FUSION Magazine

SERGE CHALOFF

                                             

Harnessed, yoked, reined in:

      for months, head hung low, 

body hitched to pain, anvil-

      dense, I pitied myself . . .

                                                                  

a horse tethered to a block

      of forge-wrought iron flung

from a wagon’s rickety bed.

      How we pull our own weight.

                                                                              

                         *

                                                                                           

Or how it pulls us: last week,

      that photo of a fireman

wrestling with a writhing 

     hydranted hose, a one-headed

                                                                                             

Hydra gushing spasmodic gasps

      toward the imminent collapse

of all that should not fall. . . .

      But does.  Body and soul.

                                                                                   

                         *

                                                                         

Body and Soul.  A blue surge

      of song.  Baritone sax.

A stooped shouldering of notes 

      from the smoldering reed-rough

                                                                                      

depths of a Herculean horn . . . 

      its swelling bell, its brass-

blinkered pads, its serpent’s

      neck coiled back upon itself.

                        

                         *

                                                                                   

 How we bear our burdens.  

      Steeped in dying, the tumor 

on his spine a leaden mass, he cut 

      his final vinyl wheelchair-bound.

                                                                                           

How he purged himself, blowing

      sinuous riff-rich lines . . .

Blue Serge.  Then “Dead at 33,”

      the morning papers read.

                   

 

 

TEMPUS EDAX RERUM

 

Time devours all things,

I read in a book.  But that night

I heard my second cousin

 

still a din-filled pub outside

Kilbeggan—his perfect tenor

pitch the charm—I took great heart.

 

The Fields of Athenry he sang,

every body there transfixed

(transported, too, by that tale

 

of love’s promise thwarted

by pitiless laws) as if the gnawing

fang, the grinding jaw of minutes,

 

hours—ravenous years!—

had surrendered to a potent spell:

as if enchanted words could help

 

us dwell forever far beyond

that cavernous maw.  As if

in the end, our slates wiped clear,

 

we might hold at bay the beast

by the door: the barman’s “Time,

gentlemen, time; no more!”—

 

his “Drink up now, the Guards

are drawing near.  No need to go

home, but you can’t stay here.”

  

 

JIGS & REELS

 

Ever hear tell of a man who bet

the farm (& lost) that he’d make

the harvest moon itself mark time?

 

“To the devil his due.”  “He’ll face

the music yet.”  “Bowing & scraping

as if to save his damn fool soul.”

 

Or ours.  With any luck he’ll leave

us in his debt tonight.  Footloose

& footsore before we’re quits.

 

Pay the fiddler & call the tune!

Lord McDonald’s.  Fill Up the Bowl.

Local talent.  Step to it, lads! 

 

 

MOONLIGHT IN VERMONT

 

   Last night, you and I . . .

and Moonlight in Vermont

      on the radio—turned low—

 

that hoary hit from ’52 . . .

      Stan Getz guesting on tenor

with Johnny Smith, guitar

 

and sax in a soft sashay

     through a grace-noted grove

of swaying sycamore chords.

 

      The B side of Tabu, I knew,

that tune’s up-tempo beat

      more in step with our cast-off

 

quilt of sultry summer heat. . . .

      Yet, how like a rendezvous

après-ski—the log-fire blush—

 

      our slaloming down

the slippery slope of love.

      Did you hear near the ending

that slick arpeggiated schuss?

 

  

THE REAL BOOK

 

Isn’t It Romantic?

Just You, Just Me

When Lights Are Low

 

All of Me

All of You

Embraceable You

My One and Only Love

 

All the Things You Are

My Old Flame

Satin Doll

Stella By Starlight

Angel Eyes

My Funny Valentine

Come Rain or Come Shine

 

My Romance

My Little Suede Shoes

Little Rootie Tootie

The Girl From Impanema

Mercy, Mercy, Mercy

In Case You Haven’t Heard

I Got It Bad

 

Don’t Blame Me

The Nearness of You

The Way You Look Tonight

Mellow Mood

Stardust

Old Devil Moon

 

Fly Me to the Moon

 

Well You Needn’t

It Don’t Mean a Thing

How Insensitive

Out of Nowhere

Careless Love

Fools Rush In

 

It Could Happen to You

 

Ask Me Now

’Round Midnight

Now’s the Time

Speak Low

Softly as a Morning Sunrise

How High the Moon

 

Groovin’ High

 

Thomas O’Grady is a Poet and Director of Irish Studies and Creative Writing at UMass Boston.  His poems were featured as part of FUSION Magazine’s Celtic FUSION Night.