Three poems by Stephen Barile
"PAN and the BEAR CUBS," "OPÉRA CANDÉLABRE Á 5 BRANCHEN EN BRONZE," and "A BENCH FOR CHARLES"
PAN and the BEAR CUBS
A statue by Emmanuel Fremiet, circa 1864
Shepherds, flocks, and mountain wilds,
Hunting and rustic flute music.
A herder watches over his flock
As shadows suddenly appear
Infusing the floral universe
With a strangeness, if not panic
For the original terror in the woods.
Bearded, horned and hairy.
In a secluded pond bathed in sunlight,
He cavorts with nubile maidens,
Water nymphs from Corycian caves,
Divinities of the sparkling springs
And torrential streams,
Hidden in the forest.
Their names:
Carmentis, Egeria, Fontus, and Jufuma.
They’ve captured him for spying.
The four ply him to tell their futures,
Signaling to the others in waiting
To join them in tying him up.
*
That wise prophet with goat-ears,
And the force of Aries,
With dew of mercurial waters,
Pure and silvery.
Unite lovers,
as their souls
Float above them
in avowals of love,
Swirling in ethereal celebrations,
Dissolutions of matter.
*
Near the time of Christ’s birth,
To sailors on a trade-ship sailing
Off Paxos, there came a voice
From the distant shore.
Three times, someone said,
“Tell them great Pan, lustful, bestial
Goat of Mendes, is dead.”
*
From Bergamo,
Of white Zanobbio marble:
A wax honeycomb has no bees.
A sprawled Pan,
Hock and shank,
Stipple joint--—dewclaw,
Two cloven hooves,
Lazy on a decayed log,
Delights in watching,
As the naked priestess’ gone bathing,
Two bear cubs feed on honey.
~Musee D’Orsay
OPÉRA CANDÉLABRE Á 5 BRANCHEN EN BRONZE A photograph by Charles Marville (1816-1879) Perhaps it is true we were born too late. Instead, to be born in a time of beauty and peace; Horse-drawn carriages with white steeds, On streaked cobblestone of dignified streets Fashioned by stone-cutters in the south. There standing at the corner as a landmark For navigating the Parisian byway at night, Instead of an armed-guard holding a lantern. A beacon, of metal and glass, a host Of a gas-lit Candélabre with five branches. A ghost of Paris past, lifting a cluster Of four lamps, and one in the center, A defining relic of the Beaux-Arts epoch. Straight forward record, with restraint And exactitude, four sides of glass, Crowns emerging out of crowns, seized By long, slender arms of French maidens, At the bend of the elbow is a decoration. A sturdy bronze base to a bundle of rods Kept together by leaves, and coiling vines. To a collar of classic antiquity, Symbolizing light over darkness. A craving for weightless modernity Is like asking a sinner to pray. From seven floors of apartments Across the street, walls lean outward To street trees devoid of growth in winter, A whinnying horse and wooden wagon. Last night a crescent moon suspended Over the street like a set-piece, Before God dropped a royal red drape And all the lights but one went out. A BENCH FOR CHARLES For brother Charles, His memorial is a white marble bench In place of a gravestone. Near the grave he shares with father At St. Peter’s Cemetery. Of white marble In the shade of a fir tree, His bench has engraved A top-hat, gloves And a cane on the seat. Lover of penguins, tuxedos, His caption: "Mr. Wonderful." A name given to him By his associates in Hollywood, At his memorial service At the Friars Club, Beverly Hills. And a black etched picture Of him: brother Charles. Both father and son named Charles, The son’s cremated remains Held in a brass vessel, In a blue and gold velvet-bag, (that Crown Royal whiskey came in). Into a small wooden box With a lid placed on top Of father’s vault, coffin, and body. The tombstone remains the same, Our father's picture is etched Into the marble, lest we forget What he looked like in life. "Charlie is our darling," From a title of a song of his era. A motto under his picture In the 1941 yearbook. Now a slogan on his monument. Sitting on the bench, Someone may contemplate the life Of someone called “Mr. Wonderful. About a man in his engraving, Is wearing an ascot, Carrying a cigarette-holder, Came to live and die so young? In the intervening years, I’ll clean dirt from the etching.
About the poet: Stephen Barile is an award-winning poet from Fresno, California, Pushcart Prize nominee, and former member of the Fresno Poet’s Association. He attended Fresno Pacific University, and CSU Fresno. His poems have been anthologized, published in numerous journals, both print and on-line. He taught writing at Madera College, and CSU Fresno.