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Michael Paul Ladanyi
three poems
Cool River Ouse Walls
~But when the self speaks to the self, who is
speaking?-
the entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in,
in to the central catacomb;
the self that took the veil and left the world—
a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful,
as it flits with its lantern restlessly up
and down the dark corridors.~
Virginia Woolf
There are coward-poisoned eyes
in my hands, jangle-black birds peck
them if I forget to pocket-keep them.
Angie says hands are beautiful,
are mask-fondle hauntings.
When I spoke to her last
she told me about a dream;
a father standing in a jaundiced 2am hall,
barking plum-crave words like orange
paper sticking to dabble-ink air,
papier-mâché syllable caves,
7,000 angry shunt-peeled stones
click-tapping cool River Ouse walls.
Twitching eyes in my hands know
her hairy-glow father,
everything so loud like gnaw-humming,
asthma pouring flames through
crunch-shiver colors.
Silver-Tight
Hold my head under wrinkle-black
river water, I cannot drown,
numb stones will be my worm-leaf pillows,
arthritic shadows my obscene
dreams licking animal eye man
statues through half-air.
Wound my copper ears in early winter,
Jacob, god-rip these blood-trill
colors that move like blue-clack
ghost eyes, like your lover
in my open mouth.
Where are your star-hungry things?
Where is your beautiful bird-falling
laughter, Jacob? There is time to sleep---
Witness violin words,
cold-soup water thimble-clicking
in my red mouth like crow music.
Hold my head silver-tight under river water,
write to me of swollen ground
trapped in winter’s fetus.
Door-Cut Dead Man
A dead man lives tap-shadowed
in our crooked bedroom doorway.
Naked and blind, he is the color
of spit and sideways eyes,
a click-finger yellow that draws bad lines. *
He is garbled artist parts that have
drowned wound-red,
estranged Thursday mornings
proceeding magpie drawn rain,
clock-burned questions eaten by old men.
Door-caught dead man, you are your
own scream-mouthed messiah,
your risen Christ eating potato soup,
sitting cross-legged in your
crooked doorway at 3am.
One of these mornings your gonna
rise, rise up singing. *
(* The words ‘draws bad lines,’
are adopted from Buffalo
Springfield’s 1967 song,
“For What Its Worth.”)
(* The words, ‘One of these mornings
your gonna rise, rise up singing,”
are adopted from Big Brother
and The Holding Company’s
1968 song, “Summertime.”)
©Michael Paul Ladanyi 2005
Michael Paul Ladanyi
is a two-time 2004 Pushcart Prize Nominee. His poetry, reviews and
interviews have appeared in hundreds of print
and online journals in the US and abroad.
Michael is the author of eight poetry chapbooks
and one full length poetry collection. His work
is eclectic, minimalist, and written with sound,
color and image.
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