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    Entanglements
    Entanglements
    Entanglements
    Ebook121 pages41 minutes

    Entanglements

    By Tony Magistrale

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    About this ebook

    Entanglements is Tony Magistrale's third collection of poetry. The book contains poetry written in both Europe and the United States. Many of the poems reflect a certain awareness of Vermont as seasonal place and essence. Additionally, some of the poems bear black and white illustrations created by Michael Strauss, well-known Vermont landscape painter.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherFomite
    Release dateMar 23, 2020
    Entanglements

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      Book preview

      Entanglements - Tony Magistrale

      Part 1

      Letters to America

      My Visit to the Alliance Church of Christian Rock

      My wife cajoled me into attending last Sunday

      with the promise of blueberry pancakes and crispy bacon

      afterwards. We entered from the back

      into a wave of amplified sound—guitars, synthesizer

      and heavy drums—some middle-aged blonde

      leading the congregation in delirious rhythms.

      Although sexy enough in her tight black leather pants,

      I couldn’t help but think

      this rocker chick fantasy had gone horribly askew.

      For this was no Joan Jett homage,

      no stoned head banger preaching the profane gospel

      of sex and sordid temptation. Jesus had enfolded

      His name seamlessly into every lyric, purifying each verse

      like it had passed through a celestial censor,

      providing all the white women up front divine uplift

      as they grooved to the band’s electrified ethereal riffs,

      right hands raised in unanimous testimony towards heaven.

      I recognized the Pentecostal salute

      Aunt Becky’s mother used to summon

      whenever she beseeched the Lord to smite her many enemies.

      In the end, they couldn’t convert me with their

      Christ is one Cool Dude karaoke;

      I’m too old to buy into God going this soft.

      And I can still spot a well-rehearsed rapture when I see it,

      those dreamy eyeballs-rolled-back-into-the-head faces

      swaying to the music next to me

      may be high on sugar instead of wine,

      but they’re still hawking the way to salvation

      the nuns tried to impart years ago

      with their raised rulers

      and a Baltimore Catechism’s cant.

      Night on Bread Loaf Mountain

      So many stars on view tonight from Bread Loaf mountain.

      They make me wonder if it is as quiet

      up there

      as it is down here

      beneath those thousand ganglia clusters of light.

      I know we should all be troubled

      by this implication—

      after all, if God resides in a quieter place

      than the dark line of woods that rim

      the horizon

      or the invisible creek barely audible

      meandering off into the open meadow,

      what might that imply?

      The best of the beautiful in this world,

      the kind that is impossible to ignore,

      is always served up in

      distant silence:

      think back to that woman

      who never became your wife,

      who never even suspected how often

      you thought about her.

      Moving Daze

      I catch myself at the edge of a foreboding

      a sudden nervousness,

      like the unease others might feel

      when they encounter a cop,

      every time I see a moving van

      idling in my neighborhood, or grinding its way lethargically

      down the street. Residue anxiety

      would be my guess

      from my own history of unsettling self-rupturings

      in a country where no one

      stays in one place very long.

      Cavernous metal boxes on wheels,

      their massive doors swung open

      to reveal the guts of lives being displaced

      then reassembled elsewhere

      strange miles away,

      like some cosmic jig-saw puzzle,

      belie a future moving day

      when furniture and kitchen utensils

      will not be waiting curbside

      and there won’t be any new neighbors

      to meet.

      A Good Time

      The kid, not more than three or four,

      is having himself a good time

      turning around in his seat, chatting it up

      with the other passengers, charming the crowded bus silly

      so that some of us are talking back to the kid.

      His mother, however, is not having such

      a good time, as she leans into her girlfriend

      and asks, what kind of man walks out

      on his family for

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