“ATONEMENT”

Years after her younger sister framed him

for rape, Cecelia and Robbie – she now

a nurse, he free from prison and condemned

later to Dunkirk – meet for tea. But how

can he hold her hand after all this hell,

and sensing the hell to come? What else can

they do but make love with their eyes? Lips tell

each other without sound how they – woman

and man – adore? Tell me it’s just a book

put to film. Tell me it’s foolish to cry.

Tell me you don’t know how, when my eyes look

at you, I adore. Smile and tell me why

war is a racket. Lisp if love is too.

And why I wish I had watched this with you.

Roger Armbrust

November 27, 2015

GODLOVER: DELIVERANCE

Godlover, not knowing why, had chanced past

familiar vast wasteland and forest speck --

where they two had danced and prayed as one, last

month or so -- to this unknown granite peak

whose summit faded to what must be clouds

the Wise One had sung in legend. In faith

he climbed, and climbed, and climbed, then cried out loud

at what he found: a garden, lush, with paths

through treasures of apples, oranges, lettuce,

herbs, and clear stream where he drank blessed potion

of his every cell. Discovered vanished,

sacred honey bee in flight through ocean

of bright sunflowers -- cut one with his knife.

Set off to bring her here: start a new life.

Roger Armbrust

November 25, 2015

“TWO HANDS”

Rilke, having filed Rodin’s letters, slips

silently into the studio. Stays

at a distance. Watches the master’s lips

mumble to the armatures as he lays

on plaster. Marvels at his grace with rasp

and chisel, molding both giant, rugged shells

into pulsing hands, severed at their wrists.

They “bark like the five jaws of a dog of Hell,”

the great poet will write later of their

fingers. Rodin turns, sees his secretary

but doesn’t see him; seems to linger where

only the Muse exists. Rilke, wary

of staying longer, eases away. He

walks Rue de Varenne, remembers to breathe.

Roger Armbrust

November 20, 2015

CAMILLE CLAUDEL

Since you were a woman the École des

Beaux-Arts ignored you. Joining your gender,

sculpting in studio on Notre-Dame-

des-Champs, everything changed. Rodin came there

to teach, then you came to him as lover,

muse, collaborator. Within five years,

all fell apart. You’d never recover,

would sculpt “L'Implorante” and “L’Age Mur”, tear

apart most of your work, spend your final

three decades in Montdevergues Asylum.

I study your stunning photo -- portals

of your dark eyes, disheveled hair, sacred sum

of your muse’s beauty -- can’t help but reach

to touch your face, all your passion can teach.

Roger Armbrust

November 18, 2015

GODLOVER: THE FALLING

Godlover -- following the falling star,

its hurtling through celestial night to earth,

fading in valley’s ebony void far

below his mountain perch -- thought of life’s worth,

of birth and death. He swore he heard her voice

calling to him as it fell, as if she

stood just in sight, called of their constant choice

to seek each other among ancient trees.

But she was far away tonight, asleep

in her dwindling village. Why did she flow

through his mind so? Why did her image keep

appearing like a dream? He’d like to know

if he was falling in love. But no one

to ask. His parents, his tribe, all were gone.

He studied the stars. Thought of life alone.

Roger Armbrust

November 13, 2015

MAESTRO

Schubert's "Impromptus"
are (in truth) sculpted tiers of
glowing waterfalls.

GODLOVER: THE PLACE

Godlover -- deciding again to go

there -- trods through long, barren valley’s once-flush

landscape where vanished honey bees had flowed,

blessing now-lost fruit orchards turned sagebrush.

He climbs brief hills, his direction guided

by sun descending to far peak he seeks.

He thinks of how gulls once squawked and glided

here, greeting him as a boy, their pronged beaks

like dull-gold fish hooks. All gone now. He walks

to the ledge, gazes down at the vast gorge

they once called the Pacific. Softly talks

of its dark floor, like ash in a dead forge.

He sits, recalls young love here one summer.

Whispers Keats’ last lines in “Chapman’s Homer”.

Roger Armbrust

November 3, 2015