Three Poems
William Doreski
What John Donne Did
Let’s embroider the autumn sky
into a sampler to hang
on a cracked plaster wall inside
a house so haunted no one
younger than death dares enter.
Aren’t you tired of reading Donne
together? His language warps
the feral acts of love and scores
wounds the ego can’t process.
Handicrafts like embroidery
or carving runes into hardwood
better suit our advancing age.
That haunted house looms. It’s real
enough, and just down the road
beyond the marsh. Exploring it
changed my life more than reading
John Donne did. Each room featured
a smell, a touch, a tiny sound.
Nothing to see but the pattern
of cracks, the glint of broken glass,
a collapsed armchair stuffed with mice.
You refused to enter without
some high-tech weapon capable
of denaturing reckless spirits.
Now on Thanksgiving a hint
of warmth entices us outside.
We could visit that haunted house
and decide on which wall to hang
the sampler that will immortalize
November’s opalescent sky
by rhyming it with mottoes
stitched in abstract shades of blue.
Today at Pemaquid
On the day after Thanksgiving
the corrugated slope of rock
at Pemaquid features black ice
that dips tourists into the waves.
Battered to sacks of bone-shard,
the bodies resemble jellyfish.
You claim this isn’t happening,
no one’s here but us. And we aren’t
foolish enough to venture
onto the naked rock where lost
images of summer linger,
the lighthouse leering into blue
no random thoughts can penetrate.
A spruce border wheezes in wind
the color of old wool blankets.
I once kept such a blanket tucked
in the trunk of my car in case
someone wanted to picnic with me.
No one did. Not even you
would sprawl on army surplus
to share a bottle of cheap wine
and do the Omar Khayyam thing.
Today at Pemaquid the slash
of bedrock looks crueler, sharpened
by flinty skies fresh from Spain.
The parking lot stands empty,
the dust settled by cold autumn rain.
The light freeze is impersonal
but definite, dancing under us
with aristocratic little steps
that could lead to endless sea-views
we’d never be able to shed.
Our Usual Holiday Plans
We’re breaking down with our cars—
gear and tooth, fuel pump, liver.
We should go electric and plug
our vehicles and ourselves
into one dedicated outlet.
Late autumn promises gifts
not only through pagan holidays
but from the acutely angled light
flattering with long, tall shadows
we inhabit with childish glee.
Yes, the Christmas season flops
at our front door and implores us.
But we don’t sing carols, don’t ignite
an indoor tree with chrome décor,
don’t reap presents shipped from China,
don’t mingle with distant relatives
with breath like sweaty wool socks.
Instead we roam the rackety woods,
wearing orange in case of rifles.
We refuse to read Charles Dickens
either aloud or to ourselves.
We brush our teeth and hair more
vigorously than usual.
We’ll stay sober on New Year’s Eve
in case the neighbors catch fire
and need us to extinguish them.
Our cars may or may not start today.
Their expressions, bland as toads’,
offer no clues. Driving to town
isn’t a definitive act
but rather a dress rehearsal
for a winter of plaintive moments
when snowfall panics the landscape
and town plows growl with thick men
sipping coffee at the wheel.
Then driving becomes adventure
and our depleted bodies will knot
into muscle tough as vinyl,
bracing us against collision
with the freshly empurpled sky.
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Venus, Jupiter (2023). His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.