Aaron Blumenthal

Author, musician

Writing


In lamenting death I do forget that Time
Does heal all wounds. Perhaps our timed retire
Is no more than fair Time’s fair time who prior
Did us tenderly love. Or worse the crime
Could oùrs be who waste the hour sublime
Away from loving Time with thoughts placed higher
Towards that harlot Fame whom all desire,
Betraying Time’s plain trust for luscious rhyme.
Her heart thus hurt we her cannot lay blame
Who breaks the beating knot that binds us here
And cuts the bloody tide we hold in vain.
I too await this fate but yet for Fame
I two know well and both do rightly fear,
For both have left the greats to shame and pain.

Hold your mouse over the Writing link in the menu above to see my short stories and sonnets. My latest update is 4/28 with an untitled poem (see below) and about twenty sonnets I'd neglected to add.


This is the last 
worship. The strain 
of the drought and 
harrowed page will toil us 
no longer to refuge of those 
harbors where life finds 
liquid effigy. Darling: there's a 
poor port set against the 
sea to travel twice
twelve books for, one island at a time 
when islands scale-ribbed like currency coined 
the earth they skimmed. But come back 
is any death's nostalgia; when all the waves are 
gone there, too, goes a brave 
shore and the seams of a lead lined 
mirror made stone like fire and 
time make stone of water.

Add you,  
    now, 
add you prayer muttered into a 
cup with the flushed spirit sick 
with god, all 
that in that 
little dome where the terror and the 
recluse lie, and listen; 
you can almost hear the treble blown 
back, the breath resplendent with cloud
-top trumpets wrought on high.
And when you
take those last quiet
thoughts from the blasted 
valleys of her
red burned lips 
before all's to darkness—
there's a salt pillar 
poured sad falling if ever—
and everything dies 
on the tipping of a moment plunged into the 
past, sweet doom in a drink and all love 
left written in the hair 
she leaves, that's when you know you're 
in passion's small mind.

This is that 
    last worship, 
the living quietude, supreme in an 
unrest, that takes our ecstasy and aches 
in us all time, like a clock worked to 
death or a light boat 
fretting the night dyed 
ocean's churn. 
It needs no belief;
it is only a question: 
will I go, too? 
      will I return?