Ghosts

 

In October of 2018, Arizona writers lost one of our own; the poet Tony Hoagland. We grew up together, those of us living in Tucson and attending the University of Arizona writing program. This was back in the 80’s. We took our holiday meals together. We read each other’s bad first drafts. For Tony, it was the beginning of a life devoted to poetry. Here’s a couple poems from that long ago in Tony’s first collection, Sweet Ruin, published in ’92.

The Word

Down near the bottom

of the crossed-out list

of things you have to do today,

between “green thread”

and “broccoli” you find

that you have penciled “sunlight.”

Resting on the page, the word

is beautiful, it touches you

as if you had a friend

and sunlight were a present

he had sent you from some place distant

as this morning—to cheer you up,

and to remind you that,

among your duties, pleasure

is a thing

that also needs accomplishing.

Do you remember?

that time and light are kinds

of love, and love

is no less practical

than a coffee grinder

or a safe spare tire?

Tomorrow you may be utterly

without a clue

but today you get a telegram,

from the heart in exile

proclaiming that the kingdom

still exists,

the king and queen alive,

still speaking to their children,

—to any one among them

who can find the time,

to sit out in the sun and listen.

Walking the Property Line:

The moon shines down from the black November sky.

The tide rolls in like a sweeping, white-ruffed arm,

erasing all the pages that have come before.

The evidence accumulates that nobody is watching over us.

and gradually, as the streets and houses drift towards night

all the words inside them close their eyes;

the sentences coil up like snakes and sleep.

It’s just me now and my famous aching heart

under the stars – my heart that keeps moving like a searchlight

in its longing for the love of other people,

who, in a sense, already live there, in my heart,

and keep it turning.

Bread and circuses

 

A Stench On the Potomac

Upon the banks where thick Potomac flows,

A spectral Stench through marble hallways blows.

The "rotten" scent that Elsinore once knew,

Now clings to laurels of red, and white, and blue.

A capital of gilded speech and performance,

Where power carves a logic of its own.

The pillars tremble under broadcast light,

As ancient mandates fade into the night.

No ghost on ramparts needs to call the name,

Of systemic corruption or ego's hungry flame;

For when the foundation begins to bend and break,

Something rotten breeds in the Washington dark.

While the populace toils under the illusion

Of weapons of mass distraction.