April 2012

VOL XX, Issue 4, Number 228

Editor: Klaus J. Gerken

Production Editor: Heather Ferguson

European Editor: Mois Benarroch

Contributing Editors: Michael Collings; Jack R. Wesdorp; Oswald Le Winter

Previous Associate Editors: Igal Koshevoy; Evan Light; Pedro Sena

ISSN 1480-6401

Her Eyes

Poems by

Joseph Farley


Copyright 2012

Introduction

Poetry flows inside our veins. The poet bleeds these words onto paper and displays the product to the world. 
If an audience is found for this lurid display it is because those red words have somehow touched the mass 
subconscious. The poet has become one of the “unelected legislators of the world,” a prophet uttering truths 
the masses have felt in their bones, but have not quite had the skill or the time to articulate in succinct 
and memorable form. 

The life of the individual and personal struggles is valid fodder for poetry. We all live human lives, poet 
and reader alike. We all suffer. We all experience joy. We sing best when sad or happy, less so when in between. 
The poet’s song is his or her own, but the emotions can be recognized, experience and give catharsis to those 
who have felt similarly. 

From a technical perspective, I try to use as many of the tools I have inherited from poets of past generations 
as I can. I believe in breath lines, rhythm, and even rhyme when I feel it is necessary. The overall structure 
of a poem tends to be organic. It grows from the thought and music driving the poem, creating a unique prayer 
or unique song.  The success of each of these word experiments can only be gauged by the reader. If a piece 
stimulates thought or a desire to read the words again, then at some fundamental level, it has been a success. 
If the reader finds an image or phrase haunting his or her mind hours later, then the poem has been an even 
greater success. The sound should be addictive; the meaning thought provoking. 

I have said what I must say. Now read, and decide whether or not these poems speak to you. 

Joseph Farley
April 2012


Acknowledgements:

“Caught in the Wind,” appeared previously in Eye Contact, Fall 2011
“Follow the Dots,” appeared previously in Windmills, No. 8, 2011
“Mere Words,” appeared previously in Gemini, October 2010
"Without Parallel," appeared in Enhance, Issue 7, April 2012




Her Eyes

in her eyes are mysteries
more wondrous than supernovas.

in her eyes are pools
filled with the bones
of the sacrificial dead.

in her eyes are
the long silence
between distant stars.

In her eyes there is
no present, no future, no past,

fire and cold,
and unspeakable knowledge.

those eyes, those eyes
I cannot stop looking at,

wait patiently to devour me
and spit me out



Me and Lady Macbeth

Me and Lady Macbeth.
We have a thing going on.
Don't tell Malcolm.
Don't tell Duncan.
Don't tell Banquo or 
any other would be king.

Blood and pussy,
cash and power,
we want it all
and she takes it all
wherever I give it to her.

Our hearts may be cold,
but no one can see hearts.
We make love as if it were war,
biting and slashing
and beating and scratching.

She rides me at noon time.
I ride her during tea.
On weekends we talk politics
and plot our ascendancy.

No vows are sacred.
No god scares us off.
We enjoy fear and pain
and the challenge
of pulling it off.

Guard the crown
and guard the bedchamber.
It will do you no good.
We are more than half-way
to our goal.

Throw your corpse 
upon the heap
and we will be closer still.



The Obvious

The obvious remains obvious
no matter how we try
to avert our eyes.

Look.
It is there.
No illusion,
no mistake.

The dream is to believe
that it is somehow different,
that you are exempt
from basic facts
that spell out misery 
and deceit.



The Big Squeeze

When the rich run low on money 
they simply squeeze the poor.
Twisted and rolled 
like so much toothpaste,
the poor will drop a dime
on anyone or anything.
Just listen to them squeal and sing.

The butchers wait,
those practiced pigs,
to trim the fat
and slice off legs.

Who needs to walk
when you can crawl?
Who needs arms
when you can wriggle?

“Sink like the worms you are
and we'll collect you in a jar.
You'd serve well to bait a hook
to catch a golden carp
that will promise us the world
before we slit and gut it.”



Beast
 
the animal that is in me
is the same as the man
that is without,
a collection of skin,
bone, hair, sinews
that somehow thinks
or thinks it thinks
 
if I howl at the moonlight
it is only natural
I am following an instinct
buried deep inside
 
if I chase you,
hunt you,
love you like a beast,
it is all part
of the same nature
I was born to
 
if I write a poem,
how unnatural,
yet maybe this too
is part of something ancient
and as sacred
as bird songs
or monkey calls
linked to a rhythm
found only in the brain
or the pattern of seasons
and passing stars 


 
Without Parallel

There is an illusion
with parallel lines
that they join into one
with distance and time.

The fact is they remain
separate forever,
never drawing closer
or gaining greater insight.

So it is and has been
with you and I.
Long we have traveled
our separate paths

often within sight of each other,
but never close enough
to understand
or achieve true intimacy.

We continue mirroring
each others movements
ignoring the noise
that sometime emanates
from orifices.

And so it seems 
we shall continue
until we merge 
with that distant spot
on the horizon
and become one
with oblivion.



Slow Dancing Barefoot On Hot Coals

The music changes,
but we go on
entwined in movement,
a rhythm once begun 
so hard to stop.

The flames lick our heels,
but we hardly notice,
having been dancing
together for so long.

Neither one of us
has caught fire yet.
There is always a chance
my pants or your dress
will start to smoke.

I see your skull
beneath your skin.
Do you see mine?

Should we sit down,
or change partners,
or just keep going
one painful waltz
at a time?



The True Meaning of Vows

There was a time when you liked me to look upon you.
Now if I gaze in your direction you try to gouge out my eyes.
Hatred is not easily hidden, but some prefer to stay rather than go,
to torture and be tortured until death does them part.
Marriage requires both patience and inertia in order to last.



Bitter Draught

The passion in your eyes
Drains into the cup before me,
Yet I drink it down
As I do every day,
All the accumulated bitterness
Of a marriage dead long ago,
Held together with glue,
And made to move
By the magic motions
Of sun and moon.

Pastiche monsters that we are,
We can not die so easily.
All this poison that we consume
Is so much water
As we breathe and live
And seek love,
Though never with each other,
Evil in all our limbs,
Longing to continue
Pretending to be happy,
Or to genuinely become so.



Follow the Dots

The enormity of it all only hits you after it is over.
History, even in the smallest sense, is a shadow on the wall
following you as you move down the street and go about your life.
Yet that umbra leaves a trail that can be read and followed,
and that is how you get caught reading the newspaper at breakfast,
coffee cup spilling from your hand, watching the dots grow closer.



the basic nature of man

yes, it is true that we all want to be loved,
but that does not necessarily mean
that we are all intrinsically good.

yes, we all want to be loved,
but we want to be loved
for who we are, warts and all,
accepting both the good
and the evil that we do.

yes, we want to be loved,
unconditionally,
without nagging or correction,
which is more than God
or any parent or lover
will grant us.

yes, we want to be loved,
but we want to rape 
and maim and kill, too,
and still feel that warm embrace
that says, whatever you do
is okay with me.

yes, we want to be loved,
but that does not mean
we are intrinsically good.
it just explains why
we own dogs.



Even a Dog Knows

A beaten dog whines in the night, but not too loud for fear of another kick.
A beaten dog knows that love and loyalty are only words recited in the dark
to mask the fact of the leash and the hand that holds it.
A beaten dog, as all dogs do, will look up at the full moon and feel the urge to howl,
but his lungs fail him as he longs, not just to shout greeting, but to go to that cold satellite,
or any other place where no one will beat him even though they may still walk on him.



Mere Words

A man is not his words
and words are not a man.

Words no matter how well wrought
cannot fuck a woman
or raise a child.

Mere words cannot hold down a job
or scoop the turds from a cat box.

Words won't paint the house
or get the garden dug.

Words, even from a cloud
cannot move the weight of a hammer.

All words can do is pine and mourn
for what we never had
or had and lost.

What good is that?
Just do your job and hum your song.
No need for words now 
or after we're gone.



among the shadows

there are people 
who tell you 
they exist,
but you know 
they are just
shadows 
on the wall.
they move 
and they talk,
but they have 
no true form.
you listen 
and you watch,
but they soon 
fade away
as soon as 
the lights are 
turned down.

sitting alone 
in the dark,
you might 
reach out 
for a hand,
that may,
or may not,
be there,
but you 
reach for it
anyway.
what you grab 
may just be 
sheets.
what you
have lost
may be
even less.



Grin and Bear It

I turned my back
So I could not see
That which I knew
Would cause me pain,
And to better bear
The lash of your actions.

Your moans and laughter,
Harsh in the wind,
Cut like glass
And rusted nails,
Making blood flow
From every wound

Until I could bear it no more
And gathered my belongings
In a small satchel,
And set off in the dark
To bleed alone,
Or bleed no more.



Aftermath

The hell we make we do not see
Until the flames grow all around
And scorch the world we came to love,
And leave all we were and wanted
So much ash and barren sand.
This charcoal that once was life
Is what was reaped from our slow fall.
Who was the one who set the match?
Too late now to say “put it out.”
All has been consumed, red, raw, gone.
No one left can tell the story right.
All we can do is rake the ground
And search for gold among teeth and bones.



Paper Lives

What is said and what is signaled
Means nothing, sworn or affirmed
Though it might be.
Words are only air,
Or scratches on paper,
Little squiggles, puffs of lies.
The illusion continues
For as long as you deny
That all these years
You were living paper lives,
Origami masks, twisted with design,
To hide what existed
Behind those beautiful eyes.



Caught In the Wind

you lay about,
lazy as a leaf
on the ground,
fallen from a tree,
and pondering destiny,
when the wind swirls,
and takes you
up in its arms,
and never puts you down
until your edges are
dried and brown,
and you are too weak
to do more than sleep,
and ponder why
the wind chose you.



The Task

Red wine won’t do the job.
It takes too long to get drunk.
God give me a bottle of whiskey,
And let me sleep in emptiness,
Mind and soul obliterated
For as long as that golden glass
Can numb body and senses.



Even Superman Gets the Blues

My ability to save the world
is somewhat limited today.
I sit here on the bed
with my hands between my knees
staring at the costume and cape
still hanging in the closet.

Not today. Not today.
I think in bed I'll stay.
The world can save itself.
I'll read a tome from my bookshelf
and snuggle under covers
with a feather pillow,
and if the world is still here
tomorrow or whenever I feel better,
I will try to don that cape
and fight to protect
whatever is left.



After the Exterminator
 
I still hear ghosts
running in the walls
on all fours



Defining the Author

An author is not a commodity,
he is a conduit,
a pipeline to the minds
of those who can not speak,
saying that which must be said.

his words flow like a sewer 
loaded with all the slime and muck
that populates the world
and the collective unconscious.



Appendages

This pen and this hand,
Extensions only of an arm,
The arm itself a tool
Of the shoulder and the back.
The hip drives it all.

The brain and the heart
Sit somewhere inside
Directing traffic
With chemical signals
And four chambered drum beat.

That which is written,
And that which is thought,
And that which is felt
Are rarely the same.

Each appendage makes its changes
As nerves whisper down the lane.
That which was wanted 
And that which was intended
Remains in the distance,
Just beyond any reach,

Known but unknown,
Needed but seldom felt,
Waiting to be realized
In another place
Or another self.



Tomorrow

Tomorrow is a dream
We must hold on to.
We fucked up today.
Yesterday we fucked up
Even worse.

Tomorrow it must be.
Tomorrow and tomorrow,
With hope ever flowing
Like water from
An open tap
Or a sacred stone
Touched by the staff
Of a prophet
On a desert mountainside.



Two Thumbs Up

It is a good day regardless of the facts
and even the fainthearted should smile
and maybe whistle through broken teeth
at this strange sky and stranger sun
that brings us light and warmth
and the wind and the water 
that makes it all just cool enough
to abide.



Call and Response

My father is calling to me,
and his father is calling to him,
and so it goes on back into time,
ancestors laying claim 
to their progeny.

The pull goes back to the dirt,
six feet and five hundred centuries.
We are all dutiful sons.
We all come home
when we are called.




Biography:  

Joseph Farley has lived his entire life in Philadelphia. He has a BA from St. Joseph’s University and 
an MA from Temple University. He edited the Axe Factory Review from 1986 to 2010. His books and chapbooks 
include For the Birds, Suckers, Longing for the Mother Tongue, and Waltz of the Meatballs.

Bibliography:

January, Philadelphia Poetry Project, 1986
Souvenir or Evolution, Taggerzine Specials, 1994
Wolf Poems, Cynic Press, 2000
For the Birds (short stories), Cynic Press, 2001
Suckers (poems), Cynic Press, 2004
The True Color of You, Cynic Press, 2007
Longing for the Mother Tongue, Sketchbook, 2009. Reprinted with editorial changes by March Street 
Press, 2010
Waltz of the Meatballs, Books on Blog, 2011

 







All selections are copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of
these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is
prohibited.

YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2012 by 
Klaus J. Gerken.

The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's 
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Distribution is allowed and encouraged as long as the issue is unchanged.

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