Subject Matters. Luca Paci


subject matters

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A Postcard from the Volcano. Wallace Stevens


Children picking up our bones
Will never know that these were once
As quick as foxes on the hill;

And that in autumn, when the grapes
Made sharp air sharper by their smell
These had a being, breathing frost;

And least will guess that with our bones
We left much more, left what still is
The look of things, left what we felt

At what we saw. The spring clouds blow
Above the shuttered mansion-house,
Beyond our gate and the windy sky

Cries out a literate despair.
We knew for long the mansion’s look
And what we said of it became

A part of what it is . . . Children,
Still weaving budded aureoles,
Will speak our speech and never know,

Will say of the mansion that it seems
As if he that lived there left behind
A spirit storming in blank walls,

A dirty house in a gutted world,
A tatter of shadows peaked to white,
Smeared with the gold of the opulent sun.

Poem. Arthur Coleman


Sick and tired of sucking blood from hearts as they pound
slowly down to a halt, the vampire retired himself in a tomb
overlaid with miserable images of Christ in agony and weeping
cherubim to lie appalled by the gruesome hallucinations
seen by undead fiends deprived of sustenance: hell
the black hole spreading out in waves, thunderous and colorless,
from an imperturbable center; the shiny luster of the devil’s eye.
Visited by recollections of numberless encounters, methods of
seduction
that led unfailingly to his tongue, now dusty with disuse, lapping
about
in hot sanguine baths as his throat convulsed to the rhythm of the
pulse
of his prey, quickened by the panic that settles in after the violent
thrashing subsides and the vampire glimpses through wide dilated eyes
what all mortals are to be seized by and look on unendingly.