Going to the Edge of the Land and other poems – Martin Pedersen

Going to the Edge of the Land

 

We drove and drove, taking rest under Australian weeds

the comfort station had a toilet but no running water, hold it

no coffee     no ice cream

ample apologies: “I know you’re not from here,”

said the shamed young woman, “It’s not always this bad.”

(we are from here, everywhere is here/bad)

Our sandwiches were good though

eaten by the monastery watching butterflies

until a Vespa drove us away with its buzz

onwards out toward the edge.

 

The decision made itself; no amount of my worrying could stop us now

we drove down dirt country roads twisted like treesnakes backtracking from tail to head

through card-playing villages and go-home rentals

in the stuffy midafternoon we found it

the vision from on high among the ruins

the glaringly irreal parking area

past it all, sturdy and calm we walked

out to the lakes where tiny boys captured tiny fish for the aquarium

and the trail got soft

Look, this mountain has a hole

no time for a game on the guano white checkerboard

Don’t look back

walk clear to the tightrope between everything and eternity

it’s always closer than you think

as we slowly melted into sugary sun tea

and talked of house construction.

 

I will never forget that bath

dipped in gold lifelikenessless

the laughter of gravity towels

finding ourselves as we knew each other seventeen years ago

grown   tingling   holding hands

Back on Sicilian sand.

 

 

 

 

 

Sensitivity Training, California, 1970

 

“Everybody sit crosslegged and look into

your partner’s eyes for as long as you want or can,

and then we’ll talk about it.”

 

in the meantime, handsome Charlie …

 

It’s not true of course

that another person can see

into your soul through your eyes

however

it’s my private soul, get away.

 

It’s not true that you can fall in love

with a person just by looking into each other’s eyes

for a long time

I mean like 30 minutes without blinking

and thinking

feeling

I didn’t know what

whoever she is

who is she?

human connection, platonic love

does my erection show

what do you see?

mere pupil and iris

deep tenor though

we were not on acid

 

it’s a trap

they’re spies after secrets, names, intelligence

light brown, hazelnut speckled

resist, count backwards

don’t give in

nothing good down that well, trolls or spiders, yet I’m not positive

what do you want

information?

 

my third eye giving me the third degree

scaring the shit out of me.

 

 

 

 

 

Death of a Sentient Being

 

In the end, he died

he began foaming at the mouth

eyes flipped up

none of his family knew

what the hell to do

a neighbor woman sat on the floor

held his head like the Madonna

as all stood around watching

him finally shut up.

 

refuse to say hello when we meet in the stairs

I loudly repeat myself up into his hideous smirk

I talk to him a lot actually

explain why he is so nauseating

I try to rehabilitate him

coerce him into obedience

threaten him with legal action (oooh, that’ll scare him)

I threaten him with violence

lots of violence (I break his nose so easily blood gushes)

I spit on him and all, on their graves, his ancestors

leave him for last, torture and slowly cut off limbs

until he’s all gone, screams of agony echo during the work

I’m sorry he’s made me do.

I saw that in a movie.

 

but tenant meetings involve other people

horning in on our intimacy

they bitch about him too

almost as strongly as I do or more, I hold my tongue

others hate him as strongly as I do

but he is closer to me, next door

he is mine

I hear him walking in the house he stole by fraud

I hear him slam the door – blam, like a cherry bomb

in the middle of the night

like the door of the foreign legion fort, Fort Alamo

awaiting the final attack –

death and defeat await

as he skids his furniture about on tile

clanging into the clanging night.

 

So my question is, the question is:

Is it proper etiquette

to thank the one

who taught you to hate

who channeled and strengthened

your natural rage

is this maturity,

having enemies,

a blessing disguised

and low?

 

 

 

 

Our War is Over

 

As Melanie said, “There’s nothing nicer than an unnecessary peace song.”

 

Fear-weary niños jumping at the Indochina piñata

Rooftop chopper finale folly

Brimming holy roller arks

yet to embark

just the latest fad

impressed

by CBS

 

We didn’t know where that tension came from

until it went away

 

In a California forest sanctuary

we stood with our comrades priests teachers brothers and sisters

in a harmony circle with our arms entangled, crossed in front, joined beside

patches of snow on the ground

some heads up, some down,

eyes open/closed, breathing normally

humming

praise for pacifism

 

Our developmentally-impaired childhood finally complete:

You can sleep now, Jim Morrison.

 

 

 

 

 

Sirens

 

Since they built the new whitehospital nearby whitevans

Whewww, all day and all night

and summer hillfires so the redtrucks accompanied

by several rushcars, and bulletproof bluebullets

accompanying the bigwigs out for a pizza and brews

or back home to read the caper paper in their hunker bunkers

the clops racing here and there, the green suits, white coats

But I hate worst of all the larms, the shriek carlarms

and the shriekier houselarms,

 

kids screaming fathers cussing dogs yelping vespas buzzing motorboats jetskis filuas ferraris deliverytrucks construction work garbagetrucks vendors jackhammers busted mufflers roosters low-flyers metalsaws churchbells fireworks muzak sliding bar chairs at z in the morning,

telef… four floors down

televish.. two buildings over, hey yous

HEY YOUS!

Turn yourself the fuck off.

You’re scaring the evil spirits out of me

 

The Sirene of Sicilia

calling

calling this young sailor

bashing me slashing me thrashing me

ON THE ROCKS

suck(l)ing me down the inverted breast

WHIRLYPOOL

into the pressurized cabin underground

 

1^st wah wah to final flatline

dropping clods like frogs

the long silence implies the sirens,

Therefore

I abhor the slutty noise, yet it is

so painfully dirty sexy

I cannot resist.

 

 

 

E. Martin Pedersen, originally from San Francisco, has lived in eastern Sicily for over 35 years. He teaches English at the local university. His poetry has appeared in Ink in Thirds, Mused, Oddville, Former People, The Bitchin’ Kitsch and others. Martin is an alum of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers. He blogs at: emartinpedersenwriter.blogspot.it

 

 

 

Cover image: Photo by Melina Piccolo.