“Unnecessary Noise Prohibited” The Boston Review
“The Music of Argument” Tarpaulin Sky Poetry
A Description of the Devil
The feathers of
his wings are burned, charred black
chaff all that remains from his forced tumble
into the molten rock. His right arm hangs useless,
Smashed since he fell upon that side. We always greet
one another with a simple hello as no one ever wants to shake
his hand. The white cotton gown he wore in heaven
is of little use down here. When sweat surges
from his pores, that old thing is the only rag he has
to wipe his brow. Like us, he goes naked, and his skin
is a little red from the
constant heat. Some claim
he has a beady eye—but on which side, left or right?
I’m never sure. I think it’s just the way he looks
at our women,
all hungry and far-off. Usually he lopes
around in long rangy strides as if he owned this place.
Apparently the devil never runs. For fun he plays gin rummy
with a salvaged
set of cards. If he keeps a trident,
none of us has ever seen it. He likes to preach
sitting on a rock, and uses his left hand to steady himself.
I enjoy the
sound of his voice, all willowy like music
and he does so believe that one day we will all
get back to heaven. As for me, I think it’s a long way.
—2006
The Color Circus
I
Our coterie hangs around the
mountain pass with necks distended
from watching the far races going by—the piebald appaloosa
crossing first, and then the nattering birds in bent formation. Some lie back
awaiting each arrival, blowing the lucreist a kiss when he comes into
their bodies. Sadder men swing from ropes, cutting perfect arcs
set sail towards the new continents. Around this group our guardians
swing dance hand-in-hand. In the long war between red and black
there is no victor, only the changing patterns of couples
moving back and forth along the slot.
II
I meet you on the stairway and
grab you as you go by since clearly
we do not look the same. You swathe your hair in silk; perhaps
you feel unkind. Difference is a man standing on a landing
who climbs up and down flights to meet you. He tells his betting friends
about those who won, which ones straggled in, and of the others
that never made it. Up here, the winters arrive from somewhere else.
How could you know that to reveal our plans—where the key was,
the route through the corridors, the alarms that could be triggered
by a single misstep—would never be our undoing?
III
A girl with dark hair and
fall-leaf eyes patter-pats across a
fenced-in field, rotating her hips. Ahead her pedicurist waits,
brush in hand, a drop of crimson nail color, thick as family
coloring the ground near his white sneakers. He smiles a sweetly
Aryan smile. “I think he’s shy,” one onlooking voice exclaims.
From the night sky, cold paper reassembles itself into a single
sheet, and we spectators form untwistable knots. The horse whinnies
sadly as its rider walks away; the birds are all in cages now. You
interlace our fingers and lead me slowly to the ropes.
—2003
The Emperor Considers His Subjects
I of course have need of nothing—
I am the emperor.
Armies defend me from the invading hordes.
To reach my palace one must pass through
A hundred gates
And at each one a thousand guards.
I have women to satisfy my cravings;
Paintings from our western provinces
Decorate my walls.
Last year in the empire, so they tell me
A hundred thousand went starving.
Now they are all dead.
Some imagine I might be compassionate—
At dawn I sigh
And make a wish for them.
—1994
Charles Durning Carroll 