Songbird and Heaven
Poems by Shane Brant
Songbird
You’re a songbird! My precious songbird.
I am the revelation of the world, darling. Lingua franca.
In stupendous assembly something angelic and something
Nightmarish dictates me. All the energy of these lights
And all the power of these signs, their allure, their provocation,
Their desire to coax and annihilate dreams is mine,
Benissima cuore mia. I love you.
You must free yourself from me,
Though I give you an impossible directive. The shore, you are,
Wrought entirely in my ocean, lashed by waves, then kissed
By singing wavelets in the next round. You poet,
I am the moon, a swan, a dancer on Parnassus
That could convince you. Life is leaping from its peak.
It’s impolite to talk of death at a meal of love,
Sapperò ma io non ti posso auitare,
I will lead you sweetly into Hades, Orpheus, the bluebird
On your shoulder that’s a raven in the cavern
Telling you Eurydice is waiting
When already she is picked against you.
There’s not a song that you can sing that will deter me.
I cannot be deceived by love, nor can you dissuade me
That you’re a knight for it, though you posture as its dragon.
Sing on, furious phoenix. I’ll refill your drink.
. . .
Heaven
What's gone is gone forever only if your heart goes with it.
The wind has never stopped blowing as it did that day
you felt in love, walking in the park,
Carrying the hellos of the roses that watched you
uncertainly grab her hand;
The lights have never dimmed or altered pitch
from that moment when you smiled
That she clenched your hand after your fingers laced
to tell you that she loves you back
Without words. That moment is a statue in Life's gallery.
Could we return to times gone by
We may be less ruined by Joy's transience. Instead
Love is a museum blockaded.
Could we enter we'd be devastated by the vastness of what's absent.
We have in us the ruins that should be in displays,
of how Love lived, the society of Love,
And house the demolition of its end; though we as artifacts
little know the blight that black'd
The rose. It is very late, but the night, anticipating Love,
has dawned a blush, dressed its lips
Adorned its eyes. The stars have an intenser aura;
their shine extends to distant stars
Connecting constellations as a headband.
The night's a lady to fall in love with
that on this day knew what fate awaited.
The night led her into mischief that ended in my arms.
That night is still a castle in my heart,
A thriving kingdom, a love strongly garrisoned against invaders,
as all kingdoms suppose themselves;
But every night the moon sings me some assurances
that peace the crashing sea
That beats against the cliffside of my palace. Outside my window,
in the dark, birds are singing, too.
Druids with harmonic plumes. The metamorphosis of bards,
the transfiguration of lays to woodnotes,
The coronal melody of the heart, a song sung visible
As mortar for Love's stronghold.
How many nights, dear Moon, can I keep Love secluded from its ruin?
Angels throw stones at its looming towers. God
is the docent of decay,
Exhibiting for all the seraphs that helped with Eden
the perfection of their work that day,
From Golgotha to its aftershocks.
You must preserve a flower of detail
To keep beside you, in your mind, a paean
that mutes the caroming stones, a paean
To the peonies that were abloom
Beside your walking home
With a love already indestructible within.
Shane Brant is a Las Vegas high school teacher. His debut collection Melody in Exile will be out in 2022. His work has appeared in numerous journals including Honest Ulsterman, EcoTheo, Timber, and Rain Taxi. You can reach him on his website at ShaneBrant.com or follow him on social media: Twitter: @terriblebinth or Instagram: @shanelemagne.
Photo courtesy of Shane Brant.