Matina Stamatakis
Apollinaire: Un Poet dans la Courbe

-O’ my pestilential, my ill

 

                            the “evening delirium”
                                                           kept well hidden

      (& wept about daily?)
(yet again)—miserable
            beauty
                                            where you, & lascivity,
                                                                      meet under the covers
a ritual—a fasting—a cherubim
                                                    —define the soul
as humanities deepest starvation
always striving                       for the perfect cube of fat
the subterfuge for distinction,
              a languished bone
                               to His poor art

                                where the sparrow’s awe is unheard, just
out or range
“emergency”

                                          Planted seeds in the tumbleweeds, her cunt
                            called you “father” and sung of the universe
                                                   as a manifestation of one man’s rage.
                            The afterward of a hungry tongue

*

                            alas
the poet cannot satiate—nor be
                            satiated
              to surmise an event near-carcass,
opiate-
visions of sexual tapestries, strewn

 

                            once old age sets in
                                          —an excess of skin & bile
            —excrement
——pictures of Henrietta near the hearth    grasping       mangled

                                          silhouettes as
                                                              the lamplight plays tricks

 

                                          on the cat.

 

All laid to rest

                                                 the heavens & halcyon:
                                          at one point,       leaping to another,
                         might awaken rhetoric

              or respond to palsy

  a/               struck/              note/                         perhaps
                                                             out of context/

                            periodicity

              completing things in all what’s next—doom
              is scattered on the page—in what sense?

              will I take pictures to remember this glorious flight?
              great heights; to leave softly              like the scent of a lover
                                          departed

                            (& yet, it is impossible to not imagine
                                          the reconciliation of our flesh, say she)

                            Of want, won’t
                            my son shine brightly?      Especially bright in tragedy?

                                       In time, is to learn the elements of loneliness

                                          &

 

                            Where a man is laughable
                                          psalms
                            are too rich, so
                            sweet days drip ink
                            from pen
                            onto pillow
                            will eventually engulf
                            the self wholly—being cautious of desperate

                                                       Attempts to play hero to oneself
                            no longer—
                       heart is an owl, an Orpheus in dream
                      where no boundaries lie in the lyre plucked
                                          from
                            sweet turbulence

 

                                                               nerve & the calligraphied
                                  not quite the presence               of armor
                                  nor clay the object of a sculptor’s madness

                                          A feather in the shadows.

                                                                                     Perhaps…
Matina L. Stamatakis lives in upstate New York as a freelance photographer and writer. Some of her works have appeared in Big Bridge, Coconut, Free Verse, and many more. She is the author of Metempsychose (Ypolita, 2009).