Glenn Kennedy

poems by Ben Rogers, Lacey Stinson, and that greater poet which breathes through each of us

THE FEBRILE SUB-ROSA LANGUAGES OF MYTHOS

To Glenn Kennedy

The febrile sub-rosa languages

of mythos are so eagerly uttered

in grunts by a caravan's leader.

He leads, and the caravan, a chain,

a talisman of distance,

links to the sands of the desert.

His speech, the visceral throb,

is really not understood

by anyone; yet brings relief

into ears that search the night sky.

What pay for the leader

who breaks out the dull light,

its transparency but a mirror

of night's invention?

What cost does he assay

for his formal knowledge

of the mystery? And what

febrile sub-rosa language

will he make at journey's end?

1988 Ben Rogers

I N T H E H E R O I C R H Y T H M

___________

Glenn Kennedy, in memorium

The heady light is in straight trajectory,

With blue ambiance to keep the tilt spectral,

To keep whatever curves the eye there, unforgotten.

Uncloudy measures, where the rain-break splits the diamond,

Are the inch and mile, combined to reach Elysium's hall,

And there to wait for uncommon grace, and no world's lack.

Paint us a fine start to the finest end to all our woes,

And if in time there is a better mark, make that;

Or sigh on just a thought, a nod to work that's done,

And let that endless stretch be just a coat to wear,

A color blending taste and touch and ample sight

That's reached, and reaches on, to final rest,

and newer birth.

2006 Ben Rogers

THE PAINTER ON HIS OWN

There is a sadness in the orchard

which grants no solace through sentiment.

This road's feeble apex but a mere

light shining where expectation dares to go,

the lesser dark horse of one's own choosing.

"He has a nose for things," she said, with gall.

It is not how you say it that matters,

but whether you say it at all.

2006 Lacey Stinson