A POEM FOR DAPHNE, NO. 47
I stood out in the cold,
Watched snowflakes fall on a dark road,
No two snowflakes alike.
There was an infinity of snowflake patterns.
A philosopher would say
There is no snowflake,
If he believed in the radical
Singularity of the concrete particular;
But if he believed
In the order of Apollo and Plato,
He would think there is a snowflake,
Ideal in the demiurge or someplace,
But it cannot be seen, only conceived.
Daphne,
You did not believe Apollo and Plato,
But kissed snowflake and snowflake and snowflake
Or whatever it was that fell.
A POEM FOR DAPHNE, NO. 48
I wouldn't think of trying to explain it.
I doubt
If there is any explanation
Of why I am so intensely attracted to you, Daphne
It is your obscurity.
You who defied Apollo, defy all commentaries.
It is because
You are like a ladybug opening her wings
On something blue,
Your hair is like the nightgown of the moon
On a windy night,
Your lips like the red ribbon of André Breton's priest,
The ribbon that he dropped,
And was tied into a bow by the wind.
A POEM FOR DAPHNE, NO. 49
A blonde wig presses its elbows
On the prison door of my heart,
And something vaporous behind bars,
Prays for darkness, and the departure
Of the mocking greens of the painted ferns,
Prays for the hibernation of the painted hyacinth,
Prays that the lid of the coffin will be closed,
So the embracing arms of the dead will be shut away,
And the lips of the dead that continue to kiss
Will be covered with gray steel,
The steel that is decorated with serpentine flowers.
A POEM FOR DAPHNE, NO. 1
Shall we, you and I, Daphne, retreat to the days of Paul Verlaine
When skinny people wore masks, played
Happy songs on mandolins, although the player, sad.
Everyone, even Rimbaud, was sad in the days of Paul Verlaine.
Everyone in the days of Paul Verlaine wore fantastic clothes,
As they wore in the paintings of Watteau, and celebrated
Their love in a minor key, although it was major and lonely.
Everyone thought all was vain in the days of Paul Verlaine.
Although much song in the days of Paul Verlaine,
The songs always had a melancholy strain.
Every singer sang alone in the days of Paul Verlaine
As I sing alone, without you, Daphne, or white stone.
A POEM FOR DAPHNE, NO. 2
As solid as steel when it has the right temperatures,
She beauty-shopped herself to be frail and fragile.
She walked on the boulevards, where BMW's glow,
Drunk champagne from fifty dollar bottles.
Now, she misses her leash, she had when a petted poodle,
Or some form of lap dog that had silk gold hair.
Now, no longer wanted, she has become a stray,
Seeks in alleys the parrots and pearls her former owner gave.
As she strolls alleys she wears a long black lace gown.
On eight fingers and two thumbs are past wedding rings,
But being careful when she looks in garbage
Not to let one wedding ring fall from her slender hands.
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 Duane Locke
2716 Jefferson Street
Tampa, FL 33602-16200
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[BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Duane Locke, Doctor of Philosophy in English Renaissance literature, Professor Emeritus of the Humanities, was Poet in Residence at the University of Tampa for over 20 years. Has had over 2,000 of his own poems published in over 500 print magazines such as American Poetry Review, Nation, Literary Quarterly, Black Moon, and Bitter Oleander. Is author of 14 print books of poems, the latest is WATCHING WISTERIA ( to order write Vida Publishing, P.O. Box 12665, Lake, Park, FL. 33405-0665, or Amazon or Barnes and Noble). Since September 1999, he became a cyber poet and started submitting on-line, and since September 1999 he has added to his over 2,000 print acceptances with 1,195 acceptances by e zines.
He is also a painter. Now has exhibitions at Thomas Center Galleries (Gainesville, FL) and Tyson Trading Company (Micanopy, FL) Recently a one-man show at Pyramid Galleries (Tampa, FL)
Also, a photographer, has had 116 of his photos selected for appearance on e zines. He photographs trash in alleys. Moves in close to find beauty in what people have thrown away.
He now lives alone in a two-story decaying house in the sunny Tampa slums. He lives isolated and estranged as an alien, not understanding the customs, the costumes, the language (some form of postmodern English) of his neighbors. The egregious ugliness of his neighborhood has recently been mitigated by the esthetic efforts of the police force who put bright orange and yellow posters on the posts to advertise the location is a shopping mall for drugs. His alley is the dumping ground for stolen cars. One advantage
Of living in this neighborhood, if your car is stolen, you can step out in the back and pick it up. Also, the burglars are afraid to come in on account of the muggers.
His recreational activities are drinking wine, listening to old operas, and reading postmodern philosophy.] |
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