THE CATALOG ARIA ARRANGED FOR WOODWINDS
Copenhagen, about 1817.
Bette wrote each note. Her lady-like hand
showed pretty, easy to read. Her skin—rough
from kitchen work. She never had enough
time to fill in the bass clef. They’ll understand,
all of them. They each knew that daily dust
didn’t sleep. Music was joy, not a task.
For just one half-day each week, no one asked
Bette to read notes in the fine lady’s hand.
His bassoon gave back dim light from its stand.
Nils loved that dark wood, the silvery keys
hard fingers pressed. His horse-smelling hands greased
its joints with love. Mozart today. Just grand
stuff. From an opera. He’d never seen
one. But these tunes called out to him. Low notes
that wanted to be played and Nils knows
bassoons can give. He lifts it from the stand.
Clarinet Marie loves the oboe boy’s hands—
Their soft mouths her mouth wants to taste.
She knows more kinds of music she can make
with them. It’s worth the risk. Her fingers fan
out along her black stick. Nils frowns to say
don’t waste any time. Let our music start
now, while short light lasts, before it’s dark
as Marie’s clarinet. Two boys. Four hands.
Each of them knows that this music demands
words they could never read if they tried.
Even Bette, though when she saw them, she cried.
They looked so pretty like the sun on pans
she polished six and half days. The sky’s
growing dark quick. They’d better start to play.
The words look like a long list of names
each knew. Servants are used to hard demands.
THE LEGIONAIRE
It’s dark below the ground. The endless night
soldiers speak of with fear with dread, with smiles.
They know their lot, my boys. We’ve marched hard miles—
The Rhine, Danube, obscure borders. We fight
because we’re told. We have no other reason.
For years, I’ve served my Mithra men. I shone
the dark lantern beam on hand-colored walls.
Men saw bull’s blood flow, the holy knife fall.
I snap closed the light. Dark. Men stand alone
underground. I know their hearts. How they shake
with fierce joy, with fear and the will to serve.
I teach, unnamed—call me Milo—men learn
what they need to know. They grope the curve
of the cold stone to colder night and turn
to face a blood moon. I force them to make
sense of what’s to come, of what they deserve.
THE ALCHEMIST'S NIGHTMARE
A yellow cat
circles three and a half times
then settles on the midnight blue
chest of the sleeping magician.
It purrs warmly and watches the dream:
He hangs upside down,
legs forming a four,
while impossible stars
fly at him like balls of yarn.
Held firm by equal parts
dark and light,
he is forced to watch a moist
blue planet go dry.
The miasma rises,
wrapping his face in
unbreathable vapor.
Below, the sphere is wound
in white horsehide and stitched
one hundred and eight times.
The cat licks its left paw,
hoping to be loose
for opening day.
Mark J. Mitchell has worked in hospital kitchens, fast food, retail wine and spirits, conventions, tourism, and warehouses. He has also been a working poet for almost 50 years. An award-winning poet, he is the author of five full-length poetry collections, and six chapbooks. His latest collection is Something To Be from Pski’s Porch Publishing. He is very fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Miles Davis, Kafka, Dante, and his wife, activist and documentarian Joan Juster. He lives in San Francisco, where he once made his marginal living pointing out pretty things. Now, he is seeking work once again. He can be found reading his poetry here: https://www.youtube.com/@markj.mitchell4351 A meager online presence can be found at https://www.facebook.com/MarkJMitchellwriter/ A primitive web site now exists: https://www.mark-j-mitchell.square.site/ I sometimes tweet @Mark J Mitchell_Writer