April 2024
Robert Wexelblatt
robertwexelblatt@gmail.com
robertwexelblatt@gmail.com
Bio Note: I live near Boston and, if things go well, will go on teaching at Boston University.
Author's Note: Death and Taxes is the theme. In the midst of life we are in death, says Isaiah in the Old Testament, and John reminds us of it in the New. It’s like thinking of November in April. Thus, the first poem. The second poem, a generational one, concerns the thing that does the best at raising the rate of both death and taxes.
Author's Note: Death and Taxes is the theme. In the midst of life we are in death, says Isaiah in the Old Testament, and John reminds us of it in the New. It’s like thinking of November in April. Thus, the first poem. The second poem, a generational one, concerns the thing that does the best at raising the rate of both death and taxes.
Memento Mori
To beseeching Lycaon Achilles said
that one morning, noon, or night he’d be dead,
even he, the most invincible of men,
though he couldn’t say precisely how or when.
Prometheus must have believed in progress.
He gave us fire—medicine, metallurgy,
ships and shampoo—yet he left us to guess
the date of our deaths, bestowing blind hope,
his last gift, condition of using the rest,
the boon of ignorance that helps us cope.
Progress? Sure, but not for him, not for those
chained to the knowledge that they’re food for crows.
There’s a majesty in the dying year,
a poignant sepia-saturated
acceptance, a dignity beyond fear.
Ever wonder while watching the last brown
leaves leaving black branches, spiraling down,
or wake to frost and think of all that’s past—
whether next November will be the last?
An earlier version of this poem appeared in Young Ravens Literary Review
War Games of 1955
The toys we liked the best were guns,
our favorite movies were about
the War—our fathers’, not the ones
about which there was any doubt.
German grenadiers and Japanese
marines crumpled before our lines.
We took steady aim on our knees
beneath Saipan palms and Argonne pines.
We all had army surplus gear,
Sundays watched Victory at Sea.
On December 7 of each year
our teachers intoned solemnly.
We joined the Cub Scouts just to wear
the uniform. But here’s the truth:
zealotry made us unaware
we could have passed for Hitler Youth.
Ten years on, a different story,
fetid jungles, mines that maimed.
A few joined up, keen for glory.
The deferred? Grateful and ashamed.
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