Poems by Sarah White

Love Under the Keyboard

 

He was well-named, like the poorly armed poet, Mallarmé,
and well-owned by my friend who named him Orpheus
as if knowing that the pup had a lyrical soul— 
more Romantic than Baroque. Well-tempered
preludes and fugues were respectfully listened to. 
But, as he grew, the slender retriever moaned and crooned 
under the keyboard as if in sweet pain  
when his owner practiced Brahms—especially the intermezzi,
composed for the hands and heart of a fond, 
unattainable woman. That drama, of course, meant little 
to the listening, crooning dog.

He had further occasions for vocalization.
Deep in his affections was a cool local lake. 
He was, after all, a retriever. When on the road 
within ten miles of its shores, car windows tightly closed, 
Orpheus knew the water he craved was nearby 
and made insistent, agitated whines to persuade 
the driver to find a place to park, open the rear hatch 
and let him sprint to where master and mistress
were donning human water gear while he, without stopping 
to dress or undress, jumped into the holy wetness, 
and, circling the reeds, requested that some 
half-limb be found, hurled far away, and 
triumphantly fetched.

Were fetching and swimming as fine as wailing with Brahms?
That was a thing unknown, as was the final thing. Why, 
on a morning walk with his owner and friend, did Orpheus slow, 
in distress, become unable to run ahead or lope behind, prove 
indifferent to any toy. That was all. Many large dogs have little time, 
we’re told.

The owner’s grandsons came. They already knew but 
nonetheless asked where Orpheus was, and were shown 
a spot in the orchard where the bodily part of him lay. 
There he’d be safe, but they couldn’t climb on his back 
any more. Could he hear music? Possibly, but not 
in this place. Here are your crayons. Why don’t you draw 
some pictures we can put up in the house to remind us 
of his sable coat, its shiny swirls, his feathery tail, and purple tongue. 

If only someone could have drawn what we thought 
when we thought about his Brahmsian soul.

 

Old Testament Prophet Views Inauguration Day

The wrath of the Lord 
hath brought a Chief 
of Nought. He knows only  
how to Strut and Scheme.

I have seen
all the helium
leak from Thanksgiving balloons.
I saw a tall New England pine 
lose its Christmas needles, cones,
and crown. I watched rockets fizzle, 
and skaters drown in molten rinks. No
Happy New Year happened. 
The  shining ball was glued
to a skyscraper roof and did not fall.
Kids in Elementary School
refused to come home for Christmas, Kwanza,
Hanukah. Sad Moms and Dads had to travel 
to Disney World alone. Lady Liberty, 
bending down to blow her nose 
dropped the Torch of Welcome 
into the Harbor. 

Now, lovely orchids turn their faces
from the amorous Hummingbirds 
refusing the pleasures and pride of pollination. 
Honeybees forget the choreographies
that tell fellow bees the nectar’s whereabouts.
As winter fails, the polar bears
retain their greyish brown camouflage.
Bats, deep in caves, hang
right side up, and will not sleep soundly. 
Dutiful roosters suffer bouts
of laryngitis. Too sore to crow, 
they let 911 and 988 operators oversleep.
Calls go unanswered from the sick, sad, 
stoned, and suicidal.  

Ball parks are unpeopled by the wrath 
of the Lord. Singers, classical and pop, 
perform no song but “America, the Pitiful,” 
“God, Curse America,” and “The Bland,
Mangled Banner,” high-pitched,
ill-chosen anthem of a  disheartened nation.

 

Anglo-Saxon Chess Queen  

I am a chatty pawn, 
and here’s my Queen 
enthroned among the men­,
her body, like her throne, born of a single
walrus tusk. I take it, from the look on her face, 
that birth gave her an ache.
She needs a pill to kill the pain
of her long life. How ill she is!
my Queen, with anguished frown
of distress. I must confess, 
it’s tough to contemplate.

In a previous life, before her reign began,
before she moved to Europe as the wife
and consort of the Crown,
she was a kind of Grand vizir
(wazir in Arabic) with other moves
 and less to fret about. For worse or better,
she was transferred from the battlefield
where she had played the royal right-hand man.
She then became the piece whose duty
was to sacrifice for her great husband’s safety.
What thankless work!  What a headaache!
Get the poor woman out of here!

Later centuries saw her powers
 much enhanced and a chorus
of proud champions heaped
the Queen with praises for her leaps
her stretch, her sweep, but—woe was she—
by then this Queen was far from active, 
 decommissioned from the battle.
Now, (more lady-like) she lords it over others 
on her team in good Great Britain’s
great Museum, out of any game.

Her Mother was a Wave of water,
enamored of a Walrus with a porous tusk.
I must confess the Queen is downright homely 
now, but as a girl she was quite comely.
I, the Talky Pawn, declare she never
has been anything but loyal, brave and clever.