Poems by Mary Cresswell
The Way We Live Now
The supermarket lights are dim,
the books are ranked along the shelves.
Bestsellers crowd the veggie bin,
their lurid, new, exotic smells
of vampire lusts or long-dead queens
compete with cabbage. Other aisles
show tinned scripts and bulk-buy beans
heaped where they never will be missed.
Covers howl out, Now youve seen
the series! Come and read the rest!
Computers hum, but no one knows
where on earth they keep the Proust
or when the reps discount the prose,
or onsell Whitman, two bucks off,
or who cares. And so it goes.
Homer Contemplating a Bust of Aristotle
Given your analytic genius,
I reckon youd find the Odyssey
long-winded, too discursive,
a work of total idiodicy.
If I didnt think
youd find it even sillier, Id
point you at the Iliad.
On Yet Another Conflict Between My Day Job And My Commitment To The Muse
This is my poem for Wednesday.
This is the reason I didnt come up
with a much better poem for Wednesday.
This is the manuscript agreed in advance
that needed the work of the world to enhance
the parts that the author had just left to chance
and put paid to my poem for Wednesday.
This is the muse with the twinkly eyes
who took over the job (to my happy surprise)
crossed all the ts, dotted the is
sorted me out in a few quick tries
and gave me a poem for Wednesday.
This is the editor, aesthetically pure,
whos starting to find hes a wee bit unsure
deciding whats fluff and what will endure
but hes too much of a gent to call words manure,
so hell publish my poem. On Wednesday.
Impasse With Old Hippies
The answer, you say, is blowing in the wind.
I say the question matters more,
I say to you, old wanderer, old friend,
everything you say is running out of wind.
Answers, you insist, show where we should begin.
Dead calm, I say, wont get us off the shore.
The answers, you say, are blowing in the wind.
I say the questions matter more.
8 x 8
I am a mathematician
so numbers come easy to me.
Not like words, which all cut and run.
Counting their blessings, women flee.
Just once, a girl spoke to me straight:
Anal retentive! she murmured,
working her way to the exit.
I still wait for her to translate.
More poetry from Winamop
Copyright reserved. Please do not reproduce without consent.