Sample Poems by Belle Randall
Baby Boom
Return address
anterior to memory,
penmanship as dated as
the three cent stamp and year
the purple postmark bears.
The cross-my-heart
envelope contains
a comma of fine hair
and three white pebbles—
roll them in your palm—
Time was, they were
the cutting edge,
while on the mantelpiece
in Antimacassar Square,
your bronze shoe
was adamant
and seemed to say
I put my foot down here.
Playing Scratch Card Lotto
This machine dispenses fun
in little pictures. You choose one
flat and bright as a cartoon
of GI. Joe and his platoon.
Fugitive, you take a shot,
and feed the only bill you’ve got
that’s crisp enough into the slot,
And then just stand there,
deep in the thrall of a riddle, a dare,
as behind the illuminated rows,
the deus ex machina inside it slows,
and drops into your waiting hand
whatever fate Fat Chance has planned—
lose fifty cents, win fifty grand.
Beneath the chartered camouflage,
the pink flamingos and Macaws,
you scrape away with black thumbnail,
as if it were the Seventh Seal,
or sweetheart’s answer come by mail,
you’re deemed a loser by those laws
no one can trespass or repeal.
The Four Quartets Revisited
On opening a long unopened book,
what odor rises from the parting pages,
what genie is released, what dark spell broken,
as if some spirit trapped inside for ages,
By this door swung open were set free?
My father’s hand has jotted in the margins
its own blunt text of what must be
lecture notes, and planted his place marker
Like a flag among the “Dry Salvages”—
a U.C. “schedule card,” a blank
grid for weekly classes, and on the back,
O fees and late fees time alone assuages—
We know the longhand’s labored look
was mine, but why that child should scrawl
a phrase so apt for now’s beyond recall:
on opening a long unopened book.
School Boys On White
Damp brick, dark brownstone frame a square of light
Cornered by the long November street.
Late sun brightens the square where two boys fight.
My view of them from here is so complete,
It seems a painting called School Boys on White.
The bully who has won but isn’t done
Becomes a silhouette, abstract and small,
Well balanced by the placement of the sun,
The iron gate that breaks the small boy’s fall.
The cry to fifth floor windows travels slow,
As slow as we are slow to make a call,
Who watch paramedics closing up the show,
And come forth after lights and wail retreat,
To witness blood like mittens on the snow.
Ouroboros
...The snake that tries to bite its tail.
He chases it. It gets ahead.
The nightly news, the day’s e-mail
Will line tomorrow’s garbage pail,
And never bring the hope or dread
That drives the snake to bite its tail.
The roses bloom to no avail
For one who waits the mounting tread
Of distant news or longed for mail.
A storm at sea? Over the rail,
I barf the stuff in my own head—.
a snake who tries to bite its tail.
I’ll stand upon the bathroom scale,
Scan my measure, make my bed,
While nightly news and morning mail
Unfold, like yardage, such detail
As my life affords until I’m dead—
A snake that finally bites its tail.
They hung our Savior with a nail.
Give me delivery instead
Of nightly news and morning mail;
Release the jaw that bites the tail.
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