Bears

Most everyone today will share their thoughts about the madness, butchery and corruption unleashed four years ago. If you want some of that, you know where to click.

Instead, I'm going to give you three poems by Michael O'Donoghue, who's been on my mind a lot lately. These are from a private volume titled "Bears" which he published in 1979 through Ghost Fox, Inc., his personal company. Only a few dozen people received "Bears," and to my knowledge, none of the poems (save one in "Mr. Mike") have appeared publicly. I think they capture the mood of the times quite well. This is for you, Michael.

THE BEARS

Bears are gnawing on the carpets.
Bones are tumbling into tarpits.
Nolde's gone and so is Arp. It's
Later than you think.

THE RETURN OF THE BEARS

The people fill the stadium
To see mice dance on radium
And icepick murders are the rage.
The bears are dead. Unlock the cage.

The Royal Fusileers believe
That Persians take ten years to weave
The carpets of the British king.
The bears have eaten everything.

THE WEDDING

Snow
As cold as zombie blood
Falls
On Martine and the bear.

Death is a virgin
And snow is her veil.
It covers a bride
And it covers a trail.

Snow
As cold as careless moths
Falls
On Martine and the bear.

Each flake is different
And all flakes are the same.
There's no one to bless
And there's no one to blame.

Snow.