Ale the attendant of Sacred Ibis in the Temple of Isis, by Edwin Longsden Long (1829-1891)‘Cribbed Agency’ and Other Poetry by Frank De Canio The Society June 27, 2016 Beauty, Culture, Poetry 2 Comments Cribbed Agency (After a grating entrée) No matter how I madly strove to make sense of the garlic clove the waitress gave me with my plate, it simply made me more irate. And thus, like a rambunctious child, I called her to me, half beguiled that I could make the gal accede to claims of my frustrated need. But rather than impart polite directives for my addling plight, she seized the garlic with her hand and, seemingly to reprimand me, grated it upon my bread, while I bemoaned what lay ahead. Turning Tables “He’s being co-operative,” she told her boss, like one interrogating me, and not a waitress serving casserole. Perhaps she feared – discerning my esprit- I’d try to breach the wall of the control she exercised with an indulgent charm compatible with her maternal role. Indeed, how fast she managed to disarm my cocksure manner, even as she’d shape my sensibilities till in accord with hers. Nor was I anxious to escape the fantasy of being deemed her ward. I heeded the assessment that she made, and grew excited that I’d made the grade. Co-operation didn’t feel like much of an intimidating exercise concerning someone with that tender touch. For who’s the guy insisting otherwise who spent his childhood at the mother’s breast? Remembrance of dependence still remains, and I had neither will nor way to test resources that she had, or lift my chains. Indeed, the maître d’ attested he would see me soon while I approached the door to leave. And pointing at her, I said she would be the person I’d be looking for; not as a knight to damsels wooed with sword, but as a vassal to his feudal lord. Julie Beleaguering her for the kind remark my fortune cookie said would warm a frost, I dressed myself in shark skin to embark on my constrained desire to accost this waitress. She just purred that I was cute! No patronizing nod to manly pride to make me feel like some stud in pursuit of pleasure she’d indulgently provide. She made of me a child of her conceit; a plaything she’d adroitly entertain until she made maternal whims complete. In any case, while I played ardent swain whose courting tactics were somewhat amiss, she smothered me with eiderdowns of bliss. Love Forlorn How well the seeds of passion taking root from smatterings of chatter in the brain, had generated hopes of future fruit. Propitious memories would serve as rain to whet the appetite to meet again for five more weeks. But hence, you weren’t there in your seductive efflorescence when I’d hoped to pluck the rosebuds from your hair. Instead the prickly waiters seen were male who, demonstrating artfully they care, seemed more evocative of rankling hail than harvest stimulating husbandry. Nor was I just content to watch them breed in spite of me, but stomached them like weed that strangled my love’s garden of delight. Each kindling sprout became a mockery. And buds of summer blossomed like a blight that singed my strangled sensibility. I huddled in their presence like a fading spray that lingers haplessly upon a branch which, pregnant once as any bud in May, is fated on its withered twig to blanch. I neither had the will nor way to bloom beside the dried up season of my dreams. I just craved room to morbidly exhume the reasons for my lover’s seeming schemes. My labored steps now trod with rank dismay, and stomped to dust each rosebud in my way. Lost Quatrain I’m inconsolable in my remorse. What matter that I wrote those lines again by tapping into my creative source? What’s lost is lost. Though pregnant womb or pen engendered it, its absence sears the brain with phantom presences whose flesh and bone remind us they’re the progeny of pain. Resurgent labor spawned a twin or clone. But rather than replace the child that’s lost, the other only brings into relief emotional investments and the cost conceiving it, intensifying grief. Thus, losing what my muses helped create I wallow in implacable self-hate. Frank De Canio was born and bred in New Jersey, and works in New York. Related Post Essay: Put Down That Poem Before You Kill Yourself By Con Chapman Boston may no longer be the Hub of the Universe, but its Standard Metropolitan Statistical Area remains the undisputed capital of Am... Tell the world:FacebookTwitterTumblrPinterestRedditLinkedInEmail 2 Responses John Toivonen July 6, 2016 The rhyme scheme works well in “Cribbed Agency”. While we think of poetry as dealing with grand issues, an everyday experience such as eating food in a restaurant can serve as an the subject of poetry. Also, your poem is humorous. Reply Frank De Canio February 4, 2017 Thanks a lot, John for your comment. Most of my poems come out of encounters with well, women! LOL! Reply Leave a Reply Cancel Reply Your email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email.