Poetry: Paul Ilechko

5 Poems 

by Paul Ilechko

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Beaufort Measures Lost Love
​
Day zero     Beaufort sees himself within the mirror     his face as tight as skin     his eyes as blue as
death     as blue as smoke that spirals tight towards oblivion     he grieves within his lonely silence

Day one     he arches his spine amidst the drifting smoke     failing once again to control the ripples
of anguish that penetrate his immobility 

Day two     his glassy stare absolves the trees of all their mystery     as a metal arc is quietly traced
across the circus of the sky

Day three      a branching motion corrupts the shape of flags     he speaks in sign language to the
​potential of a beloved    waiting for the appearance of a silver stallion

Day four     the horse-drawn present scrapes its flanks in greasy rivulets     as  time dissolves into a tincture of dust and oil

Day five     a fluttering in his chest as swaying dancers grip the waist of future days and escalate the pace of change     but wasted chances pronounce the death of fate

Day six     wires are crossed with string machines of melody that fight to be included in the
​symphony of motion     that fight the chance of weather     as clouds release their dreams

Day seven     trees are marching down the avenues into the teeth of dentistry     horses have abandoned even the smallest motion    ceding the width of plain to an inconvenient memory of the loved one

Day eight     structure abandons form     as Beaufort sees revealed a distant shape that resolves itself into the “once upon a promise” of his cherished fantasy

Day nine     a drumroll pounding of iron cavity     as yet again he rolls between the spraying tides of anger     fighting to overcome the inflammation     that threatens his redemption 

Day ten     a patchwork quilt of unforgiving absorbs the shockwaves     as Beaufort realizes that his journey has reached an end     beneath the overhanging coils a hollow forms     and there he huddles    lost     and empty     inside the wave. 

(Derived in part from the Beaufort wind force scale) 

​Sensory Processing Disorder in Green

I feel green   where the line is stretched from the lake to the mossy ravine     encapsulated boulders tumbling through water in motionless energy     

                                                                                      (the lake is a grand consideration     an idea
whose time is still to come     but the creek is merely a passing thought)

     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

I see green   as the flood creeps higher   and the walls of houses are marked in darkness to shoulder level     where oaks and maples 

                                                                                      create a thread of narrowing     a blackened
rush     an oiled and polished swirl that sucks us under     towards a mysterious gleam

     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

I hear green   between the rows of upstate orchard     between the vines that bleed into purple as the days contract into a coldness of wind     

                                                                                      where pain and blood are glimpsed at
twilight beyond the pinking sadness of the thickening sky 

     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

I smell the fragrance of green     as soft and delicate as two people held within the arms of night     within the lightness of their breathing     tumbling 
   
                                                                                      like a river     masked and tense as it polishes
its way towards the jellied heaven of the smoking ocean     gray as rag

     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

I taste the grassy flavors of green     as new and vital industry erupts into the vintage of modernity     charting its way across the rainbow 

                                                                                      seasons     where the tongue is seen to dart
then hesitate     then touch again   with careful anxiety   the dripping flesh.

Piecemeal Resurrection

Rapture curled in     tendriled and smoky    when he bladed his chest with vertical precision     his blistered fingers tearing edges     uncovering   with great relief   the pumping valve

the heart was chunked and jarred     preserved in curdled milk and lemon juice     each vessel boxed and carefully packed for mailing 

his remains lay on the bed     wrapped in sheeting     his seeping leakage creating patterns in drips
and circles     creating a map that tracked his death’s trajectory 

     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

they brought the salt in which to cask his remnants     brought the words for reading and recording      the subtle lines    designed to quietly obscure his mode of death

made a casket from broken wood in which to bury him     no laws respected here -- no more than
any other aspect of this consummation 

his ashy bones     bleached for decades in the dripping sludge of acid rain   and loam     will one day
be recovered     his mystery solved     his resurrection   perfected.


Don’t Call it Falling

I didn’t fall   I said     I slipped    I didn’t fall     it was an error of placement     there was an incident
that involved an object        and surely you can see   that I didn’t really fall

I have proof   I said     there must be surely a recording   or a photograph   of the stumble    which
was not   by any means   a fall      could you perhaps   re-check your archives

See me    from the window        the ghostly light      the face fading flicker   of the night light    in a different room   whose thin glimmer fails to penetrate into the room where the incident occurred

We are living within the residue of time     the main thrust of history has subsided   and the current spills   and eddies   into rivulets of backwash    leading to disorientation

Trees float downriver   heading south     heading towards the fading light of a dying star     where possibility still exists   as a shadow of its former self

Our version is sliding into self-parody    into a theory of sickness     I will do whatever you ask of me   in return for that fumbling inheritance     that soft muttering   behind closed doors     with
​insufficient light 

Behind the glass of the window is nothing   but darkness        but today   I am back on my feet again     at least for now.

After the Flood

A door swings open     as you glide
inside     still damp from river sand

the dampness of your useless clothing
still wraps itself as excess heaviness

around your bone thin 
                                                             silhouette 

     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

this is a time for memory     a dutiful 
shaping of intersecting remedy

a meticulous pathway
of alternating light and shadow

of lurid color   bleeding 
                                                                 into darkness

     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

something was buried before the floods
arrived     a scraped and polished structure

wrapped and bound for safety
coiled in sheets of plastic immunity

never to be stolen
                                                  by the power invested. 

Bio:
Poet and songwriter Paul Ilechko is the author of three chapbooks, most recently “Pain Sections” (Alien Buddha Press). His work has appeared in a variety of journals, including The Night Heron Barks, Rogue Agent, Ethel, Lullwater Review, and Book of Matches. He lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ.

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