How to Get On in Society, Cartography of Absences, The Wolf Within & Les Sylphides

By John H.B. Martin

How to Get On in Society 

I 

When nature blushes, in the Spring, because  
the scent of blossom's at its sexiest then,  
that's when I feel the least ashamed, and yet  
the most ashamed at Nature's complex wrong  

since blushing does become the human face 
much more than make-up, say—or lies—or anger— 
so Nature's face and childhood's face are one,  
with innocence the universal theme 

(Though I feel much less innocent than either).  
So, on that far horizon, when the sea  
just bites into those barren hills, and skylarks 
leap high into the skies, like fountains of  

pure song, I see a way out from my present  
impasse … But not a place where I belong.  

II 

As Nature sometimes blushes, so she blanches 
at other times, when black looks leave her bare 
of everything—apart from innocence.  

It is that innocence we celebrate  
not only here but everywhere we prosper,  
once we luxuriate in licensed lushness.  

(Which isn't quite the same thing—is it, dear?— 
as luscious licence! Like those 'gods' of Sodom 
or like those fruits upon that golden bough 
the Dead Sea brought forth in lust's aftermath). 

Les Sylphides 

From a Photograph

Flesh longed, at last, to be so impregnated 
and so inseminated, like a flower 
is pollinated by the breeze … (Or bees).
So, too, the heart called out for deeper comfort 
and then man's soul called out for something more 
after the body had been violated 
and then the mind left easy on that score. 
We are all flowers the sunlight cherishes, 
our styles made sensitive to every stigma 
along the towpath, and beneath the trees. 
Beside the willows, and upon the shore, 
we gasp for shade and animal fulfillment 
in every way, on every outraged floor, 
yet never shall we know such perfect ease.

All poems featured in New Lyre - Winter 2021

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Cartography of Absences 

portrait of a connoisseur  

I 

Flagrantly fragrant, my astonished rose,  
in your astonished pose, beside that tree  
—that apple tree - dressed in its wintry prose 

before it blossoms into poetry …  
At your express request, it seems, almost,  
except it holds its apples out to me.