Night Thoughts At Casson Point Michael Salcman Saying one thing and meaning another, metaphor gets some things wrong: I don’t buy Athena coming out of the head of Zeus as blessed wisdom, fully formed; on the other hand, Aphrodite rising out of the ocean without explanation seems a lot like love, as mysterious as any watery voyage. Behind the sandy hook at Casson Point, where Baltimore is far enough away no earthly spume disturbs the night’s display, Ursa charges through the stars, urged on by a chorus of ducks and antiphonal geese. Above my head wide galactic bands stretch and spill like milk; the sky feels bright and large, so near the Big Dipper alone outspreads the span of both my hands. My eyes squint, sting with the light of a thousand torches, blink at the voyaging ray that anchors me here— it will outlast love even if doused for a billion years.
… dream form. By J. K. McDowell
Question: Is a poem a container or contents? I know I’m mostly water yet I can’t flow Easily from this shattered sake bottle. Question: Are my metaphors too self serving? The smoke clears, the spill dries, forgotten forest prayers Offer a lost soulfulness. The door slides closed. In your silence I held the dreaming. The writing Guides the way. A lattice of longing so fragile, I worry about selecting the next question. So tiny, the Soul’s etching on a shard of glass. As I read the poem I do not notice the Sharp cuts, the fingers’ red tears. No more questions. Answers, invisible like the air we breathe. Fear fades, blinded by the realities exposed in A soft reflection of shattered lead crystal. It is 2AM Jim. Any hour is right and true To toast the friendship that can melt the cullet and Take the glassblower’s soft breath, giving the dream form.
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