William F Dougherty Poems

The earwig perished on a page,
a scholar's life impressed, abridged;
thumb-notches deep in Webster's work
the curious mite inscribed his mark.
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Why do these odes make such a dainty choice,
'Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird, '
of metaphors in measure? The human voice
favors—so to sing—feathers made-to-word
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(For Wallace Stevens)

The scholars stalking first ideas ransack
his park for origins; they frisk each bush
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The unction cools; the saving taper glows,
Dripping strands of sacramental brede.
The priest, his missal splayed like wings, bestows
The rite. The sliding bedside curtains cede
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A screen door claps shut—
bouncing under a porch light
chalky moths yo-yo.
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The ivy's white cedillas scale Harvard's
bricks as summer students slouch on green-
swards trim as billiard cloths, riffling pages
veined with enigmas, tyros roused to master
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Her confidantes endorsed her trim divorce,
clumped like raisins in the courtroom's calm,
noting how quickly a decree can disperse
bridge teams, guest lists, golf dates, a common name.
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Il faut cultiver notre jardin. -Voltaire.

I cultivate my garden plot, though bound
within this toad for safety, I don't protest
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True art, the activist declared, protests
societal wrongs, and militantly attests
a social vision—or remains mere artifice.
'Exactly, ' the painter said, 'protest like this'—
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The evangelical sun exults,
a meadow floats, and tulips blare,
daffodils and cardinals shine
in bronzy air.
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