Poetry: Robert Beveridge

Eternal

(The Flame of Xinjian, 1567-1997)

The Flame of Xinjian

has burned four hundred

years, swallowed oceans

and coalfields, lit the sky

for lost travellers

in Northwest China. Some said

it was prophecy, a divine message

to cleanse, perhaps, or just remember

the power of fire.

Morning sun rose today

and burned off fog, looked down

on the last wisps

of Xinjian's smoke.

The coal, now, lies undisturbed

beneath a thin, scorched layer

of earth.

The last monk turns, hobbles

away.

***

Fear Factory

for Matt Webster

She files

her teeth

with the portable sander

in the wood shop.

They watch her close

whenever they see

pinpoint trickles of blood

on Matt's shirts.

Matt spends his time

in the metal shop,

pounds out fish

to give to mom.

Mom has a wall adorned

with Matt's “psychotic art”.

I can't help but hope

as I lie beside mom, my arms

the shelter she pleads

that Matt

and the sharp-toothed girl

lie the same way

behind their barred windows

***  

On the Terminal Express

Across the sky the sound of a siren

he died there, then

his feet rotten in the brine

sickly sailors had been too lazy to bail.

What work do you do? the inquisitive lady asks.

Can't you see? I say.

Across the aisle, a coed studies hemolysis

on her way home

from an exhausting class at LaSalle.

She drinks

in violation of the law of SEPTA.

The bus jerks forth

the girl, surprised, spills her drink

dark liquid dribbles

from the straw

to strike the bare, horny feet

of the sleeping black man next to her.

Embarrassed, she picks up the cup.

The black man, pale

beneath his mustache and ponytail

looks as though his blood

has been separated.

A volume of Amiri Baraka's poetry

is clenched in his sleeping fist.

***

Season of the Witch

Speared by the three-

tined fork, flaky enough

so that there is no

need for a knife

exquisite

you fall apart

in my mouth

slip down my throat

nourish me

like milk

soon, you're gone

but you've kept me

alive another day

***  

The Shine of Your Velvet Panther

For the cats, the perfect

spot is that coincidence

of sunray and discarded

clothing, a perfect spot

to sleep in save that

the sun never stops.

Cooked into a casserole

with moonshine, Burma

Shave ads, and oxtail,

you find sixteen hours’

sleep melds into a sort

of lazy confidence,

an air so thick is has

a texture of its own.

***

Bio: Former Pittsburgh resident (1976-1980/1983-1990) Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry on unceded Mingo land (Akron, OH). He published his first poem in a non-vanity/non-school publication in November 1988, and it's been all downhill since. Recent/upcoming appearances in table//FEAST, Small World City, and In Parentheses, among others.

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Setu, July 2024