- By Stewart Burke
Silver Salver, Golden Chalice

Things first gazed upon most define our sight.
Rapt eyes are drawn to the sensuous cleft
In a musk melon of one slice bereft,
Betraying an almost carnal delight.
Suchlike, too, the furry, rose-rumped peaches,
Their sunlight concealing bloodstone within,
Honeyed secretions dripping down the chin
As if from a lover’s innermost reaches.
Snug in inset pearl and silver salvers,
To the blithe oysters it’s of small matter
That the ice is cool and lighting flatters,
For they live in the moment, these halvers.
Outermost rims of auricular plates
Sport coronets of grape leaves, both living
And smithed; figs, red and green grapes abounding
Atop Delft bowls, and wood and wicker crates.
Fruits of hot Midsummer, fruits of cold sea,
All exist for mind and eyes’ consumption,
But not the mouth: taste is our presumption,
And leaves us starving for more, constantly.
Around roemers’ stems, blackberries bestrewed,
Twin bowls filled with a vinous fruit’s remains,
Reflecting light from glowing window panes
Through which another, inverse world is viewed.
In vain reproof of gravity’s stern laws,
A lemon’s rind dangles from the precipice,
Unfurled athwart a lobster’s red carapace
And Scylla and Charybdis of its claws.
Is it day or is it night? Both? Neither?
On the timepiece, six-forty’s absolute,
Endless consecration of a minute
Captured in imagination’s ether.
Centering this universe, a chalice
Nautilus-shaped, as golden as its mean,
All mathematical mysteries redeemed
Within the dark chambers of its palace.
Next which a lewd, wreathed figure – Silenus? --
Floats bestride a covered goblet of glass,
Bearing tray aloft, if not borne by ass
Bestride which he followed Dionysus.
Just a sot when sober, yet while drunk, wise,
He thought it best never to be born,
Deeming life and fecundity forlorn
(Despite burghers need to aggrandize).
Resting on a plate precariously
Is a slender paring knife, smooth-handled,
Like an infant upon a knee dandled
Both lovingly and nefariously.
Atop the banquet board, a Persian rug
Draped carelessly but with the utmost care;
A satin cloth also frames the plates there:
All might fall with just one gentle tug.
Beyond the table, a tenter-hooked rail
From which a shroud that dims all light depends,
As if covering casket from end-to-end,
Or a widow’s face beneath a veil.
Initials carved thereon, a post rises
Behind, by artist marked lest he’s forgot
By those who came later and knew him not
Before judgement in Heaven’s assizes.
As a gesture of plenty, goblets will
Be insolently cast into the fire
As the shadows in the great hall expire
And satiety and ennui work their will.
Things last gazed upon least refine our sight.
It’s the vermin unseen that outlive us all,
Climbing on our corpses, chewing through the walls
As we wither, unblinking at the light.
Stewart Burke lives in Arlington, VA. Retired from one of those ABC agencies, beyond writing poetry he enjoys traveling abroad and studying and teaching martial arts with his wonderful daughter. He most delights in reading in translation the classical poetry of the Near East, the Subcontinent, China, and Japan. Burke particularly savors the works in translation of Li Qingzhao, Shmuel ha-Nagid, and Hafiz. William Empson and Theodore Wratislaw are two of his favorite English-language poets.