
Is his hope perhaps to learn to catch the fish
With a coin in its mouth? Hopeful vignettes
Are on display: the meek come into their
Inheritance; I thought I was too old for an
Apprenticeship, an ageless Asian man says.
Now all are seated around the table, the talk
Of incentives and penalties begins, although
What reason has called them here would seem
To be forgotten (if once it did exist);
Unless it be for them to become again
Those children in the same anachronistic
Nightmare that repeatedly revisits
Each of them.
                     But now the room is visited
By the hope incarnate in a latecomer
Who brings more luck, he knows,—whether good
Or bad he doesn't—than he has known since—
When he doesn't either. He stares at her,
Imagining as the minutes pass less
And less of prurience, till what remains
Is the same scene on the wall above their heads:
A woman of her age and a man of his,
Laughing on lunch-break in a space outside
All time, a land illumined by the sun
Of life's prime want finally satisfied.
It is good that a man should both hope and wait
For his salvation. Thus saith the Lord.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Buried above Ground

1.
For me alone the sky fills with smoke
From a source that is nowhere;
Here, outside the town, such trees
As dust breeds wait, all bare

Despite their leaves, irresolute,
Like those statues at Pompeii:
Tethered, men and dogs, to a death
That stole up in broad day.

—And how, in such heat, could fire thrive
More than grass, to swing its scythe?

2.
For me alone, the world's crest away,
Strife's centrifuge makes use
Of bones that wanted to become
Shrapnel, a life a fuse.

Though smoke like tanks rolls through the streets
It dissolves by morning,
And surely death's surprise attack
Issues no such warning—

While what disappears behind a veil
Of smoke remains, if it was real.

3.
For me alone it rains masonry;
Like Pharoah I am blessed
Alive, to see a mountain rise
To cover my dead breast,

While like a slave whose hands have worked,
Although invisible,
Piling up stones for one who thinks
The credit due his will,

I'm buried alive, and not alone,
Yet am company to none.

Wednesday 20-Feb-2008 11:47

RETORT MAGAZINE ISSN 1445-7164

Jal Nicholl
© Jal Nicholl 2008