Trustees of Boston University

Beyond the CrashAuthor(s): Karl JohnsonSource: Arion, Vol. 20, No. 1 (Spring/Summer 2012), pp. 61-66Published by: Trustees of Boston UniversityStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/arion.20.1.0061 .

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Beyond the Crash

KARL JOHNSON

Surviving

What kid, slender cologne-moistened one, plies you withMultidozens of fresh roses and optimum

Grotto ambience, Pyrrha?Fire-blond girl of the ponytailed,

Streamlined elegance, what boy is your bowknot for?Poor kid! Multiple tearstorms in the boy-forecast.

Dark winds, you less than loyal,Gods’ new moods . . . he will stare seaward.

Must enjoy you now unskeptically: “gold is gold,”You’re “long-term” and will “be there” for him, “lovable!”

Offshore winds are a factor,Freakish squalls—he will learn, not yet.

Untried surface, you so glisten for aching boys!My prayer, flotsam on one wall at a shrine, my plank:

“Thou art mighty! Here I haveHung wet garments, thou God of Seas.”

—Horace, Odes 1.5

arion 20.1 spring/summer 2012

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The Shoreline Equations

You that once measured the sea and the land and could calculate sand-grains’Inexpressible number, Archytas—

Scanty the tribute paid you, a measure of soil to compress youNow on the Matine Coast. Little profit,

Much as your mind may have roamed ethereal habitats, heaven’sCircumpolar rotunda—must perish!

Man who’d dined at the gods’ own banquets, Tantalus, he died . . .Dawn’s up-wafted lover, Tithonus . . .

Minos, though he had access to Jove’s own secrets. . . . Euphorbus,Hades received him a second time, round trip?

Spotting his shield on a wall, Pythagoras claimed to have been him,Witnessed Troy and the War in that Era,

Died, consigned to the darkness merely the outward and flesh-self.Physicist cum philosopher, he was

Not untrustworthy, you thought. Well. The same nightfall awaits us,All of us, one-way road for all heel-prints.

Whether it be war-games put on by the Furies to please Mars’Sadism . . . outbound sailors for Ocean’s

Appetite . . . old folks’, young folks’ funerals crowded together—Feral Persephone never refuses

Heads, human heads!I sank as Orion was setting, his partner

South Wind whipped the Illyrian whitecaps.Over my bones and this skull not buried yet—mariner, merchant,

You! don’t meanly neglect to at least pourTransient sand-grains. Then, if the East Wind chases the waves west,

Thrashes Venusia’s woods—may you thrive, safe!Then may the sea lanes flow your direction with bountiful commerce,

By their will who can grant it—Jove willing,Neptune willing, the lord protective of sacred Tarentum.

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You wouldn’t count an offence to be “minor,”Would you, that might recoil on your own offspring or descendants,

None of their fault? Retribution: imagineYou being looked down at, me not left cursing and futile,

You with no rites, votive acts to absolve you. . . .You’re in a hurry, but pause here, pay your respects for a moment.

Cast three handfuls of dust—you may sail, then.

—Horace, Odes 1.28

Karl Johnson 63

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Mistake

Have I Not Told You This?

Wine goblets come forth into this world for joy,Not this abuse, this rampage. It’s Balkan, it’s

Barbaric, please stop! Tender Bacchus—Don’t expose Him to your damn bloodletting!

Lamplight and wine . . . How grossly discordant toFight, “daggers drawn,” as if in the Middle East.

Ungodly roar, frat boys! Do lean back,Decompress all but your lounging elbows.

This tannic jolt, Falerno del Massico—Want me to drink my share? Let our kid-in-love

Tell us the cause. Megylla’s brother,Why is he blissful, what wound, whose arrow?

Nerve failure? What’s her name? I will not drink upTill you divulge that name—it’s my price. I’m sure:

Young goddess who tames you deserves you.Blushworthy choices in love don’t scorch you,

You’ll fall the right way, always. What wound this time?Entrust to my own trustworthy ears the name. . . .

Her?! Ay caramba! She’s Charybdis!Boy, you deserve a clear flame, not drowning.

Who might unwitch you? Wisewoman, magus withNorth-country antivenin, some deity?

You’re clutched by triplex beast Chimaera,Pegasus’ hooves mightn’t kick the coils loose.

—Horace, Odes 1.27

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Mishap

What Can I Say to Her?

Look, what occurred last night—I can understand.You counterpunched, then left with a gentleman.

If I was “upset,” as you put it,Fault isn’t yours, I’m my own tormentor.

That eager hello-grin when I picked you up—Your dinner date might swear it’s his lucky night.

Friends warned me, “Her sex life is just that.Dinner is dinner, try not to blow it.”

When we arrived, our host kept an eye on you.“You’re doing well,” he winked as he filled my glass.

(He fortifies young souls, if watery, Recognized you as a first-rate cognac.)

Lamplight and wine, talk, Mozart quartets on theSound system, ideal fuel for the pre-dinner,

Pre-drunken repartee and flirting.Dinner. You’re right, it’s “sorbet” not “sherbet.”

That drunk who laughed, “She’s . . . whirlpool of . . . toxic waste!”Bad luck for him! bad-mouthing a friend of yours,

You being not drunk but combative.He may not dine there again. You, either.

Greg taking you home, quick—me, unable to—Host taking my car keys—it “upset” me, yes.

Huffed out and walked home. I could make it,Cutting diagonal through the campus.

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Calmed down and slowed down. Late, when I hit your street:Long block, a few bright windows but yours were dark,

Street silent, parked cars, Greg’s with guest tag. Trekking on home I said, “I am sober.”

So here I am, no sleep, thinking what to say.You’ll start, “Had fun! Thanks! Gregory’s considerate,”

Watch closely what way(s) I’m embarrassed,Grin at my mumble of bland confusion.

—after Horace

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