POEMS FORBIDDING SORROW AND TERROR

 

POEMS FORBIDDING SORROW AND TERROR

 

(In honour of Argyles Cpl. Nathan Cirillo, who died standing on guard)

 

(For his son, Marcus, at 5)

  

THE GUNS OF OTTAWA*

 

Hardly has the crackle of grim gunfire

subsided around the mute emblem
of courage,  faith,  and the pyrrhic fall
of the young soldier (kilt, rifle, and all,
bloodied by blind jihadist mayhem),
where he stood guard to honour his land’s
heroes who have laid their precious lives---
when these fearless  accidental patriots
rushed unerringly to the sight of blood,
pumped his ebbing heart as one of them
chanted: “Hang on, we love you; trust us,
we love you, your country loves you, God
loves you!” But Cpl. Nathan Cirillo died.
The assassin sneered: “In bullets we trust.”
 

A HERO IS BURIED HERE

 

A year from now, his little Marcus, askance

At five, will know that they buried his father
One rainy autumn day in this field of heroes.
He will scarcely remember that magistrates
Of a grateful land stuttered quiet gratitude
While they looked at this wee lad march tall
Alongside his father’s bier, flag in one hand,
His mother’s clasped in the other, little palms
Still steady, still lusting to clutch kite strings
Flown toward the grey skies bidding goodbye
To his friend and hero, Nathan Cirrilo, Dad
On most days, Sir Brave Argyle Soldier today,
When teary-eyed grand magistrates told him
They will always have this abiding gratitude
And faith that he, too, one day, will be a hero
Who would make the last supreme sacrifice
Of laying down his life like a patriot’s son,
For his Canada, his home and native land.
Sir Argyle Marcus, son of Argyle Cpl. Cirillo.
 

---ALBERT B. CASUGA

Mississauga, Ontario, Canada, Oct. 28, 2014

 

 

 

 

*Revised from Oct. 26 version.

DYING TO LIVE: A PROSE POEM

 

DYING TO LIVE: A PROSE POEM

If this were a glimpse at dying and how the mind, fragile as it is, could pull one back to life, I would work at it, break free from cages that have held me captive, look at the burning sun long and hard until I am wedded to its brilliance and finally unified. This is the vessel that I offer you to have and to hold, but I must fill it with the salving grace that will mold my injured spirit back to what I carefully surrendered for you to mend and nurture when it had foundered, lost at some hostile sea, a boat shorn of sail, unanchored.  Like Pygmalion, I will chisel every jagged chip, remold every broken edge, to remake this cup and will unfold before your eyes like an earthen jar spun out of my hand, pared clean at its brim, to collect a wellspring of fluid nectar to last us a lifetime of all that is sweet and kind.

 

---Albert B. Casuga

Mississauga, October 27, 2014

COUNTERPOINTS: TWO SWIMMING LESSONS

 

COUNTERPOINTS: TWO SWIMMING LESSONS

 

1. IN HER TIME: A SWIMMING LESSON

(For Marie Clementine)

 

Will you grow older than these lessons,

Mon chère? Will you gather pictures
Like dada-abuelo peppers and papers
His dusty study with his world’s magic?

Papa will no doubt pin this on his wall,

I wager all my left-over memories,
Mama, too, will: it is this lesson of love
and daring we will always remember.

 “Go, chère, find your stride and swim,

Kick and swim, paddle and swim, Go!
No dreads, brave girl, this is your show:
Swing your arms, our happy mermaid!”

There can only be joy with your striving,
Not after the wind, but for gentle grace,

The courage you must find while weaving
Through ripples, eddying smile on your face.
 

2. IN OLDER TIMES: A SWIMMING LESSON

(For Father)

How much of those happy times

would you bring back, like the waves
ebb but must always rush back?

It is the sea that returns you intact

into my now empty days, windy days,
your laughter always a raw memory.

You threw me into those restless

waves, cried out a challenge: Swim!
Kick hard, swing your arms! Swim!

And I never stopped, not for hurts,

not for lost dreams, nor for losses.
You warned me never ever to cry.

---ALBERT B. CASUGA

Mississauga, October 26, 2014

 

THE GUNS OF OTTAWA

 

THE GUNS OF OTTAWA

 

(In honour of Cpl. Nathan Cirillo, who died standing on guard)

 

Hardly has the crackle of gunfire subsided around the emblem

Of courage, love, faith, and the pyrrhic fall of the young soldier
(Kilt and all, bloodied by jihad mayhem), where he stood guard
To honour his land’s patriots who have laid their precious lives---
When these sudden heroes rushed unerringly to the sight of blood,
Pumped his ebbing heart as one of them chanted: “Hang on, we
Love you; trust us, we love you, your country loves you, God
Loves you”, but he died. The assassin chants: “In bullets we trust.”
 

---Albert B. Casuga

Mississauga, Ontario, Canada, Oct. 26, 2014

SUMMING UP: TWO POEMS ON A THEME

SUMMING UP: TWO POEMS ON A THEME

I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it/Since what is kept must be adulterated?—T.S. Eliot, Gerontion

 

1. LEFT UNSAID

Nothing could be taken back, nothing offered.
The passion I thought I had is an old saw--
it would not, could not cut through the years
that have turned into whorled cores in a tree
cut down in the harvest of logs, in a clearing
that will not grow again. Will not be here again.
Dry timber in a forest fire. Ashes in my mouth,
like loves left unsaid. Nothing to take back nor give.

2. A WAITING GAME

Looking for a good time to stop,
is to stop looking, like slumping

on a fallen trunk or a trail rock
jagged and jutting out of the bluff.
Morning walks get longer along
empty spaces before familiar curbs
signal a turn to what we wait for:
the final bend. We are back home.

“HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME.
Now Albert is coming back,
make yourself a bit smart.”* Eliot,
of course, said it for me earlier.
How long ago was that, when I
read those Wasteland lines? How
long have I waited to use them?
Is this a good time yet? I waited.

Because we have seen the clues,
because we have seen them all
already, I know it is time to stop
waiting, sum up the bill, and go.
What was I given to bear the pain
of knowing that I did not know?
Or build a home I could not live in?
What tools must I now return?

In summing up, I will discount this,
in the game of haggling for a place
back in the Garden. Our stay here
was overpaid. We waited too long
for that room with a better view,
that terrace with a canopy of roses,
and blue birds trilling on the sill.
O, for a touch of that distant sky!

Next time around, if there is one,
I will be smart. I will settle only for
a room where I could see the sky
and the sea conspire to eat the sun.
Nothing could be taken back, nothing
offered. The passion I thought I had
is an old saw—Ashes in my mouth.
Burnt dry timber, loves left unsaid.

---ALBERT B. CASUGA

Mississauga, October 6, 2014

* T. S. Eliot, The Wasteland, II. A Chess Game, T. S. Eliot, The Complete Poems and Plays, 1909-1950)

 

 

WHERE LOVE IS

 

 

TODAY'S POEM: "You must find that place within yourself where nothing is impossible," Deepak Chopra prescribes a way to bliss. Where is that place? With Fear and Trembling all over the Earth, can the MInd rest easy? If the Mind is afraid, can the heart be far behind? If LOVE is that place, where might we find it? That would be our Paradise Regained.


WHERE LOVE IS


(For all Lovers)

...Beyond longing, beyond desire, we will all/ wake up to where we are not. Where love is.---A Lambent Thing Beyond


We will get there, but will wonder:
Why are we here at all where nothing
Closes, where doors are entrances
Into endless corridors of laughter
Echoing through chambers of songs
That recall gentle lullabies, rhythm
Of caresses, warmth of her embrace,
The tug of home at last? We are here,
Where love is, a place we lost when
We could no longer remember where
We started so we could come home.
We left only to know we will return.

---Albert B. Casuga