Here are two others I like very much (courtesy of
http://plagiarist.com). The first one is, as I take it, in syllabics (7 syllables per line, varying accentual pattern). The second one, iambic het met, & should be formatted with various levels of indentation, in the manner of Romantic odes.
To the extent I am familiar with Justice he strikes me as a consummately intelligent poet. I think he's terrific.
The Tourist From Syracuse
One of those men who can be a car salesman or a tourist from Syracuse or a hired assassin.
-- John D. MacDonald
You would not recognize me.
Mine is the face which blooms in
The dank mirrors of washrooms
As you grope for the light switch.
My eyes have the expression
Of the cold eyes of statues
Watching their pigeons return
From the feed you have scattered,
And I stand on my corner
With the same marble patience.
If I move at all, it is
At the same pace precisely
As the shade of the awning
Under which I stand waiting
And with whose blackness it seems
I am already blended.
I speak seldom, and always
In a murmur as quiet
As that of crowds which surround
The victims of accidents.
Shall I confess who I am?
My name is all names, or none.
I am the used-car salesman,
The tourist from Syracuse,
The hired assassin, waiting.
I will stand here forever
Like one who has missed his bus --
Familiar, anonymous --
On my usual corner,
The corner at which you turn
To approach that place where now
You must not hope to arrive.
.
Ode To A Dressmaker's Dummy
Papier-mache body; blue-and-black cotton jersey cover. Metal stand. Instructions included.
-- Sears, Roebuck Catalogue
O my coy darling, still
You wear for me the scent
Of those long afternoons we spent,
The two of us together,
Safe in the attic from the jealous eyes
Of household spies
And the remote buffooneries of the weather;
So high,
Our sole remaining neighbor was the sky,
Which, often enough, at dusk,
Leaning its cloudy shoulders on the sill,
Used to regard us with a bored and cynical eye.
How like the terrified,
Shy figure of a bride
You stood there then, without your clothes,
Drawn up into
So classic and so strict a pose
Almost, it seemed, our little attic grew
Dark with the first charmed night of the honeymoon.
Or was it only some obscure
Shape of my mother's youth I saw in you,
There where the rude shadows of the afternoon
Crept up your ankles and you stood
Hiding your sex as best you could?--
Prim ghost the evening light shone through.
[This message has been edited by AE (edited November 25, 2003).]