Troy Casa, poet

After the Interview

She knew I was lying

not about the who

              or the where

but the lack of what and whys

could have dotted a line

                to

Oshkosh

I tried not to,

I told her

what I could recall

about my upbringing,

how my gypsy mother

was the creative yin

that fueled my early fascinations

and how father’s dyspeptic

stupors, firm handshake

and handsome cheeks

gets me the girls

               

                and lots of trouble

Within eight minutes

she had had enough of me;

confident that I was a good fit:

of sound mind and body.

We closed with pleasantries

about the snow

                or lack there of,

briefly, I thought we were headed

off into the ozone together

as she seemed all too intrigued

about the poems.

But she was a great actress.

And I had played my part

like a schoolboy.

What she really needed to know

is that I was lying

when I said everything “American”

got me jazzed in the morning,

that work is a game of charades.

And that I will play along,

just long enough.

What’s Troubling About War

Maybe it’s the pain we take from others

and invariably transpose through some weird

alchemy into new guilts and passions. 

I know I do it often when I’m watching

veterans speak of their dead buddies

buried on

Iwo Jima

            like Jimmy from

Tulsa

, barely nineteen

            killed charging an enemy ghost 

            or Frankie from a good Italian family in

Toledo

            speaking of his kids

            who took one in the mouth.

Through me rushes an ambivalent impulse

eyes welled, the hair on my arms

momentarily replete with some strange Nationalism

as when I witness any honorable salute—

but it’s fleeting

compared to the truth

I know about War

    

that every man is drafted into reconciling

the ends of the body vs. the ends of the soul

by circumstances of his birth

whether Orient or Occident 

and yet no matter how or what its source,

the heart rarely rejects this pain of others.

Misinterpretations of Else Laske-Schuler

On Mein Bleus Klavier,

translators do not agree:

I’d say

rotten outranks savage to chronicle hate

yet, they find applause

with one                         for many angels

and for gone,                         

             gone              is just parents dead

and that empty room

whether dark                     or shadowed,

silent             

                        is simply what she meant.

O’ none have so botched the Ode to Joy,

stems jostled up and down--

the world would not stand for it.

And those five notes bruised on her lips,

awaken us.

Translation of Greek Papyrii

Fragment Number 1

Hero, your name honored here

(                         ) and bronzed.

In her mouth, breathe [

                               a  lover      ]

We have not heard the last of him.

Panic                           War

the paeans to Orpheus he sang

of winds belated          kisses

the seas that carried great men

[             ] forever [                      ]

to their graves.

We have not heard the last of him

(or them). Forgive [                    ]

things promised and held

to the breast [                              

                                         ] for toil.

Sixty odd years

(I heard, have seen)

men watching each other

with the indifference of animals.

We begin

                our justice (       )study            

[                                                                                   ]

tannins in his mouth.

Life, sweetCyes, he bled (bleeds)

on ever [                         ] white

with purity and grace (                 )

like a father--------and died thus (or so).

    

Midwestern Still Life

She told us it was like a big red barn

burning on a Kansas plain.

Then, her wink

confirmed otherwise;

no one really felt that,

at least no one here getting around

to round seven.

But thinking back—

peeling her a layer at a time,

strip mining for proof,

was why we stayed.

Well, I asked

what else is it like?

Jimmy & I waited.

Slurring on about the keep’s blue cravat.

Then, the bell rang.

I guess

it’s synonymous with all general fears

about death, she said

except

                                 I know my bullet.

Years later,

Jimmy told me she was just lonely.

Thinking back,

she did mention Amsterdam

& left an orange slice

deftly propped against my glass.

Sappho Spoke for the Heartbroken

We build distances,

winding footpaths,

intricate byways

for our mind’s secret furloughs.

I suppose

it’s here that we cleave

those once loved,

dance around and

misplace their images;

oddly litter the world

with our misshapen fruit.

When we find a byway back

through the gulf waters

of Kalloni, I realize that

Sappho has aptly Koined

all this bleeding for us,

mamed herself

like an iunx tied to a wheel,

and to the Gods

offered our longings.