A Time Before Time
There was a time before time, before clocks
and their escapements, long before the counting
and the keeping, or messengers and ultimatums,
or the boots and shoes and lines of train cars
heading east and west; a multitude of times
where candles guttered, old men watched their flames,
and spires arose to melt a shadow world.
And then a time after that, when for a time
nations would meet and talk in massive rooms;
the delegates almost lost in those huge halls,
straining to understand each other as each speech
was retold in five languages, one after another;
the listeners trying not to think about
the shattered concrete and the skeletons of buildings.
And in time the buildings were rebuilt and the train cars
and tracks replaced with new and shining metal;
and now speeches were heard in five languages at once,
and for a time there was a time when all could dare
to hope that this would be a different time,
that from the ashes there would come rebirth,
that generations yet to come would mark this time.
But now we’ve reached a point where all those times
have flickered and expired; and still there is no way
to get beyond the disembodied and the dead:
there is no plan, no reasoned path to which all can agree.
The voices of the crowd are louder, ever louder,
the rumble of its madness resounding in my own land,
pitiless and unthinking; and I am old now, old and afraid.
Marching Orders
Thrust and thrust and thrust and thrust and thrust
until you cannot think to close your eyes,
until your throat is choked with blood and lust,
and everything you’ve touched has turned to dust.
Regather then, and let your passion rise,
and thrust and thrust again, and thrust and thrust,
because the one emotion you can trust
is fear, and you must never compromise
until your ears are choked with blood and lust.
So bomb and burn and leave the ruins to rust;
ignore the truth and radiate your lies,
and thrust each day and night, and thrust and thrust.
Each people has its heritage: you must
be true to yours, respect the ancient ties
until our throats are choked with blood and lust.
Bomb and bomb and bomb and bomb and just
Ignore them all, their weeping and their cries;
but thrust and thrust and thrust and thrust and thrust
until the world explodes in blood and lust.
Michael Cantor’s first full-length poetry collection, Life in the Second Circle (Able Muse Press, 2012), was a finalist for the 2013 Massachusetts Book Award for Poetry. His second collection, Furusato, (Kelsay Books) appeared in 2019. A chapbook, The Performer, was published in 2007. His work has appeared in The Dark Horse, Measure, Raintown Review, frogpond, New Walk, Think, Light, and numerous other journals and anthologies. A native New Yorker, he has lived and worked in Japan, Latin America and Europe; and has now gone to ground in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
Pulsebeat Poetry Journal 