Malcolm Miller Poems

From Salem Links and Lore
Revision as of 13:24, 5 March 2020 by Jstrom (talk | contribs)

Malcolm Miller was a Salem poet. His main entry is Miller, Malcolm H.

Thanks to Rod Kessler, English professor Emeritus from Salem State we have some of his

Salem-Centric poems shown below.

Malcolm Miller’s Salem Poems –an incomplete compilation [13 February 2016]

Standing on the Salem-Beverly bridge gazing seawards at four in the morning March 1990

to the right the final

part of Salem shines

with spaced lights curving

towards the end

of our power


to the left Beverly

like a finger lit

by many gold

rings points

towards some union


out beyond

our marriages

out where only dark

bigger than all our lights

seem to call


I am going

I am going

will I see

will I see

you there?

[INTO THE HIGHER AIR, 1992, 72 pages, p.8]


Witch Trials Salem Mass. 1692

the trees were stark

to begin with

and the choppy sea

often grey and cold


Indians had strange

ways and eyes

their arrows could travel

a long way and accurately


far off the English king

could not be relied on

rumors spoke of changes

not to their advantage


order is always maintained

by a form of no

the haunches of women even young

shake fire in the thatched-roof cabins


fire is a dangerous element

and a moral god insufficient

there are always reasons to kill

many wished for more than twenty

[INTO THE HIGHER AIR, 1992, 72 pages, p.33]


A clean Well Lighted Place In Winter

it’s 3 in the morning

the fatal lapsed hour

I am the sole

customer here

in this Dunkin Donut on

the coast of Massachusetts


the coffee is all right

the donut not bad

the music being offered

only fair

and behind the counter

the young woman

who quit high school

out of boredom

is yawning


a mute kind

of weary-eyed goddess


but a goddess none the less

in this god

blessedly open place

or don’t you know

don’t you know yet

about closed up towns

in cold dark times

[FURTHER AND FURTHER POEMS (1992), 72 pages, p.65]


ZONE 3

I used to buy a ticket

from Boston that said

to Salem Mass

now it says

to Zone 3


I used to have moments

of joy now I have

no problems


I used to be free and easy

now I am acceptable

and do the right

thing for

the situation


I used to be loyal

to something I could not

define now I am

a good citizen

[FURTHER AND FURTHER POEMS (1992), 72 pages, p.16]


State College Canteen

on his last day of work the guy

by some quirk of inspiration

profit or satire

loaded the huge soft

drink machines with beer

the price was right and the day

spring-like

never have students learned more

about religion

Dionysius was dancing in the halls

and singing in the corridors


never did the philosophy professor

a master of logical positivism

seem more absurd

his much praised sobriety was found

to be a sort

of living death and all the English

instructors by afternoon were being

booed from the building

for not knowing how to teach

young people how to return

to the sun

[POEMS THAT NEED YOU (1993) p.41]


there is a sign in a bar in my

home town that is like modern life

do not hesitate to ask for credit

it says

our way of saying no is very polite

[Unsatisfactory Fragments of Lukewarm Fire, (Jan. 2004) p. 57]


College Girl in Massachusetts

in the winter dawn a girl bound

for history class sure

footed and neat with

the grace of morning

her face almost fresh as

recent snow the night’s

full twinkling moon over

Salem harbor


college girl bearing your proud

unchallenged face towards

the necessary war of all

the living I go

with you

I go with you clear-eyed sprite

your earnest brow of morning


even over here I feel

your unique breathing

the privateness of your being

descended from trees and birds

and from darkness kind

to all its stars


I go with you lovely scholar

and may you find on

your way however

buried the gold

of unteachable joy

[The Taste of Inexplicable Nothingness, 1994]


HAWTHORNE

Nathaniel Hawthorne you never went

to a brothel

drank but not to excess

were not athletic and agile but sat

your large domed skull hid

subtle and at times sinister thoughts


you married one of Salem’s Peabody sisters

and never committed adultery

at dusk in Salem after Bowdoin

you went walking in dark heavy clothing

your face impossible to read

and children were fearful


your sunless body did not discover god

what pleased you you enjoyed but life

was at bottom a sort of wretched thing

lightened by family and comfort

Melville your temporary friend by far

was a holier more extraordinary spirit


his work outlives yours but still

the best hotel in Salem is the Hotel Hawthorne

in it one can eat the Scarlet Letter lunch

the menu boasts sinfully unpuritan desserts

a huge statue of you looms on Hawthorne Boulevard

nobody around here notices it much


midwestern schoolteachers snap your photo

busloads of them file through the streets

the House of Seven Gables is a must

making the city a lot of do re mi

talent you had and intelligence to spare

what was lacking was lacking almost fatally

[THE TASTE OF INEXPLICABLE NOURISHMENT ( 1994), p.10]


good night Irene

I have a cousin

Irene

she often stands downtown with

a severe condemnatory look

as if the world

has disappointed her


she doesn’t know who

Walt Whitman is

if she did

he could be in

for a real good

talking to


Jesus Suspended In Stone From the St Joseph Church Salem Mass

Son of a distant desert people

what are you doing up there

hanging like some penance

or warning of what can happen

if you speak well and directly

and don’t flatter the top dogs


your body hangs huge

as a statue from Easter Island

a continual embarrassment if noticed

a terrible mistake like Stalin

in Red Square kept alive

by technological skills

and a lot of money


you seem hooked up to a sort

of pillory by puritans or sadists

what did you do anyway

and how weary you must be all

these centuries hanging there

gaped at by foreigners who

can’t really tell why

they keep you on view

as they go about earning more TV

channels and winter trips to Florida


you’re more or less like a prisoner

captured in a war who just got

lost in the shuffle and never

made it back

to your own people

[THE TASTE OF INEXPLICABLE NOURISHMENT (1994), p.33]


at the campus of one of the lesser

state colleges in Massachusetts


a disgusting perhaps degenerate

professor is eyeing the tan

new bodies of poor

quality students


most hardly made it out

of high school and many so

unscholarly will fail in

a year departing on these long fitness


crazed legs he ogles and wants

wrapped around him

a disgusting professor is eyeing

some of the greatest bodies in


history that will not be able

to cope with Shakespeare or calculus

Kierkegaard and even Picasso

might seems European rock bands to them


the disgusting degenerate prof

is eyeing them

hips sinuous with strength and

beauty the gods would rock with


may they live forever the poor

quality students with miserable

IQ’s and long shining rich

hair in the wind their skins of


magical entrancement and their

fine shaped skulls that do not

bother with history or ethics

or expository prose

the disgusting professor is eyeing

them day after day

he is paid 34,000 per annum and

worth every penny

[THE TASTE OF INEXPLICABLE NOURISHMENT (1994), p.56]


BEFORE SUNRISE DUCKS SALEM HARBOR WINTER

part of black

water and still

darkness in air


the eerie normal

cluck as you pass


they hug shore

vague neat clumps

sealed in

who they are

yes but who

are they

[THE RIVER OF MUDDIED WATER BEARS GOLD (1994), p.36]


SALEM HARBOR

the great sailing

vessels that used to reek

of mid

ocean brine and china

spices and teas

strong black pepper born

in Java split mahogany

trees to adorn

and enrich Massachusetts

who remembers them now but

museums full of

paid customers


some tame pets of pleasure

cruisers litter

the harbor flushing their god

damned toilets casting

garbage ashore cruddy

with bacteria


too many mediocre

spirits have hung about

these streets too

many generations for

anything but humdrum

to happen


a handful of intelligent

people are going about

their business suspected

of whatever crime is

in the air

[THE RIVER OF MUDDIED WATER BEARS GOLD (1994), p.51]


TOURISTS

what have they come to see

so many hundreds of miles slowly

across droning repetitious highways

and inching traffic jams

steering evenly up to gasoline pumps

children smashing each other

with kleenex boxes in the back seat


and to end up dressed undistinguishedly

in some inferior hotel with water

that barely goes down the basin

finding a twisted cigarette

butt and a condom in the drawer

later to trudge after a row of arrows

to gawk at a museum where cruel

people once killed harmless women


and the kids proudly wearing t

shirts with the city’s name

rooked for too much money by smiling faces

the universal ice cream cones

jammed towards their mouths in exotic flavors


evenings wondering what to do next

missing home and the reassurance of custom

a kind of ordeal has them in its grip

days to go and almost every hour

money ebbs out of them like blood

from a wound

and the newness of the never seen

shining at times like something dreamed once

they don’t always like

to wonder about again

having come so far to find

what is not really here anymore

or perhaps anywhere

[THE GOOD RAIN OF CANADA 1994, 72 pages p.46


SANDLOT BASEBALL

nobody had any money to speak

of and nobody had any jobs

nobody had any heartache or cancer

nobody ever saw such good baseball


nobody knew what time the game began

god was the umpire god the rain

that stopped it and god

the dust of the basepaths


non-artificial reality grass green

as if the sea overflowed and firm

with the right stuff of earth

white ball white ball you are but a dream


we played with a ball taped

black as tar and sticky and not

altogether proper and round

even Babe Ruth could not hit a home run


but the Boston Red Sox did not hear

more angels than we in the darkening sky

the ball lost in twilight still

joyous we did not dream the white ball dream

[THE GOOD RAIN OF CANADA (1994), p.23]

my mother has to go to the rehab hospital

I come to her old place

to pick up a few things

mail and the like and out

the window see

in the park under

the low hanging shade

trees a woman sitting

in a chair right where mother

used to sit


from this angle and distance it almost

is mother

but she will never sit under

the summer trees again

she is lying in the red

brick rehabilitation hospital

like a doll in its crib


she will never sit under

the summer trees again and the only

hope now is she

doesn’t know it

[The Good Rain of Canada (1994) p.35]

I evolve in silence

on a cold sunlit Thursday having

paid my rent in a hotel

named after a revolutionary hero

I go to bed at noon

in my large

white 2 windowed high

ceilinged room as the radio predicts

accurately winds of 60 miles an hour and more


already the great panes are shaking

the white curtains fill with sun

from millions of miles away

gold splashes on the white walls

I lie in bed on pillows

mute and deathless with attention

the panes of glass shake and boom

like opera singers

outside the wind gusts take

over the town and I stare


at the all blue sky filled to capacity

with bright romping air

nobody in the world is very far away

I evolve in silence

why we are here

always like this with no newspapers

with no thought of food and friends

with no loneliness for

a woman this would not interest

[I Who Am True To You (March 1996), p. 57; MM lived in the Lafayette Hotel]


I Find Myself

I find myself wondering what

became of a dog I used to

see in the early morning inspecting

the neighborhood by the tidal inlet


you know where the tide comes in

over the mudflats and the bulrushes

stir even in seeming no wind

have you seen the dog mostly


brown with long ears

what is he doing these days

what about the small hill he would sit

upon as if surveying his kingdom


if you see the dog or hear

about him would you let me know

he has a white spot on his chest

and goes along with a lope sometimes

[I Who Am True To You, March 1996), p. 66]


THE GUEST

with nowhere to live I camp

out in libraries

books in huge even rows

are strangely silently tolerant


none of the great Russian novelists

care if I hobo by them

only a few English writers would

advise me to clean up my act

and I won’t

mention their names what for?


For a few days now I have been

the guest of the poets

in a state college library

I arrive at early morning opening

trying to look scholarly

I stay until midnight closing hoping no

one officiously eyeing me

narrowly states the case

“you aren’t a student here are you…”


for a few days more I will be

a guest of certain great spirits

whose living testimony sings

out in pages of books

books mostly unopened


[poems (1996) p. 56]

My Uncle Jack’s Pub in Salem Mass

when my uncle Jack opened the back

door of his pub I was

admitted to the world

of whisky and dark polished wood

panelled walls upon which Jack

Dempsey and Joe Louis ruled

with a perfection of classic

American mayhem


seated on a stool near men I had

only to call

out for a tall glass of beer

like ginger ale to join the dim

tribal conspiracy against vacuum

cleaners and laundry detergents

dishwashing and the telephone’s

trinket like gossip


here the measure more largely

held in the tilt of a cap

like a wink and the splurge

of coin and crisp

here almost a quiet dignity maintained

the mystery of malt that “does

more than Milton can to justify

god’s way to man”


biting into a free bowl

of pretzels at 12 years old listening

to the deep loom of voices

where schoolteachers and local goody

goodies and their fussy minions were not

apt to venture I called

out for more

Uncle Jack filled my glass again

on the dark wood panelled walls the baleful

watchful stare of Joe

Louis held sway

Jack Dempsey was almost laughing

with animal joy

[I Am Writing This For You (March 1997), pp. 12-13]


CLOSING DOORS

Walt Whitman is shouting from the third floor

stacks for god’s sake do not

bar the door

throw open the windows


but because of 2.4 inches

of snow and a wind of some

miles an hour they are closing

the state college library at noon

the word has just been megaphoned

as at a disaster

as if yes run run

run for your life

put down that book of poems and run

away into the where


Henry David Thoreau is tussling

with one of the librarians for he will

not leave but commit

an act of civil disobedience

Mark Twain is yelping with glee

Robert Frost has one foot

in the door they cannot close


the security police are telephoned to rush

forward to judgement

the library director red-faced

with fear of his car getting stuck

begs the students

of life to desist and leave

he almost offers money

because the snow is falling somewhat

in eastern Massachusetts

and the state college at Salem

has been bewitched

into fear and trembling

[I Am Writing This For You (March 1997), p. 48]


despair of a minor poet

thinking of the great

poets of history I settle

down under a tree by Salem

harbor to write my own

great poem


nothing happens

my pen shipped all

the way from Japan just

dangles there

in museless air

the hand holding it

could be a pen

holder


I gaze at the ocean blue

thanks to the sky

I hear the maritime ancient

cry of countless gulls

thanks to ears composed

it is said of dust


I look far out upon

the waters until there is

nothing and I am also

such a void

I seek the breath

of a god to be filled

that does

not come

[what light is left (Sept. 1997), p. 25]


around that corner

around that corner

on Chestnut Street someone

has flowers annually

in the yard

there are over 80

people on the street

someone without flowers has the flowers

in view from a window


someone on Chestnut

Street has a fireplace

someone has moments at

night that would surprise you

someone else has such

a yesterday

someone on the street is hardly

ever wet from rain


around that corner

on Chestnut Street

someone has four children

someone has four walls

someone has a Labrador

retriever with four paws

someone on that street

has quite a hope

the last one did

not work out


nobody is dying on Chestnut

Street yet

nobody is giving

birth to poems or music

nobody is wanted by the police

on Chestnut Street around the corner only

2 or 3 know the score

of the ball game just

about over

what light is left (Sept. 1997), p. 33]

years of the pears

late summer evenings

like early fall

pushing the boat off

grating smoothly on sand

water-bound as pirates

the local vikings from

our fiord for booty


across the harbor with two

pair of oars plunged

in cold clear water to Marble

head now breaking the dusk here

and there with bright

human outcry

4 or 5 boys to end


up in delectable pear trees

the orchard at its crux

the raid boat waiting half

out of water

on the dark foreign shore

to stuff plucked pears

in our pockets before


quiet dropping like cats

to terra firma but this

time the orchard man got

a whiff of us

half hobbling out with flash

light the size of a club

the white radiance casting


our faces as on police

wanted lists as we ran

for it our 12 year old

legs he was no match for

“I know who you are!”

he called still coming

all the way down to

the shore we pushed off like devil

island escapees rowing for life

“I’ll get you!” he called over

the waves into the dark

we double-oared for home

bodies beating with blood

and delectable pear joy


joy like we had robbed

the very stars of their light

taken the measure of

mountainous sized seas

behind us flashing the torch

with futile hollers a man cursed our

hijinks our dusky blasphemous god

[what light is left (1997), pp. 44-45]


sunday on the north shore

dads romping successfully

on expensive bikes with daughters

and sons as mom well

protected in sun tan

oil and helmet churns

rhythmically along also


along smoothly contoured former railroad

beds the flat earth that once

shook with pounding iron giants

smoke steaming monsters leads to

goodies at the convenience store


the squirrels and birds do not know

the suburban whir and whiz of bike

tires means Sunday

the clicking sound tells gears

have switched


green trees speckle and shade

Sunday is a good time late

morning peace in the fine

summer on the North

Shore of Boston not tremendously far

from where Thoreau determined

to go it alone with whatever god

turned out

to be


and Nathaniel Hawthorne deliberate

and heavy browed pondered

the Salem Witch Trials

his ancestor a judge and pondered

again and spoke

with a silence that would not yield

to gentle tones the dark

coming of something dark

[what light is left (1997), p. 63]