'Kismet' 'Mudra' and 'Old Phenomenon' by Frederick Pollack
Kismet
“We need to talk.” But her voice on the phone
was happy – so much so I marveled
how the phrase had escaped its usual load.
And gathered myself to reply,
but the end of the world intervened: a militia –
I thought of the armed Fichteans
Heine predicted, but these had replaced
all thought, even doctrine, with memes –
broke in and brutalized me. Broke
my glasses, so I haven’t been able to
read since. They thought it amusing
not to shoot me outright but send me to a camp
where I dug holes and filled them with other
liberals, scholars, etc. Starving,
I was about to join them when
an asteroid the regime had ignored
(it was, after all, a small one) struck
the far side of the world. The oceans rose faster;
buildings and even our fence fell.
Somewhere, I thought, lie the shattered
remnants of my cellphone with
her picture, her recorded words. I
ate from the stores of guards my healthier
friends killed. We made some effort
at ethics. These broke down
as food ran low and the question of leadership
(which I considered secondary) flared. We became
roving bands. I tried not
to eat people. I encountered a Heideggerian
(he admitted the master offered little guidance)
and enjoyed our talks but his appendix burst.
I stole his parka as he died. In a town
we had seized, I took stock. Almost nothing
of what I had been was left. But, I thought,
regret for ideas remains and is
a flame I can keep alive. In
a desert we found a working radio
that told of a compound far to the north
that sounded sane. I reached it after years
alone. It functioned. Had even built
a chapel; they call it that, although
the point is that it’s empty. Here I found her.
At first I didn’t recognize her, or she me.
“What were you going to say?”
Mudra
You suddenly realize he isn’t the Buddha.
He’s an impostor. But good at it:
relaxed, full lotus
without strain, the expression
could be idiocy but with sublime
intelligence; he’s regarding you
sub specie aeternitatis and smiling,
one hand raised. Long-tailed, multicolored,
reverent birds flit about, the heat
overwhelms, but little things give it away:
appearing flickeringly
on the nodding trees (as in delis
and drycleaners in power cities)
are photos of him with the famous. The Majority Leader
came to talk about Asian investments, signed
his shot with thanks for a welcome
respite, peace of mind.
(The turtle a god in that culture.)
So you spurn him, turn back down
the path, avoiding the apes.
Last night there were fireworks. In retrospect
they were asterisks; what you
and other seekers shouted through
the fence at the canceled tyrant,
footnotes; your most obvious slogans
will be read between the lines. You can be
proud of unmasking
the fake Mr. B, but pride isn’t
the point. Remember: there’s
no victory in this world except over the world.
Old Phenomenon
Sometimes a letter – but words can be doubted.
An art work, but art is so noisy.
Music – in my case, eight notes of Brahms –
can be stored in the vault of the cortex.
A photo, whole or cropped, in phone or wallet.
But often, perhaps most often, it’s less than these
and nothing. An inadvertent inch
of sculpture. A wad of Kleenex, hardly there
any more, containing
a red, unintended kiss. Something scratched
on the wall by the last inhabitant
of your cell, who was hardly kind or generous
but left you a mystery, i.e., a thought.
A stone. A thimble. If they come for you
you might be able to hide it,
save it in some crevice of your body
and so be saved yourself. Or not.
The years go by, you get used to prison.
If it’s merely a metaphoric prison, you should
keep quiet about it, because you might enter
a real one, or meet an ex-con.
And the years go by, and you stare
at the dates, the graffiti, the famous
dying light. One day there’s noise outside
and along the corridors. People break in
to tell you everyone’s free.
You never imagined humans so happy,
concerned and thoughtful. But you don’t leave your cot.
You’re free, they cry. With an effort,
you get across that you’ll only talk
to a learned physicist, expert
in time’s crooked arrow, alternate universes,
a negotiable past;
if he says you can go, you’ll go.
Frederick Pollack is the author of two book-length narrative poems, THE ADVENTURE and HAPPINESS (Story Line Press; the former to be reissued by Red Hen Press), and two collections, A POVERTY OF WORDS (Prolific Press, 2015) and LANDSCAPE WITH MUTANT (Smokestack Books, UK, 2018), among many other poems in print and online journals.
Digital Collage by D.M. Rice