Three Poems
Ethan McGuire
Saint Monica
The mother, looking down, adores the babe
Still cradled in her firm and gentle arms.
The baby peers up at his mother, reaching
His tiny fingers to her cheeks, all rosy
From doing dishes, laundry, sacrifice.
The mother rocks her babe and gently sings
Songs from the past, rewritten—born again—
Songs from beneath her heart—beneath her fears.
The baby squints and opens wide brown eyes;
He laughs and cries to hear his mother’s voice.
A pretty face, sweet lips, a charming voice:
Now these things treat the baby’s senses first,
And though his mother will teach him the truth—
The truth of life and life beyond this life—
Here beauty builds truth’s way inside his mind.
- - -
Seven Temple Bells
After Bashō
I
The chill of dawn’s first light—
The tones of temple bells swirl, spiral, lost
Amidst the morning fog.
II
Cherry blossom clouds—
Does that bell toll from Ueno’s orchards or
Asakusa’s shrines?
III
Below the ancient temple,
Among the blooming peach trees’ white-pink flowers:
A farmer and his rice sprouts.
IV
On Kannon’s tera roof tiles—
Kind god!—I gaze upon a wandering cloud
Of dying cherry blossoms.
V
The temple bells have stopped. . .
Upon the breeze: sweet chimes keep coming still
From flowers . . . —Evening falls.
VI
On Sumadera’s hill,
In shadows, flutes play (quiet, faint) below
A canopy of trees.
VII
Whiter than the rocks
Of Ishiyamadera’s mountainside:
The first of Autumn’s winds.
- - -
Technostitious
I am a superstitious man, no doubt.
If I so much as see remotes on top
Of Dickinson, I throw them to the floor.
When I pull clothes out from the washer, I
Carefully toss them up across the TV,
Carelessly, just to spite the horrid thing.
When phones eavesdrop on my discussions, I
Recite good poems to them, and I say
Cruel things about computers and AI.
I do just what I can; I do my part.
I tell those technocrats their time is up!
- - -
Ethan’s notes: “These three blank verse poems have been inspired by three powerful things in my life: One, my
mother, as well as my wife; two, church bells; and, three, my very own wretched vanity.”
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Ethan McGuire is a writer and computer scientist whose essays, poems, short stories, and translations have appeared in Blue Unicorn, The Dispatch, Emerald Coast Review, New Verse
News, VoegelinView, and other publications. He is an editor at Tar River Poetry, Literary Matters, and New Verse Review and the author of Songs for Christmas (Harmonia Mundi) and Apocalypse Dance (Wipf & Stock). Ethan lives with his wife and children in Fort Wayne, Indiana.
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