Rhysling nominee

Reprinted with permission.


Talk to the Machines




 
The machines work better
if you talk to them
she had read once
Something about the carbon dioxide in your breath
 
... or was it cats you should talk to?

She can't quite remember
and the cobwebs have grown
so sticky
so big
so many
 
So she talks to the machines
and hopes they won't turn into cats
 
She's never liked cats
 
And in her dreams she
sometimes see the old radio
with whiskers tail and fur and
when she turns it on
it doesn't play Radio 3, as she wants to
but purrs contentedly
 
But she lets go of some of her fear
every time she enters the kitchen
and the toaster has grown slightly bigger


It toasts a bit too enthusiastically sometimes
She's learned to live with it
– it's very nice to look at
 
So she talks to machines
To the monitor router thermostat
steam engine
and that thing in the cellar
the one with the claws
the one she doesn't really know what it does
(and it would be rude to ask
after all these years)
even the shower mixer
though it's never replied
 
Sometimes she whispers
the most beautiful words she knows
 
Götterdämmerung vemod logos
mareld vowel vintergryning
yster Nebel rafmagnsvél
 
Sometimes she tells stories
She tells how the glass people closed their borders tired
of seeing careless steps reduce their city to ruins but
how the countless legions of the emperor were too fragile
to keep the invaders at bay and were swept away
in pieces sorted as clear glass
 
Sometimes she tells them what's wrong
in the world and what should be done about it
but though they always listen
it always ends up as words without action

But she talks to the machines
 
They reply as well as they can
and the electricity meter gives a satisfied snort
when she tells how the power company called again
and asked her to
pretty please be so kind to
stop delivering electricity to them
 
Only every now and then when
the telly shows nothing but travelouges from China
the radio plays nothing but Norddeutscher Rundfunk
 
the computer shows nothing but cheap flight offers
does the house begin to feel too small
and the scratchings in the cellar,
as if something wanted to be let out,
even somewhat unpleasant
 
Johan Jönsson
 
(previously published in Swedish)

Here's another Rhysling nominee

Luminous Decay
 

Clues to their shadowy residency
Are numerous on the overgrown estate
Broken plaster on the upper floors
Edged with the stab marks of pencils
Toothbrushes frozen upright
In glass jars of hardened paint
Aligned by the west entrance
Also down in the sunken lands
Fishing lines tied to hammers
Then strung into reed-choked ponds
 
#
 
The feral young speak a jungle patois
Born of happenstance
French plus aristocratic Spanish
Plus made-up words or sounds
That they all understand
Punctuated by panther calls
The girls dress up from moldy trunks
Left in the staff quarters below
Then discard their fashion at will
Make togas of their bed sheets
The boys mimic schooling in a study
Papered with simple portraits
Of what they once called
The Vast Governess Parade
 
#
The old Portuguese cook soldiers on
For them with great affection
She raids the wall safes
Stocks up the house larder
Feeds the young with stews
Porridges fragrant breads jams
These are left in white bowls
On the landings of the grand staircase
By the cook’s mute son
Whom the girls tease mercilessly
Before they use him roughly
To discover gambling or sex
He must also tend to Her Ladyship
Who is bed-ridden but lucid
In her demands and her sorrows

Sometimes a traveler materializes
Usually scared off by the burned ruin
Of much of the east wing
Those few that brave the front entrance
Are feted in the dining room
With teas and bright talk
Of the decline of the great families
Or the wild mutations outside their home
This is the one room kept tidy
And polished by everyone but the mute
Who keeps to his unending chores
And the whims of women

At night the young haunt
The garden pathways in games
That sport a savage jungle logic
Then feed the old wolfhound
From tins and laugh sweetly
As they toss him a stick
Cut from the Lord’s favorite cane

By morning they scatter
To their favorite dens or follies
Throughout the mapless grounds
 
Soon they will straighten their posture
Comb out their dreadlocks
Find respectable gear to wear
Pilfer the silver money box
Kiss Her Ladyship on the ring
Venture out to their scattered lives
 
Of course they will all return here
Busted by the travails of knowledge
They will bury each other’s bones
Until the mute stands alone
Silent in the night rains

As the rooms are cleared of debris
The long lost inheritors of the estate
Will find his yellowed journals
Feverishly scribed
In an indecipherable language
Illustrated with countless line drawings
And vibrant watercolors
Of ethereal grace
 

Robert Frazier
 

Reprinted with author's permission from DN 103.

Read this Rhysling nominee

Quack

It walks like a duck

but that's only because

it's loaded down

with sashes and ribbons

and medals of honor

and symbols of patriotism

and religious iconisms.

The thing about these things

from starsystem Squawk

is that they're immortals,

or at least they claim they are

or believe they are

and some around here

really believe it too

and want to get in line.

It's too soon to tell,

but one reason for skepticism

is that, as presently understood,

our universe will continue

to expand forever

and eventually anyone left

on Earth (or anywhere else)

will be totally alone

with nary a star to shine

in the dark, dark sky.

You can call that immortality

but you might as well be dead.

Neal Wilgus

Reprinted w permission from DN 104