Repertory Justice

Smith vs. the State again
today on the marquee docket,
another decade-old case.

Drab oak, maple
or walnut panels upstage the light, honored
with traditional props—

the books, the bailiff, the brunette
typing transcripts, and the yawning
from the jury.

A dark robe clings to the bony,
bifocal-ing, caffeine-driven director,
stayed by impromptu lines,

tortious logic ad nauseum, reaching for gavel
at the close of applause—
another bifurcated encore.

Pin-striped costumes
in a choreographed side bar, plead, motion,
beckon for prompted verdict.

"Your honor, are these the legs of a murderess?"
Yet another gallery gasp, in unison.
Flash! Camera flashes.

Opinion:
Held over, mistrial, no
reversible error.

Clerk's note:
Place back on the docket
for rotation.

-

"Repertory Justice" was originally published in the Fall 2009 issue (Vol. 4/3) of Wilderness House Literary Review.

Here's a direct link to the poem (in .pdf):
http://www.whlreview.com/no-4.3/poetry/EricBlanchard.pdf

On December 20, 2012, "Repertory Justice" was read by Conrad Balliet on Conrad's Corner, WYSO 91.3 FM as part of his local poets project.

Eric

An Ode to Inspiration

A while back, I posted one of my favorite modern poems, "What do Women Want?" by Kim Addonizio, on a Facebook discussion group. Inspired, a young woman in Greece named Efi Didi posted a response in verse, and I replied in kind. This is the result:

Conversation Outside a Store Window

I want to walk like I'm the only

woman on earth and I can have my pick.

I want that red dress bad.

            from "What Do Women Want?"

            by Kim Addonizio

[Her]

i want a black dress not to be seen

i want it tight to take my breath away

i need it long so it can wipe my tears from the floor

. . . but i must say

my worse fear is living beside a man

who wont see all i care about is being me

for no one else will do that for me.

[Him]

Then get a yellow dress

so he can see the sun shining in your eyes

and feel the warmth of your soul.

You can hide in a field of flowers

or soar with canaries, if

you must have your freedom.

Wear a yellow dress,

woven from the softest silk

and twinkling like the stars.

Be springtime and Easter, but

do not cloak yourself

in the hue of death's robe.

[Her]

yellow . . . in my world . . . the colour of bad blood

wont even get me near to the closest sky

to fly among the shimmering birds

or dance with the stars of my vision's past.

What do you seek in the arc of the rainbow

that cant the colours of your soul provide?

beautiful stranger, let a woman's choices be.

Let her take you in a world of greater images, to dream.

[Him]

then purple

or blue, my dear,

or green.

magenta is not you?

then black, my goddess,

if that is what you choose.

Or absence of light,

if that is you.

Or absence of life,

if that is you.

[Her]

Life lies in our moves,

any garment unneeded.

Our essence hides in dekkos,

any evidence muchness.

Closing your eyes

colour disappears

but existence remains.

Do you remain?

Choices change.

though you remain.

[Him]

When I close my eyes,

colors abound. When the light

is gone

I am alone,

in a forest with no tree

to stand as witness

to my falling.

Is movement life,

with no one there to writhe against?

With no one to catch you

on lens or on canvass

among the fresh leaves and

cool water.

Or, if simply

no garment is needed,

might I suggest the slight almond of skin tone,

or milky white and pale pink?

[Her]

No need to continue disagreeing

or even better

make new choices and matches

for garment that

work as masks.

No need to continue,

than the need within all

people continuing diaphones.

Keep alive the colours,

the movement,

the joy.

Enthusiasm is invisible to mortality,

but when closing ones eyes

it keeps you alive.

Though fluid phantoms chase you

through frozen fields or sunny clouds,

through rainbow nights or colourless dreams,

I cant imagine a better clinging garment

than your arms around my almond facies and. . .

But again, i must disagree,

as i am a woman.

[Him]

There is no need. Agreed,

though forever would be sweet.

A woman wants what she wants, and

things change.

Be there a spectrum or not,

pitch or nothing at all,

I would take your breath, and I

could wipe your tears from the floor.

A choice is a choice. The choosing can't lose.

It was fun while it lasted.

I agree. You are a woman.

You know what you want.

[Her]

No don't agree, 'cause forever wont be a chance if you do.

that's the main reason man disagrees.

so don't.

What would luck be if we wouldn't believe in it?

just a word.

what would anything be, without our support?

Even our own choices, but we are mortal

and even gods have the right to apostatize.

We are not here to remit anyone's believes

we belong to the human race

we are cursed to make mistakes

so please, disagree.

Forever is not for us

unless we choose so.

Forever though would never be enough.

[Him]

Then make it pastels, damn it. Big

splashes of violets and teal. And

yes, yellow sunsets and blue midnights,

with textures abrupt and surreal.

Let the neckline plunge and

the hemline be bold.

Choose an elusive color, my love—

a dress designed by van Gogh.

Or choose to vanquish your veil

and hide in a tangle of elbows and knees,

then guide me through decades,

chasing dreams.

[Her]

Maybe soft grey

like what a cruel

fire gave away

Or maybe brown

an empty ground

royalty without a crown

My sweet unknown

my dress is long

hiding insistently the dawn

I've put some white

into the dark

try to capture rays of light

I'll leave a trace

a red pallete

so I could touch your homey face

But then again I can't be sure

for what's divine and what is pure.

[Him]

Earth tones and slate. The colors of

certitude—of knowing

one's self well. What fine fabric

. . . you are.

Grays and browns, you say?

Earth tones with accents?

Just a glimpse of your ankles

. . . I beg.

I remain, contained by desire.

Unfit to climb fences or flee

for the hills, bound by the promise

. . . of dawn.

[Her]

The more your words betray your gift

the more i want to permeate in it.

My bones can't hold my soul's vehemence

your magic's chasing all my demons.

Let's leave the earth tones to this land

and concoct new ones made of sand.

Needs caution love, how to be treated

this dress is glass, but not incising.

[Him]

Demons be gone!

I am a hero in my lover's eyes.

My gift is your freedom.

Bathe in it.

Let your mask become ashes

and your dress drape the floor—

my fantasy rainbow,

broken.

[Her]

Our barefoot feet

will not bleed though,

as mental wings

have grown

on our nude bodies

on the instant the glass broke,

you can espy them at our shadows frames . . .

And there, in the hug of our sooty figment

no obstacle is able to snip these wings

as they are not made of feathers

but from a diversity of colours.

I must wear a pelisse now my love

it's cold and I'm falling asleep without you.

-

It was a whole a lot of fun.

Eric

The Walden Experiment

"I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life"—
to "live deliberately," and "simplify, simplify, simplify."

—Henry David Thoreau

For me, I guess it really should be called the "Onalaska Experiment." (Or just the "experiment.)

To be honest, the results were mixed, with no profound data to hold on to. What writings follow on the pages of this "blog" are as close as it gets to being the product of my Walden experiment and the lingering (and perchance permanent) effect.

This is where I re-awoke as a poet and found my voice.

Eric

Getting Started

I don't know whether I'll really blog or not. It seems too much like just winging it, and I'm too much of a craftsman. Or maybe I'm just too self-critical. Maybe I'm chicken.

Anyway, this will be a good place to post my published poems . . . assuming I have any.

Eric