Black Man Du Page
Black Man Du Page
Black Man Du Page
Black Man Du Page
Black Man Du Page
Black Man Du Page
Black Man Du Page
Black Man Du Page
BlackManDuPage
BlacMcaDnuPage
BlDakcMuPnaage
BaDlkcuPnagMca
BadLuckPaneGame
Bad Luck Pane Game
Bad Luck Pane Game
Bad Luck Pane Game
Bad Luck Pane Game
Bad Luck Pane Game
Bad Luck Pane Game
Bad Luck Pane Game
Bad Luck Pane Game
Richard Oberbruner is currently completely absorbed in Concrete poetry. "Black Man DuPage" is dedicated to his students stuck behind the windows of the DuPage County Jail, where he teaches. The letters in the top row of this poem can be reconfigured into the words "Bad Luck Pane Game," but they must first go through "the squeeze." If anyone knows of any Concrete poetry collections--other than An Anthology of Concrete Poetry (1967), or the more recent A Poke in the I, please e-mail him at roberbruner@hotmail.com. Richard also recently produced a play inside the jail that was written and directed by an inmate.
Sweet tunes blasted from a horn,
Acorns of delight,
The moon's river beam of light
Explores my inner soul.
The gentleness of the river,
Reflective thought,
Unborn desire
Are but moments of love.
Twirling leaves in fall's gentle hands,
The crisp air at night's end
Are small comfort I need.
I saw you in Roman Holiday years ago
but you are much thinner now
today's Monday
both you and your master have a day off
the sea-horses make no waves
nor the tritons and chariot
Wishing for a happy return
I stand with my back toward you
as done in the movie
and quickly toss
two five-hundred-lira coins
hoping they won't devalue
before they hit bottom
On the steep bank the straw-flecked, undulate furrows,
Dun waves, are frozen in their downward rushing,
Seeded, abandoned, awaiting early snows,
Fertile earth files, dreaming of distant spring.
Higher up, white sails - the crowded stones and crosses
Of rural graves - ride on a sea of grasses,
Into some future, blown by wind that tosses
The stubble dust in clouds while traffic passes.
Behind, beyond, compelling the driver's eye,
The sheer extruded sides of storage towers
Rise up incongruous against the sky,
Emblems of quasi-potent preserving powers.
Somewhere beneath it all, transfiguration -
A quiet breathing, reconciliation.
It's Autumn, most abundant,
sturdiest,
and full of power,
and if not touched by early frost,
its days perhaps equally long,
and strong,
and beautiful,
more beautiful
than pale and dizzy spectacles of spring,
and kind,
kinder than hot, oppressive summer afternoons,
and happier than all of these,
though holding in itself, I know,
but so does May,
the germ of its demise.
We watch the weatherman
with keener interest now,
hoping for yet a while before first frost -
or that first frost just lightly graze,
followed by Indian summer days
uncounted, and uncountable,
leaving geraniums and chrysanthemums erect,
ever so conscious of their luck,
briefly invincible.
Crushed among the stones
A boxtop marked "friendships end"
Knowledge of the world
Lies in dust-covered black valises
Too odd to pursue the solid and abiding
Once committed to the instant and transient
Retreat, take breath
Let your hands sift through the venues of the past
And connect with the bold imperfect of the day.
Copyright Notice: Copyrights for all of the above poems remain with the individual authors. No work here is to be reused without permission from its author. To request permission, contact a member of the ISPS Web Committee.
