SELECTED POEMS

© Edmund S. Meltzer


NIGHTFALL

As westward sinks the weary orb of day,
His liquid gold becoming dusky red,
Across the fields descends a veil of gray
Which lowers as the radiance is fled
To nether regions; soon with stealthy spread
The shadows thicken 'neath the blackening skies.
All Nature sleeps - and, sleeping, knows no dread
That while inert, insensible, it lies,
The Sun himself must sleep, and Earth, abandoned, [dies.

UPON HEARING A RECORDING OF GALLI-CURCI

"Awake and sing, O ye that dwell in dust, . . .
and the earth shall cast out the dead."

Whence comes this silken thread of silver song?
Not from this disk, so worn and cracked with years!
It draws me from the world where I belong
To sighs, to dreams, to ecstasy, to tears.

First fragile, gentle, timid, then it wells
In waves of soaring sound enveloping;
It prances, dances; tiny tinkling bells
Awake me to the shades and scents of spring.

It scintillates, as if 'twere strung with gems;
It melts, and flows in shimmering cascades;
A fragrant breeze stirs blossoms on their stems;
It scales the skies; and then, alas, it fades.

Her name is gone from handbills and marquees,
And earthly stage no longer feels her tread;
No crowd applauds her haunting melodies;
Her graceful presence from our halls is fled.

But when I hear that precious disk again,
I do not hear an agèd gramophone;
I hear a distant echo of the strain
She's singing now, 'fore God's celestial throne.

TO ARTHUR MACHEN
(with apologies to Frank Belknap Long)

". . . I have always believed that wonder is of the soul."

For most of us, this world is drab and gray;
Amid the bustle of the dismal street,
The scurrying of scores of busy feet,
We rush about our business, day to day.

For most of us, this life is bare and bleak;
The city's smoke obscures the azure skies,
And keeps the very sunlight from our eyes -
We know not e'en what more there is to seek!

But 'neath each humble surface, Beauty waits,
And Wonder hides just out of common sight -
A Faery city hides beyond the gates,
A garden lush, suffused with jeweled light.

Oh, how few are so blessèd as to know
That hidden splendor, and that secret glow!


A TRIBUTE
(Upon reading an obituary of John Dickson Carr)

In a little office overlooking the Embankment
Four flights up
(them parsimonious hyenas never did install a lift)
The phone rings.
"Sir Henry!"
"What is it, Lollipop, can't you see I'm busy
Cogitatin'?"
"This sounds urgent."
"Oh, all right! Nobody appreciates the old man anymore.
Hullo - whaddya say?
Who?
John Dickson Carr?
Sure I know 'im. Writin' chap.
Not half bad.
Great one for a corker of a mystery -
Even stump the old man.
Lummy, this is an awful shock, son -
Ain't there no justice in this world?
Well, suppose I ought to call that crawlin' snake Masters -
They were old friends."

In a little house on Adelphi Terrace
In the cozy company
Of books and beer
(plenty of each)
Sits an enormously stout gentleman
Squinting cross-eyed through spectacles
On a broad black ribbon
At a telegram.
Used to chuckling
He doesn't chuckle now.
"O Lord, O Bacchus,
Archons of Athens!
Not John Dickson Carr!
No one could touch him for a mystery
Not only with a puzzle
But a dash of spice and humor
A love of history and antique lore.
I dedicated my monumental work
On the Drinking Customs of England
To him.
This is one old duffer
Whose remaining days
Will be sadder."

"Service de Sureté?
I wish to speak with the Juge d'Instruction,
M. Henri Bencolin."
"Do you not know,
M. Bencolin, he has retired
To his country house outside Paris."
"Oui, this is Bencolin.
You do not find me much changed?
The hair a little grayer,
The dress less formal, perhaps.
Yes, I relax in my retirement -
I lounge in the sun
And read the improving books.
Even now I immerse myself
In a mystery of the most baffling -
By John Dickson Carr."

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