Not Enough
It is not enough my dear to paint
what they see.
You may record their words
perhaps lies.
If you describe the aromas of the sea
will they know your heart?
When you taste sweet nectars of the gods
how do you share what they mean?
Perhaps you will touch their soul
if you try.
But it will not be enough to share
as you would with a child.
Silence my dear you should choose
unless you have come armed.
It takes more than words on canvas
more than notes in the ether.
You must create and give your soul
for it is not to you it belongs.
Sacrifice all that you are
so all may know.
Papa’s Old Place
Looking for Isadora on the boards of a grand opera
it is a store of shoes on shattering sales she found.
Hunting once more on the shelves with Hem’s Nobel
what remained were windows to dusty piles of stationery.
Seeking a teacher with soft brushes and palette
to discover barrels of bland paint in Mary’s stead.
No more gentle smokes in friendly clouds
above the souls of those vanished geniuses.
The monument Gertrude was on the old sofa
now a still marble upon a forgotten mantel.
George too a ghost behind the curtains of his symphony
a bad haircut in the wind of those great turbines.
A man with a camera master of rays in all lights
the poster in the doorway, no one can name yet.
Lives in a time forgotten birther of a present unknown
they haunt every inch those today cannot deserve.
I search in every crack for a sign of those I love
they are buried under the rush of days without soul.
Cobblestones of blood, street corners guarded by none
avenue wide as uncertain crevasses into Hades.
The city is living in a state of permanent death, cold
as the memories survive in the misery of meaninglessness.
Walls of glass, stone and concrete, sky of cold steel
the arteries are hollow, devoid of warmth and motion.
I remember those I never knew for their passions
they linger within my fibers, and the city seems to be.
An illusion it is; I lay here in my tomb and fancy
with those friends, when still there was life intra muros.
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.
It is not enough my dear to paint
what they see.
You may record their words
perhaps lies.
If you describe the aromas of the sea
will they know your heart?
When you taste sweet nectars of the gods
how do you share what they mean?
Perhaps you will touch their soul
if you try.
But it will not be enough to share
as you would with a child.
Silence my dear you should choose
unless you have come armed.
It takes more than words on canvas
more than notes in the ether.
You must create and give your soul
for it is not to you it belongs.
Sacrifice all that you are
so all may know.
Papa’s Old Place
Looking for Isadora on the boards of a grand opera
it is a store of shoes on shattering sales she found.
Hunting once more on the shelves with Hem’s Nobel
what remained were windows to dusty piles of stationery.
Seeking a teacher with soft brushes and palette
to discover barrels of bland paint in Mary’s stead.
No more gentle smokes in friendly clouds
above the souls of those vanished geniuses.
The monument Gertrude was on the old sofa
now a still marble upon a forgotten mantel.
George too a ghost behind the curtains of his symphony
a bad haircut in the wind of those great turbines.
A man with a camera master of rays in all lights
the poster in the doorway, no one can name yet.
Lives in a time forgotten birther of a present unknown
they haunt every inch those today cannot deserve.
I search in every crack for a sign of those I love
they are buried under the rush of days without soul.
Cobblestones of blood, street corners guarded by none
avenue wide as uncertain crevasses into Hades.
The city is living in a state of permanent death, cold
as the memories survive in the misery of meaninglessness.
Walls of glass, stone and concrete, sky of cold steel
the arteries are hollow, devoid of warmth and motion.
I remember those I never knew for their passions
they linger within my fibers, and the city seems to be.
An illusion it is; I lay here in my tomb and fancy
with those friends, when still there was life intra muros.
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.
