Benjamin Gorman's Shared Poems

Our desperation to keep an antiseptic distance between ourselves and the world's grotesqueries
exacerbated by the distress of our guilt at doing so leads us to
ferret out and vilify perpetrators of evil in a world
that has more of apathy than of evil and
more of fear than apathy and then to
lavish heroes' praise on those who
reach into filth and danger to
do good works in our stead
freeing us to comment on
the news and knit our
brows in show of
commiseration
pass the pop
corn and
say there
but for
the gr
ace
of

With darkness gnawing at the edges of days
wearing them down in its black tide

we try to capture sunlight with our eyes
salt and store it, fill the root cellar

as we have done with the garden’s work
saving what will keep for the lean times

it’s our human way—the worry for then
in the moment called now

the old battle of seasons,
of cycles, of tides and time.

Coquina sunset
streaked by blackbirds’ swarming flight;
last joy before roost.

Cathedrals of glass and steel
trimmed with colorful delights
draw them in thronging millions
the travelers

They worship motion
they worship the hubris of flight made commonplace
they worship the illusion of freedom
the travelers

They gather in these great churches
faces lit with hope or excitement
or masked with the melancholy of distance
the travelers

May they be blessed by their gods
held safely in the palm of protection
may their journeys yield enlightenment
the travelers

Your voice, unique in cadence and in tone,
That swarmed with worlds but always-human tales,
That thrummed with myths of Earth and far beyond,
Where our imaginations could take root,
Revealing shrewdly of ourselves—yet when
The farthest from our home, most mirroring
Our human essence—O, that voice is still!

From Green Town, Illinois, you sprang to life,
And fetched us golden apples from the sun
Of your conceit; your rockets fired and filled
The summer air with heroes' dreams of space.
You hurled our minds, in gleaming silver craft,
Beyond our shrinking world and made us then
Confront our hapless selves on lonesome Mars.

O, how I miss you even now! That voice!
My palimpsest of memory is layered
With word-inked illustrations dark and sweet;
I shuddered and I wept by turns as through
Your worlds I glided on your ship of ink.
I cannot be the man I am but for
Your words, so deeply have they wormed within.

The vault of your imagining’s now closed;
But there upon the doors in strong relief
Remain the words you left behind.
And we, like grateful acolytes, our fingers
Pressed upon the steel, restore the tales
To life. We draw these temple-rubbings forth
With feeling eyes to blossom on our breath.

But Uncle Einar’s drumhead wings beat fears—
Will all your books, as yet untouched by flame,
Suffice to slake our thirst to hear you speak?
Can all your stories fill the void, or mend
The gaping hole that tore imagination’s
Heart at your demise? I fear no tongue
Will match your blend of poetry-in-prose!

I must be still; this grief would swallow love.
There’s comfort yet in ritual: and so,
Within the fearful breach that tears my heart,
I’ll sepulcher your bones and dare to trust
They’ll fertilize imagination’s roots.
For surety, infused with teardrops’ brine,
I raise my glass of dandelion wine.