Benjamin Gorman's Shared Poems

The sun that rose today—familiar, warm—is it the same sun as the last one I saw? Will tomorrow’s be the same as this one? It feels as I remember, brings as much light, seems about right.

Proving the continuity of things is tricky business; conundrum at the root of faith: belief in the continuity of things. Is such faith implicit in the workings of a mind? necessary? —the way persistence of vision lets us enjoy movies: each frame its own separate world, created by its own distinct swarm of photons on emulsion. Unique, but oh so similar to the one before...

What happens between blinks of the eye?
Worlds destroyed, substitutional simulacra, each a copy of a copy...
Madness echoes there, raving lunatic chained deep in the bowels of a cold and sprawling institutional hospital,
howling, howling.

Faith, then:
either letting go the worry
or not blinking.

Step by step
we work out the kinks
smooth the rough spots
grind sharp edges
modify tempo
stretch compress polish

I imagine it's like the way
they used to make musical instruments
before it was done by machines;
the hand-work,
eyes telling fingers
where to rub, what to carve away

Yes, by hand
gradually
an unfolding
plenty of breaths
lots of careful observation
and steady refinement

Eventually,
always surprisingly,
the thing emerges
formless to form
shakes off its husk
and makes music

This is no story of immigrant pride
of recipes handed down
adapted and refined
over generations

We’re Irish mostly, anyway
and dad was no cook
made meals from duty and necessity
had no great love of the culinary arts

I remembered the manicotti
last night: a couple of us
out at a bar for a late-night drink and snack
ordered their version

In fact, whenever I hear the word I think of dad
his epic kitchen struggles making this dish
the swearing and the pale litter of pasta
on the countertop

You see, he’d cook the pasta first
all the way through
limp as the fainting ingenue in an old horror flick
then he’d stuff them

I don’t know whether he loved the dish
or hated the defeats it handed him
but he’d try it again and again
his mouth working, making sucking sounds

I learned from him
either to persevere
or not to learn from my mistakes
I’m not sure which

Once more
reaching into cold depths
fingerless hands numbly rooting
blind mole sniffing out plunder

the bulb's out (still)
so it's search by feel
familiar and (oh god yes please) unfamiliar
texture shape taste

there must (I tell me)
there must be
something in here
this box cannot be empty

something overlooked
in previous raids
image analogy feeling glimmer
something

sense memory
or lingering emotion
one shapely wisp of frosty mist
curling away from it

this is not an empty box
motionless with cold disuse
life has emerged here
before this

so reach in once more
feel for the new thing never felt
the gift
the spark

rub off the icy crust
warm it with hands
with breath
ignite the poem into life

Cube.
Cubism
cubicle
We’ll call thee at the cubiculo. Go.
No. Yo ho.
Yo ho ho ho
a pirate’s life for me.
Tree wee pee
spree tea
Tea for two
and me for you
and what a to do
to die today
at a minute or two till two.
Hard to say,
hard to do.
Moo shu
achoo
bless you
bless me
dress me
caress me
tease me
thrill me
but don’t you spill me
My glass is full
of bull
you know how dull
my skull can be.
What’ll I do
when you
are far away
from me and free
what’ll I do?