Ron Pretty: Two Poems

Diary of a Bad Year
After J.M. Coetzee

It is, I know, on a night such as this,

as warm and clear as this, as starlit,

that a man as old as this, as creased

and time-beaten as this, teeth worn

from chewing modernity’s iron tits,

begins to imagine sitting here, that

erogenous muse—you remember

the fantasy—all curves and empathy

beside you here on such a night:

how masculine, how patriarchal a dream,

propriety forgiven for fantasy,

that you could sit here together

under the stars, youth and age,

survival and beauty this still night,

such quiet you may not see again

this side of the deeper darkness, but

reconciled in the now and the knowing

she will remember this night, this quiet,

this lovely last transport of peace.

Abbey

whatever the song that sole note

rising into the still air above the choir

and the stone arches pointing upwards

worn by the winds and the envy of kings

the counter tenor glides lark notes

beyond the walls, escaping into the cold air

carried by the breeze of slanted evening

into the setting sun’s domain the eagle’s eyrie

earthbound the listeners are also carried up

the bones buried here and all their lusts

while memory haunting the walls

sinks into earth the slanting sun

under the abbey’s ribs casts its shadow

the headstones on the scarred grass

Ron Pretty