November 2018
Michael Gessner
mjcg3@aol.com
mjcg3@aol.com
I live in Tucson with my wife Jane, a watercolorist. Our son Chris writes for screen in L.A. My more recent work has appeared in Ekphrastic Review, Juniper, (Toronto,) New Oxford Review, North American Review, Verse Daily,Innisfree Poetry Journal, and others. My most recent collections are Transversales (BlazeVOX, 2013,) Selected Poems (FutureCycle, 2016,) from which The Poetry Foundation selected several for its online archives. I enjoy writing articles and reviews and these may be found in Jacket2, The Edgar Allan Poe Review, NAR, The Kenyon Review, C. V. Mosby, Times-Mirror, and Allyn & Bacon Composition Series.
MOROCCAN DOOR
I was attracted to you on the street
like so many other things I pass by
I could not help but stop and stare
at those curlicues in your wood, weathered
and gray that once may have been painted blue,
then you called me to ascend those stone stairs
like altar steps to visit the altar that was you,
to face a life-sized confessional screen,
to touch your rough surface warily,
and when I took your iron ring in hand
from the street I heard some passerby
shout up, ‘It’s been locked for years,’ shook his head
and walked away. I stepped closer and could hear
whispers in your wood as from some ancient
Moroccan priest; ‘There is nothing for you here.
If you entered you would know the sordid contents
in my care, and that would be all I would ever be,
better to leave me in secrecy, to remain more
than you can know, then you might return
as you would to eternal mystery.
MOROCCAN DOOR
I was attracted to you on the street
like so many other things I pass by
I could not help but stop and stare
at those curlicues in your wood, weathered
and gray that once may have been painted blue,
then you called me to ascend those stone stairs
like altar steps to visit the altar that was you,
to face a life-sized confessional screen,
to touch your rough surface warily,
and when I took your iron ring in hand
from the street I heard some passerby
shout up, ‘It’s been locked for years,’ shook his head
and walked away. I stepped closer and could hear
whispers in your wood as from some ancient
Moroccan priest; ‘There is nothing for you here.
If you entered you would know the sordid contents
in my care, and that would be all I would ever be,
better to leave me in secrecy, to remain more
than you can know, then you might return
as you would to eternal mystery.
© 2018 Michael Gessner
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF