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Andromeda 19
for Irene
By Wilson J.
Moses
All tales of her are unreliable
Andromeda, a distant nebula
Beyond all grasp. The knowing classicist
Caresses a breast of cold marble.
Blind Galilei cannot glimpse such spans.
Euclid alone with caliber supreme
Can gaze upon the naked Galaxy
Where knowing transcends sight.
True scientists, those carrion quisling crows,
Flee screeching, at the splendor of a shadow.
I smile with satisfaction for I know
They cannot touch her.
The fustian parrot in his motley jean
Vaunting aloud within the tangled green
But inward wracked with pain to show his plume
Hides from the perilous sky.
The taloned owl, Monarch of the night
For all the terror of his princely flight
And ruin of his planetary fall
He drops on rodents.
The Condor soars to sickening heights
But does not seek to know the swirling stars.
How sad the plummet of his bald career!
His circling gaze is earthward.
And if some flippant Perseus mounts the air
On Achillean tendons wrenched to wings
Flapping aloft with prurient assurance
He holds Gorgon, not Andromeda within his grasp
And the Lord Eagle, rising in his might!
Proud in the rhythm of his thrusting wing
My comfort! My revenge! Ah, my delight!
He comes no closer than I do to Andromeda.
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Andromeda 11
for Irene
By
Wilson J. Moses
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“Lat swiche
folies out of youre heart slyde.
What deyntee
sholde a man han in his lyf
For to love
another man’s wyf,
That hath
hir body whan so that hym liketh?”
Chaucer |
All
tales of her are unreliable.
A
faint nebula I can barely see
Euclid
alone, supremely confident
In a
remote language
Has
broached the distances to Andromeda,
And
peeped the naked Galaxy.
The
flippant classicist
Touches a breast of cold marble
And if
some loutish Perseus
Wrenches upward on Achillean tendons
Strikes
the air with a prurient assurance
He
holds Gorgon, not Andromeda within his grasp
True
scientists, those carrion crows,
When
she appears, their councils disintegrate
In
flapping, screeching consternation
I
smile derision as they noisily explode
The
boastful parrot dare not show his feather
Hooting and squawking down the leafy corridors
Consorting with monkeys in the darkened green
Hiding
himself beneath a perilous blue
The
taloned owl, prince of darkness
For
all the terror of his descent
And
majesty of his planetary speed
He
falls on rodents.
The
Condor soars to sickening heights
But
does not seek to reach the swirling stars.
His
gaze is earthward.
How
sad the plummet of his bald career!
And
the great eagle, ascending in his might!
Glorious in the thrust of his majestic wing!
Ah, my
comfort! My revenge!
He
comes no closer
Than I do to Andromeda.
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