Marianna Busching > SOME OF MY POETRY >
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SOME OF MY POETRY
AT ST. CECELIA’S WINDOW
In the gray medieval gloom
where summer-shaded stones still
hoard a thousand winters’ chill
stands St. Cecelia’s pillared room,
her leaded portrait cut in white
and amber glass. The frozen strings
stretched on her crystal lute ring
silent melodies of light.
Her fixed and parted lips still send
upwards the mute and glowing chants
heard just by Heaven’s occupants
where ranked and tiered burning choirs
stroke their incandescent lyres
and join her stanzas without end.
M. Busching
WE ARE EATING US UP
Every fish is the shape of a mouth,
every bird has succulent thighs.
Sweet oily fish lies
on beds of dill
and deep gouts of rock blood
yield to the drill
or smoke in black lakes.
Our lungs are beaded
with black specks.
You can see the air
like pale powdered cocoa afloat;
cities groan upward through it.
Stars are drowned in streetlights, remote.
The seas grow quietly vacant,
sidewalks crush the corn.
Which generation will be
the last to be born?
We are eating us up.
M. Busching
