Ray Greenblatt
Exodus

It was not the plunging
of the horses’ hooves
nor their fierce snorting
their wild writhing manes
nor even black luminous eyes
huge as an inner world

but the churning chariot wheels
the spinning silver hubs
with long gleaming blades
attached in the vortex
like a meaning with keen consequence

behind hummock
watching the escape of thousands
as a torrent about
to meet the sea’s torrent
a mystic-ascetic-prophet-poet
a man with no human commitment

the wind became a voice
and the waters began to part
in mass hallucination
the fleers hesitated
pursuers stumbled
for a mere moment
an epic oil painting
about to coalesce

then the miracle took place
the watcher remembered what he had seen
and history continued
never quite the same.

Universitas

Professor September squinted out the tinted panes at
the nearly naked coeds
          somnolent on noisy blankets
          like gestating ruminants
and the boys with caps on backwards
          as perhaps a symbol
          of their general future
          which baffled them on the final exam.

Why weren’t the females more like
          the fearless Wife Of Bath
          or even Lady Eglantine—
          her poses so obvious yet charming
and the males—where was
          Beowulf or Macbeth—
          even that maniacal thane could feel
          blood coursing through brain
          and every twisted vein.

Now herds of them lollopped
          through these lofty halls
          hung with culture’s rich adornments
then divided invariably
          into twos to play
          Waiting For Godot
          interminably.

As an early summer fly dived
the Professor rummaged
          in his waste basket
          for the last slip of paper
          with a significant notation on it
          perhaps thrown away too soon.

Spring

For the first time
I open the door—it sticks—
something strange oozes in—warmth—
the scabby house shakes itself,
I stand on the porch
not quite stoop-shouldered
eyesight perhaps clearer.

Out there runs the highway
that leads to summer, beach,
wide blue sky and energy;
my energy has been squeezed
into narrow channels of survival,
my path around some rooms;
coleus on the sill dead
pines don’t change with season
spring should be growing things but
little pushes up through clay.

This clutch of a few houses
along the highway has not
been able to take root,
let alone grow into
even a hamlet, can be
blown away anytime
in sooty winter winds.

_ _

Ray Greenblatt has recently been published by Abbey, The Boston Literary Review and The Comstock Review. His work has been translated into Polish, Gaelic and Japanese. He is on the boards of the Philadelphia Writers Conference and the Schuylkill Valley Journal. His experimental book, Twenty Years on Graysheep Bay, is available online.

>> Back to Issue 18, 2015