Lines Written on a Splinter from Apollinaire’s Coffin
By Paul Violi
Look at me now, I stand before you, a man
whom life has made a gullible skeptic.
Life so obvious and strange,
so full of marvels and dross
even in our sleep we create monuments
even in our grave
What more can we ask
than to never know what to expect
Each day has a different emissary
Yesterday she was sharp-eyed
She was calm and free
so calm I could hear the vines grow
and the mad fluttering
of tiger-swallowtails
fill the pink-blossomed tree
outside her window
The day before that
she was an aloof odalisque
from whose embrace I collapsed
trying to catch my breath
alas
while she cracked her knuckles
Whenever I walk in the woods
I’m side tracked
One day by fauns
simple nearly imperceptible
as they shift into light and shade,
the next by a cool steady breath
that led me
to what I thought was a small cave
which I entered
and found an immense cavern
that lengthwise
toe to fingertip
revealed the exact shape of a giant
There’s one for each of us
to try and measure
an incalculable absence
formed by every marvelous thing
we have seen or done
dripping down into earth
creating a mold
we would normally attribute
to something more precise
and instantaneous
gods’ weaponry
lightning or forgetfulness
But no, it’s ours
huge, anatomically detailed, empty,
its every crease and line
illumined by nothing more than
our grateful selves,
its magnitude compressed
into the cool narrow song
our flurried life
welcomes as inspiration
Though whistling a mere shadow tune
I emerged
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 172
Shoe-size: 10 1/2
Wingspan: 26', at least in the morning
that time of blessed isolation
before we have to ask
Where does it go,
whatever we know?
Where can we go
when our wings weigh more
than the rest of us?
Already weighed down with manual and atlas
my bookshelf has begun to sag
into the perpetual smile of a dimwit
I’ll prop it up
with twelve oversized volumes
of The History of the Fierce
I’ll stand and slowly spin
in the center of great cities again
folding and unfolding my map
like a punctured accordion
Vanity and sweet knowledge
We had to dig through ashes
with a lead shovel
to reach this silence
Wave your burning flags O stars
My heart’s on my sleeve
my money on Science
I’ll agree to banishment
to a remote isle
as long as I’m allowed to bring
the book of my choice:
the dictionary
A shadow isle the clouds of my choice
cast on the luxurious sea
What more can I ask?
For a wilder lie to make
the truth more real
and a voice
that will carry it to you
over the cavernous sky: Altocumulus
Stratovarious
Copyright Credit: Paul Violi, "Lines Written on a Splinter from Apollinaire’s Coffin" from The Curious Builder. Copyright © 1993 by Paul Violi. Reprinted by permission of Hanging Loose Press.
Source: The Curious Builder (Hanging Loose Press, 1993)