An Upstart Crowe

 

Sheila Tombe

Russell Crowe, in an Alternate Universe
(where he got the part and not Joseph Fiennes),
Prepares to Play the Title Role in Shakespeare in
Love By Practicing Writing Blank Verse (Badly!)
After Reading Several of the Early Tragedies,
and some Marlowe, Too, Just For Good Measure. . . .

 

Dost know what work it is to scratch these lines,

this canting chant of lament and despair,

across a fevered page?  No task for boys,

for milksop, mewling lads or eager mouths:

a shade of Marlowe’s darkness is my share

of fortune’s eloquence: his shade indeed

falls over what I write.  ‘Tis meet ‘tis so—

the very meat o’the bones of these my dreams

that shape themselves before me in the air,

to speak their honeyed phrases in mine ears.

O whisper still, ye cloaked and mantled shadows,

let me decipher yet your antique tongues,

that I may pour your lives into my blood,

into my fingers, with this argent tide

that fully fleshes ye into the realm

of roundly living men.  I see ye now:

ye stand before me – an I reach my hand

I’ll touch your velvet robes and feel the soft

swell of your hearts against my palm.

‘Tis done. I now have access to this art

that shapes me now, as I shape this my part.

 

 

Borges on the Internet

 

Sheila Tombe

I have walked miles in my mind to reach this source,

tapping my cane against the curb of the imagination,

pacing the unforeseen as it unravels below me;

 

lingering by remembered shelves, fingering the words

as they collapse in chaos, letters tumbling into disorder;

each space, each byte of nothing becomes full

 

of this capacity to pattern into sense; shake them

like dice and they will spell the name of God,

cradle them in your hands, mold them in designs

 

that mirror pieces of the whole, the entire, all

of it together at the touch of the keys, an unabridged

forever in the tiger light, insistent with its cold desire

 

to encompass every sign, every mark from every text

in every labyrinth that ever breathed air and meaning

into the lexicon of this sightless rattle in the void

 

 

love in an expanding universe

 

Sheila Tombe

Inga’s warm lips lingered on my mouth

(While above, the constellations froze

In their sidereal courses, of course),

And her loose shirt slipped smooth

From fine-boned Icelandic shoulders,

Snowy hair down against

The frosty linen of my summer dress.

 

I savored the moment but not the kiss,

Knowing that this flare was intended

­—flick of a comet’s tail—

To quicken the eye of the man by my side.

An old universal stab in the dark,

Red-shifted to show how fast all these heavenly

Bodies were flying from me, always.

 

 

prayer

 

Sheila Tombe

for Shawn

 

The book is old, buckram spine and corners,

the boards brown marbled, like cabinet doors

crafted long since that now hang lank, hinges

darker than skin.

 

The hands are clean and strong – reaching

across the pages, nimble and slim,

a compass of true measure.  Good hands

that work well and don’t mind a trade.

 

Books.  Hands.  The comfort of touch on skin,

on wood; here, where they built Gothic churches

with warm unfinished cypress, braced and pegged

like barns, the blackening planks iron-leached; not

the cold, cut stone of Europe piled high.

 

Outside this anchored church, hands that have held

profane books grasp faith: prayer is knowing that post

and beam hold fast through the river fogs.  Here

is found refuge – not inside with the pew-boxed

Sunday suits –  but here, in the quiet of stilled craft;

outside the book, outside the boards,

hands reaching, sure.

 

ulysses and the siren

 

Sheila Tombe

The Siren was scared of the water

or she would have swum

off that strand

years ago

her feathers slick in the bright wash

 

All she needed was someone

with strength enough

to hear her call and not falter –

someone who could navigate the rocks

with marine precision

and teach her how to swim,

instead of foundering

in her song

breaking his back and wrecking his boat.

 

It took a long time

but he wasn’t going anywhere just yet

(the rocks behind him shattering the tide);

gently, he took her into the sea,

her eyes afraid of drowning,

let her feel the cool water sway.

 

Together, they flash through waves

that slap back to littered shore

or out to the clear beyond,

and they smile at blue feathers lashed with brine

that shine, not sing,

nor cry