Tuesday poem #577 : Henry Gould : AUTUMN LEAVES

 

 

Autumn of Keats & negative capability
& Urs von Balthasar
in the Alps, contemplating la Gloire
de Dieu   & the mystery of iniquity

how Minotaur was a miscast offspring
of incongruous realms
like hunchback Richard (films
his own demise) mirroring

the beginning of all things, while you
intuited the end
standing near Gravesend
like some forsaken pine   in Deserto Rosso

I learned to play “Autumn Leaves”
by Roger Williams, his bravura
kitsch extravaganza
when I was 12, or 13. Each soul conceives

her own Statue of Liberty
I think – collecting evidence
for synoptic radiance
out of the foibles of our inquiry.

Gravity plummets to the choral core
of us   where the stone
sank to its nadir-perihelion
one whole monster   beached on shore –

the scapegoat, or Natasha’s limp
or J   in Washington, DC
in the masonic Library
of Congress   waiting for me   immeasurable

imp

 

 

 

Henry Gould was born in Minneapolis, and lives there now after 45 years in Rhode Island. His most recent books are : HOLY FOOL : a memoir (Lulu.com), and CONTINENTAL SHELF : SHORTER POEMS, 1968-2020 (Dos Madres Press).

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan