Daily Postings
Literature : first proof

Three Poems

by Gale Nelson

Lasting Cure’s Ideal

Filters draw on water’s flow, spell specks
in unfit draw and bring the well
past clouds. After such, quench every
thirst. Exceed thirst, drip on this water’s tap
as thirst extracts a fine drench. The
ooze infecting us panders and
enters flooded senses—
it logs up past swollen pipes,
and wading past tap’s flow, engulfs
tide’s water. Quench anew, but
floods anew swell even now. Quench
the thirst after water ebbs—endow
extended bursts as if a tap’s
long oozing lurks—bottom’s up. As
ice melts, fountains blend the ice
and coil water—long drench that well.


Exhausted Once And Utterly

Mean every inch or push
the model’s long force after time’s flaw
mounts the hall’s clock face. Bend the
face in, time lost, grown
false or mad-cap, infused or
broken. So geology—earth’s first
layer—opens my enterprising
table of violent guests. Instill
this lost vault’s moist coins with
silent, tender patterns, mordant yet not
closed. Begin, yet ages still form
on fantasy’s manic skid. This time,
stout faces come out and strive
to practice each entry in time’s
last trick. Satisfy the open field,
spot flaws in time’s flicker, stick
to hope’s fount and blush. Margin’s margin
can sap margin’s first test—this stunts all
private forms longing margin’s best.
Income lost excused by time’s
stopping—quit earth’s exit quietly
and inhale. Hold long after earth’s trip
falters on, a tomb rotating.


Enlist The Facts We Call For Minnows

Long-lost misery mounts and nomads fuse to fast horses—
unmount that mare and free it. Excellent motors
send this fast horse to bed. Motors breed doom,
this calamity mocks annulled limbs of
exquisite teams led by man’s best pony, but that
may end well. Bind the teams, but the horses flow.
Is that motor fast or can motors lurch on and
on in spent gears? Quietly the thirst swells in fire’s
dimming stir—will motor fuels and accents shout
of undoing horse’s forage? No. This
limits mare’s free walk, but handles her well. And
about horses, the will cannot just fall down
for giant grunts in fields fallow—
all graze on long vast grasses. Field grazing
is better; lunching in urban horses’ vein
masks this, failing not grass but the sweetness test. Spell
that grass in the field, then chomp it well. Either
way, hay with oats best curls our horse’s
long thirst. May our hour exceed this mount’s sweet
helm and enlist our ride by each last halter. End
this, our call to guests uninvoked by trial. No. End
this hour, let every drama fault our motor,
testing evident loss. Hooves paw burnt grass
in hour’s first gloom—motors lurch out,
but strain. This horse is hope’s best steed,
and on it, this hour forms esteem.


The poems included here are from the second circuit of Gale Nelson's ongoing project, This Is What Happens When Talk Ends (the first circuit was published in 2011 by Burning Deck). Each poem is a homophonic translation of a passage from one of Shakespeare's plays. Nelson's other poetry titles are Stare Decisis and Ceteris Paribus.