Sonnet

Bab El, the Gate of God, fallen indeed,
The common tongue remembered, speaking of
Ancient forgotten mysteries, our creed.
Words come to their senses, even love.

I turn away from the cremation ground
That burns from summer's end to winter's start,
And walk, perplexed and soulsick all around
The cityscapes in which I lose my heart.

We build again, more humanly this time,
And mindful of the holy ground we tread.
I raise my little towers out of rhyme
Fearful lest something might be left unsaid.

For death, that took these quick, still waits for me
And I must earn my freedom to be free.

---

© 2002 FP Purcell

New Jersey Gothic

Westfield -- perhaps Charles Addams still lived here
At least the spooky houses stood intact
Inspiring lovely parodies of fear
Enfleshed in Maila Nurmi's sublime act.

Here I was raised from death to life, they say,
Unimmersed, unchrismated, thirst unappeased,
Wrapped up and taken home the shortest way
To clockwork mothering, like one diseased.

One day I wandered into traffic, when
My mother and the clock were sleeping sound,
Untonsured peregrinus even then,
Perpetually lost even when found.

Morticia, Gomez, Pugsley bless the path
Of one who cannot choose well but to laugh.

---

© 2002 FP Purcell

Martin S. Dworkin

American Poet

Portrait by Joseph Solman

In his lifetime Martin Dworkin was best known as a film critic and teacher. His poetry, which has great merit and deserves to be remembered, is being reprinted, as the editor kindly informed me in a letter I would like to share with you:

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Links to seven of Dworkin's poems can be found in this listing of his Works, which also has a link to the page on his life.

Martin was a deeply unhappy man, who lived as decently as he knew how. I offered prosphora in his name Sunday morning. Memory eternal...