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Dejection, Paris 1975
My last day in Europe,
I pack
My suitcase, try to squeeze in ten books of notes.
From Lugano to Berne, I had walked, walked over
The cows' earth, felt with each step I had hooves,
Felt that the grasses wanted me, felt that the poppies wanted me.
I had walked by gold-haired, blonde rocks that stood up,
Stretched their arms outward towards me. I touched their hands.
I had watched waterfalls, until the water began to fall inside my skin.
I had become one with tree shadows that cross snow bridges.
Now in Paris I go outside and walk the streets of regimented trees.
I pause by a canal, across the street from Shakespeare and company.
See books piled in carts.
I don't want books I want the earth.
I recall how by aimless walking Andre Breton gave meaning
To meaningless streets. I look behind to see if I am followed
By a disheveled woman who is the blue.
I look up into one of those regimented, cemented trees
For a tall blonde vase,
But it is futile. The capacity to find the surreal marvelous
Has been killed by my efficient American education.
I long to hear again a cow bell.
Surrealism is even dead in Paris.
I look again at this regimented tree distorted into being bourgeoisie,
Go into a store that sells artificial oceans for living rooms.
On Howard Franklin Bridge
Hundreds of car lights on bridge, stalled cars,
Greyhound track opening.
Three skimmers out for a night flight slashed
Openings in the dark water.
On an island shoveled from the bay, a building goes up.
A cement mixer cries like a coyote at the moon.
Now that the herons and terns have been chased away,
Industry lays its eggs.
The cars will never move,
Racing forms propped on steering wheels.
On a strip of moonlit land the other side of highway fence,
A small sandpiper strolls, turns up clam shells that glow.
An Evening on a Georgia Farm
The comets restless, their hay uneaten,
Their hooves kick against the boards of their stalls.
The barn is too small for their immense light.
The sky is almost black. All left on the horizon
Are the luminous yellow hairs dropped from the mane
Of the horses who galloped
Duane Locke, Doctor of Philosophy in English Renaissance literature, Professor Emeritus of the Humanities, was Poet in Residence at the University
of Tampa for over 20 years. Has had over 2,000 of his own poems published in over 500 print magazines such as American Poetry Review, Nation,
Literary Quarterly, Black Moon, and Bitter Oleander. Is author of 14 print books of poems, the latest is WATCHING WISTERIA ( to order write
Vida Publishing, P.O. Box 12665, Lake, Park, FL. 33405-0665, or Amazon or Barnes and Noble). Since September 1999, he became a cyber poet
and started submitting on-line, and since September 1999 he has added to his over 2,000 print acceptances with 1,394 acceptances by e zines.
He is also a painter. Now has exhibitions at Thomas Center Galleries (Gainesville, FL) and Tyson Trading Company (Micanopy, FL) Recently
a one-man show at Pyramid Galleries (Tampa, FL)
Also, a photographer, has had 116 of his photos selected for appearance on e zines. He photographs trash in alleys. Moves in close to
find beauty in what people have thrown away.
He now lives alone in a two-story decaying house in the sunny Tampa slums. He lives isolated and estranged as an alien, not understanding
the customs, the costumes, the language (some form of postmodern English) of his neighbors. The egregious ugliness
Of his neighborhood has recently been mitigated by the esthetic efforts of the police force who put bright orange and yellow posters
on the posts to advertise the location is a shopping mall for drugs. His alley is the dumping ground for stolen cars. One advantage
Of living in this neighborhood, if your car is stolen, you can step out in the back and pick it up. Also, the burglars are afraid
to come in on account of the muggers.
His recreational activities are drinking wine, listening to old operas, and reading postmodern philosophy.
Email: Duane Locke
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