Poetry

Selected Poetry by Carol Mohrbacher

Study in Red and White On this stained oaken table lies my mother’s hands within the white glossy borders of a late summer photo. Chubby, white, nail-bitten fingers cup an impossibly red, July tomato which strains against the thin membrane that keeps it from exploding. It seems still alive, like a heart about to be incised by the old, razor-honed paring knife clutched in the other hand. I remember the breeze working its way through the lace curtains into her cotton candy hair as the ghost of a complaining voice protests, What do you want to take a picture of these old hands for?	Barely Magic Checkerboard linoleum reflects diamonds Collected from the mirrored globe Spinning on its electric axis As plastic jewels glitter From the wide belt perched on the paunch Of a Canadian Elvis In Thunder Bay. Dark, round tones drop From the sneering mouth Like smooth stones In a black pool Pheromones and sweat mix With scents of Whiskey and Smoke. Flaws disappear in the Amber light of a beer bottle. “Last call” passes. The imposter drops to one knee Punctuating the night. “Time to go folks,” Implores a weary bartender. Hypnotized couples Drift toward the door, Leaving the sideburned minstrel To dream Of soft Memphis nights And checkout time At the Heartbreak Hotel.
Bearded Iris My Swiss Army knife cuts cleanly Through a fibrous green stalk And it bleeds clear Droplets onto my dry palm In unintentional revenge. Staring at the bobbing lavender head And the blue-veined, hairy-orange tongue, I remember that a bearded iris Shrivels like a witch’s wet feet Into brown mucous and membrane In only a few days.	Job Interview Words crash into my teeth. Inhaling, I push them back with nervous tongue, and swallow myself whole, answering questions about hypothesis and theory. These are only words, lines in a play and I am an understudy who has memorized the role of the condemned. I plead for my life in platitudes judged for who I am not.
Latin Sacrifices (circa 1956) In nomine Patris Blue and white cherubs kneel in neat rows like a childrened paragraph punctuated by Sister Mary Something. Fasted stomachs, aching knees waited for the “so be it.” Some had to pee. et Filii A bell at the end of a white-winged altar boy rings thrice the agnus dei. Buddy-Holly-bespectacled James Kreckleburg faints placing hunger before the lord. et spiritus sancti Fly-winged missal pages rustle. Blue serged butts swish. Baby-soft thighs squeak against unforgiving oak pews. Somebody farts. Somebody giggles. Sister Something scowls. Amen.	Party at Larry’s House in ’65 Chrome Harley D. rested On the pink formica table Below a poster of Beethoven, And Jesus, another longhair. Maps of Vietnam papered the walls Behind fishnets strung from corner to corner, Why? I said. A reminder. You know-the draft, Larry answered, sneering at my ignorance. Fifteen or so people Flung around a room the size of a large bathroom, A denim, paisley and tie-dyed cocoon. We drank sweet wine, Smoked cigarettes and joints, Listened to Woody Guthrie, And made plans to march on city hall, While dreams of ending the Tyranny of the ruling class Drifted with blue smoke As high as the painted stars on a cracked plaster sky. Trying to Write in Summer Early fog rises slowly from the lake like artificial smoke in a horror flick hovering over greasy lily pads, brome grass and frogs tired from last night's croak-fest. Once, a turn of phrase, hastily remembered on a napkin seemed like a metaphorical epiphany. Now, it refuses to connect, to inspire anything more than blank frustration holding me hostage until I can relate to its perspective, like Patty Hearst with her captors. I am plagued by a writer's anguish for not having written enough, writing too much, not being truthful to the bone, for chattering to chatter. At the end, the sun sets on a flat day, sending orange bolts through shivering willows. Fog is on the move again, reaching for low spots in my wordless heart.
Sr. Mary Raphael and the Poet Chapped hands placed a poem in her impatient palm. Here, she said handing me the pink bottle of Desert Flower lotion. Her wire-rimmed eyes read soundlessly, looking up only once, when my lubricated palms made a sucking sound. A little drop would have done nicely, she cooed. Lifting the black and white framed face from the wide-lined paper. She contemplated (but for only a moment) the roofs on the other side of the great schoolroom windows. Finally, her feathery voice accustomed to prayer, chanted volumes of encouragement to the eleven year-old bard. And then But dear, it's not important to rhyme.

Study in Red and White

On this stained oaken table
lies my mother’s hands
within the white glossy borders
of a late summer photo.

Chubby, white, nail-bitten fingers
cup an impossibly red, July tomato
which strains against the thin membrane
that keeps it from exploding.

It seems still alive, like a heart
about to be incised
by the old, razor-honed paring knife
clutched in the other hand.

I remember the breeze working its way through
the lace curtains into her cotton candy hair
as the ghost
of a complaining voice protests,

What do you want to take a picture of these old hands for?

Barely Magic

Checkerboard linoleum reflects diamonds
Collected from the mirrored globe
Spinning on its electric axis
As plastic jewels glitter
From the wide belt perched on the paunch
Of a Canadian Elvis
In Thunder Bay.

Dark, round tones drop
From the sneering mouth
Like smooth stones
In a black pool
Pheromones and sweat mix
With scents of
Whiskey and Smoke.
Flaws disappear in the
Amber light of a beer bottle.
“Last call” passes.
The imposter drops to one knee
Punctuating the night.

“Time to go folks,”
Implores a weary bartender.

Hypnotized couples
Drift toward the door,
Leaving the sideburned minstrel
To dream
Of soft Memphis nights
And checkout time
At the Heartbreak Hotel.

Bearded Iris

My Swiss Army knife cuts cleanly

Through a fibrous green stalk

And it bleeds clear

Droplets onto my dry palm

In unintentional revenge.

Staring at the bobbing lavender head

And the blue-veined, hairy-orange tongue,

I remember that a bearded iris

Shrivels like a witch’s wet feet

Into brown mucous and membrane

In only a few days.

Job Interview

Words crash into my teeth.

Inhaling, I push them back with nervous tongue,

and swallow myself whole,

answering questions about hypothesis and theory.

These are only words, lines in a play

and I am an understudy who has memorized

the role of the condemned.

I plead for my life in platitudes

judged for who I am not.

Latin Sacrifices
(circa 1956)

In nomine Patris

Blue and white cherubs kneel
in neat rows
like a childrened paragraph
punctuated by Sister Mary Something.
Fasted stomachs, aching knees waited
for the “so be it.”
Some had to pee.

et Filii

A bell at the end of a white-winged altar boy
rings thrice the agnus dei.
Buddy-Holly-bespectacled
James Kreckleburg faints
placing hunger
before the lord.

et spiritus sancti

Fly-winged missal pages rustle.
Blue serged butts swish.
Baby-soft thighs squeak
against unforgiving oak pews.
Somebody farts.
Somebody giggles.
Sister Something scowls.

Amen.

Party at Larry’s House in ’65

Chrome Harley D. rested
On the pink formica table
Below a poster of Beethoven,
And Jesus, another longhair.

Maps of Vietnam papered the walls
Behind fishnets strung from corner to corner,
Why? I said.
A reminder. You know-the draft,
Larry answered, sneering at my ignorance.

Fifteen or so people
Flung around a room the size of a large bathroom,
A denim, paisley and tie-dyed cocoon.
We drank sweet wine,
Smoked cigarettes and joints,
Listened to Woody Guthrie,
And made plans to march on city hall,
While dreams of ending the
Tyranny of the ruling class
Drifted with blue smoke

As high as the painted stars on a cracked plaster sky.

Trying to Write in Summer

Early fog rises slowly from the lake

like artificial smoke in a horror flick

hovering over greasy lily pads, brome grass

and frogs tired from last night's croak-fest.

Once, a turn of phrase, hastily

remembered on a napkin

seemed like a metaphorical epiphany.

Now, it refuses to connect, to inspire

anything more than blank frustration

holding me hostage until I can

relate to its perspective,

like Patty Hearst with her captors.

I am plagued by a writer's anguish

for not having written enough,

writing too much,

not being truthful to the bone,

for chattering

to chatter.

At the end, the sun sets on a flat day,

sending orange bolts through shivering willows.

Fog is on the move

again, reaching for low spots

in my wordless heart.

Sr. Mary Raphael and the Poet

Chapped hands placed a poem

in her impatient palm.

Here, she said

handing me the pink bottle

of Desert Flower lotion.

Her wire-rimmed eyes read soundlessly,

looking up only once,

when my lubricated palms

made a sucking sound.

A little drop would have done nicely, she cooed.

Lifting the black and white framed face

from the wide-lined paper.

She contemplated

(but for only a moment)

the roofs on the other side

of the great schoolroom windows.

Finally, her feathery voice

accustomed to prayer,

chanted volumes of encouragement

to the eleven year-old bard.

And then

But dear, it's not important to rhyme.