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GALILEO
Gazing through the "eye reed", the moon ceases to be a pearl.
I sketch mountains and seas, which according to Aristotle
are not supposed to exist, and thank God for letting me be the first
to witness Jupiter's three moons, the phases of Venus,
canals on the surface of Mars.
Unwilling to look through my telescope, Cardinals in Rome
refuse to embrace the grace of the heavens
and accuse me of heretical depravity.
Carnival masks fill shop windows, but I was forced to wear
a disguise of a different kind, the face of atonement.
Yet, while signing a document renouncing my research,
I kept on making more telescopes, so others would see the truth.
I deliberately left Venice where Church authority is ignored,
and was condemned to house arrest, forbidden to leave
the villa of the archbishop, whose terrace surveys
a magnificent view of Tuscany. This was not the painful jail
Pope Urban had in mind. I fell silent about my theories
for seven years until the pontiff died.
Now, set free to resume my plans, I am being captured by old age.
I stare blindly into space, the telescope in my hand
not long enough to be a cane.
One of my telescopes is bequeathed to the emperor of China.
Translated into English, a summary of my work is to be used
in the schools of the Massachusetts Bay Colony.
Old worlds die hard.
New ones struggle to begin.
MEDITATION IN A LOOKOUT TOWER
Seeing the flash, begin counting, one thousand one,
one thousand two . . .
The storm, primordial, spider webs across ridges.
When thunder rolls, the air torn, sews back together.
Hammered by the jolt, the concussion--
this tiny cabin rattles and shakes, an earthquake.
Stay perched on the wooden kitchen stool
with blue glass telegraph insulators cupping its feet.
Sleep is not an option. Even if reclining were possible,
the bunk has box springs which can conduct electricity.
Don't get between two metal objects.
Lightning can jump, pass through a person like a laser.
A spotter can see into the nooks and crevices of valleys
satellite imagery can't detect.
A fire can smolder for days. Wisps of smoke, dragon's breath,
might only be seen during the first rays of dawn.
The Klamath believed that fire lived inside a tree
somewhere deep in the forest.
Festival of the Redeemer
On a floating carousel in the middle of the Giudeccca Canal,
dressed in gold lights, the orchestra performs
Vivaldi's The Rites of Summer.
The music plays over loudspeakers,
and at the explosion and first brilliant flash,
everyone runs to get the best view.
Sidewalk cafes empty, customers
taking drinks and ice cream with them.
Waiters so stunned, none shout
at the patrons to pay their checks.
Moments before, unable to find a table,
we have our pick and order cappuccinos.
My wife places her hand on my thigh,
and I lean over and kiss her.
Fireworks fountain, rising and falling
streams of green, white, and pink.
Higher, others blossom, petals flickering,
diamonds unraveling off a bracelet.
Rockets, like sperm, swim the air and detonate
flashes of crimson, obliterating a full yellow moon.
Bells from the campanile toll midnight.
They thunder against the stone facades
and the crowd applauds, chrysanthemums,
bursting brush strokes, sumptuous bouquets.
Escape
Sunflowers
making
a break
for it
have gone
over
the garden
fence!
Each summer,
they nod
their heads
dropping
a few
more seeds.
Eventually,
they will
reach
the open
field.
Mark Thalman has a new book, Catching the Limit, published this fall (09) by Bedbug Press as part of their Northwest Poetry Series. His work has appeared in Carolina Quarterly, CutBank, Many Mountains Moving, and Natural Bridge, among many others. He received his MFA from the University of Oregon and teaches English in the public schools. Further information can be found at markthalman.com. (April 2005, September 2009)