October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
I don’t know if I would be a very wise person if I tried to describe to you a girl I met named Schaelina Valarian. I suspect her of things, of witchcraft and terrible cooking. She has almost convinced me to accept that torchlight of her smile, haven’t you, Valarian? But she will break free and run if you try to start thinking that she is a nice person. She is made of snips and snails and sugar and spice. I don’t write poems about the dead! I write poems about living people, praising the sweet lightning striking in them.
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
Put me on that special list, the ones that really mourn the old Coca-Cola. That strong, bracing beverage which made merry millions of us over and over again, that special dark brew is now disappearing from the shelves at a rapid rate. I could still go out now and find some store that sells the old Coca-Cola, but how long can this pleasure last since the imposter, new Coca Cola, is being shipped in by hundreds of cases? Goodbye, old Coca-Cola, you bracing black turpentine, you stout after-shave, goodbye old Coke once costing a nickle.
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
Princess Pocahantas, excellent lady, be near to me because with your voice you have given me tours of a hundred million petals of crystal and silverware and your calmness draws me into river heavens and light heavens and heavens of rain and heavens of freedom and heavens of warmth and redwood where royalty are forever dancing their marriage dances glittering with gold rings and roses rich. It is your art to draw me near, where I search for you in some golden mirror and ask “Has the divine lady been here?” Crowned by crimson fireplaces we share cheer and harmony.
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
One ice-green candle, lit. Andrea, we can’t go on meeting like this. One ice-blue candle, lit. But now that I have you here, I want you to know that pink was Beethoven’s favorite color. Spoon on the left, then knife. Dinner fork, appetizer fork, dessert fork. How do you like your steak? (Medium rare, two inches thick, char-broiled, like Dad makes, juicy. Ask me another question.) What do you like for dessert? (Cherry cheesecake with drippy cherry on top or flaming.) Andrea, I’ve been trying to tell you this for a very long time. Here’s the champagne.
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
Let me introduce Cheryl. She is of the sign of the crab. Her grandmother paints roses, which are her very favorite flower. Her grandmother grows violets and does animal drawings in Greenforest. Near Greenforest there are three lakes where people go fishing for catfish and trout, not far from maples, oaks, firs, elms, dogwood. The leaves turn red, orange, yellow, and brown. Grandmother bakes apple and pumpkin pies, peach pies, cherry pies. Ruby is her neighbor, a very plain woman who wears plain dresses while working in a garden to grow tomatoes and okra. “Grandmother, I wish you were here!”
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
Jill is such a lark to think about, flaming red hair and freckles, my flaming flamingo. She is a good sport, too, acting like she invented the human smile. I don’t know why she just sits there, looking at the wall and looking at me. I never took acid, LSD, but she makes you feel like you’re on LSD all the time. Yes, Jill, there are dangerous liaisons that occur frequently in the night places. Your beauty is not exactly a relationship, and your fun does not precisely warm my own hearth, but once I swam the Sea of Rains.
