Two Poems by John Dickson

Confession 

When I think of the time I have killed

the days I have murdered—

some that died easily—

days like phlegmatic fish that were ready to die,

days like sluggish birds

that would otherwise have been prey for cats,

tired, exhausted days like ponderous, rotten trees

or old dogs with sleep in their bones.

But even vital and lively days I have murdered,

stepped up behind them when they were their happiest,

at the peak of their vigor,

and slipped my knife of fine-tempered boredom

between their ribs

and watched with no emotion

as they slumped to the ground.

And often,

usually in the cold grey of winter

or when rain came as a depressing drizzle,

I would take a day up to my apartment

and we would have a snack and talk

and listen to music

and then we would stretch out on the studio couch

still talking and thinking

until I, sometimes against my will,

would hold a pillow over the day’s face

until all breathing stopped.

Some days died hard—

days I would ply with liquor and bludgeon to death

or poison with special emotions I had developed.

Some I even starved to death,

locked them up in parlors of puritan Sundays

which became stone towers

with moats of abstinence around them

and let them rot with television and bridge.

The days of summer I treated most gently.

I would always choose one of exceptional beauty

and we would lie for hours on the warm beach

turning slowly, slowly,

facing the orange sun as it moved through the sky

and then, just before dusk,

I would suggest that we go for one last swim

and we would step into the cool water

and wade past the breakers

and swim out, out past the sandbars and buoys

to a spot as deep green as dark moss

and we would tread water for a few moments

and look up at the first star

and then, as the trace of color drained from the sky,

I would press the day’s head down under the waves,

waiting until the bubbles stopped showing

before I would swim back to shore alone.

Of course there was some remorse at first—

in autumn with its anguish of leaves turning brown

or in winter with its finality of ice—

when I would think back with a sense of loss

for all the beautiful days I’d destroyed,

though lately such qualms no longer disturb me.

But I know I’m almost finished;

there is not much time left to kill

and there are fewer days that I care to murder.

Besides, I have been so careless with these crimes—

someone is certain to find the skeleton

of a murdered day wedged between the rocks

or the hand of a mutilated day

protruding from the ground

with some incriminating clue nearby,

like my glove or my comb or the print of my shoe,

and I will be apprehended at last

and locked up with days and days and days

that will sooner or later

torture me to death.

Fugue 

In the land of the raised fist

the brandished rifle, the knife in the teeth

the screaming through streets of minaret and mosque

to keep alive the ancient hates

one man abandons for a day

those idiotic acts of history

and follows his neglected path

through narrow streets of donkeys and shops

to the silken rooms of his black-haired woman,

her eyes of camel and sand

of stars of flame in the dome of night

and speaks to her of fertile oasis

as she draws the shade and shuts the door.

In the land of toppled statues and the iron rose,

of formations of bombers in the perfect sky,

of parades of ponderous bombs through the square,

through the closely guarded streets,

one man ignores for awhile

the stupid seriousness of history

and goes with longing in his eyes

through streets of laundry and Slavic steeples

through neighborhoods of onion-shaped roofs

to the dark varnished rooms of his heavy-thighed woman,

her eyes of samovars and hardwood forests

of lake ice cracking in the spring

and speaks to her of stars on the Volga

as she draws the shade and shuts the door.

In the land of crowded subways and highway rush

of news of wars and soldiers somewhere else

and security under the missile-webbed skies

one man forsakes for a day

the frightening twists of history

and goes, as he’s been wanting to,

through streets of traffic and flashing signs

through neighborhoods of fenced-in lawns

the house-broken dogs and secretive cats

to the tidy rooms of his cluttered woman,

her eyes of typewriters and drug store breakfasts

of dances danced and evenings alone

and speaks to her of a lake in Wisconsin

as she draws the shade and shuts the door.

John Dickson (July 10, 1916 – July 26, 2009)

John Dickson is the author of four books of poetry: Victoria Hotel, Chicago Review Press, 1979; Waving at Trains, Thorntree Press, 1986; The Music of Solid Objects, Thorntree Press, 1997; Lake Michigan Scrolls, The Puddin'head Press, 2002. His poems have been published in various periodicals such as Poetry, American Scholar, Tri-Quarterly, Harper’s, Chicago Review, Cumberland Poetry Review, Kansas Quarterly, Negative Capability, Oxford University Press, The Illinois Review, and many others.

For the John Dickson Memorial on Facebook from Puddin’head Press, click here.