IMPORTED POEMS

DIANA S. ADAMS

BLAZEVOX[BOOKS]
Buffalo, New York
Imported Pomes
by Diana Adams
Copyright © 2020

Published by BlazeVOX [books]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without

the publisher’s written permission, except for brief quotations in
reviews.

Printed in the United States of America

Interior design and typesetting by Geoffrey Gatza

Cover Art: Diana Adams

First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-60964-353-9
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019952143

BlazeVOX [books]
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Kenmore, NY 14217
Editor@blazevox.org

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Interview

I asked the dead director

why are there so many mirrors
in each of his films
he shook his head and said
it’s too early for this question
& the answer varies from moment
to moment like the weather…
you are a key too
opening the mirrors
I don’t know what to say
I'm not comfortable with death
I pour myself a glass of milk
would you like to talk about Egypt?
no, I’m there too often, he said,
even in my dreams,
& today we are nowhere
in particular for a change

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False Portrait

Those aren’t blemishes

they’re characteristics of Victorian glaze
she appears open & closed
her face has been painted orange & pink
the eyes squint into the mottled light
lobsters hill in a crystal bowl
the table and the walls are blue
it keeps getting better
there are no doors or windows
to this room full of eagerness & restraint
some & none of this is true
why listen to me?

14
On Impulse

You drive out West

to unshoulder responsibility
in an electric dress, you’ve put on glasses
too see the mountains pop
in the dry light
each crevice appears etched
in the stark hotel parlour
you pick up messages
& promptly discard them
brush dust off the bed
& abandon your margins
to dance with a stranger
whose eyes are medieval
blue saucers
they stay with you all night

15
Sub Rosa

Like the hidden v in a fox

or melodies that empty
out of a can

or when the sun bends over

dead relatives, their plots

our double agendas,

so necessary, yet discarded
finding time between tines
to share our errors

remember, always talk back to yourself

& give him a little belladonna at bedtime

16
Camping

We slept on stones
felt equivalent to glass

it was a real bear

we conjured

my animal sign
was hungry

nose to the mesh

sniffing

the lime in my glass

your meat breath

in the previous scene

we were brave & dancing

all I saw was a black mass

its eyes were hazel

real things
fully imagined

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The Lesson

There was supposed to be a lesson

somewhere around here
I checked behind the red velvet curtain.
Nothing. A dog could sniff it out
if it could get by the enormous doorman
I don’t think it is about being nice
nobody has time for that
it is something smaller
a riddle perhaps, like those math questions
seven swans under an elm tree
how many blue boxes do they have?
I put on the glasses that were left out
on the marble table
they showed me what I thought
I would see, some kind of journey
another museum, sleepwalking
most of time, I end up alone again
lesson enough for me

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Country House

After the shoe laces were ironed

they dressed for tea
over the decades the house declined
life was fine in spring & summer
the rest was a bit of an eclipse
Lady Alda misbehaving
with footmen, then the head chef
Lord Mark became so absent
he had no details, I had to base him
on someone else, sleeping
in the anteroom, dim
& full of imagined life
color coded guestrooms
bagpipes after dinner
so blurry after sherry
I got restless
& asphyxiated them both

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Self Portrait with Bacon

We must begin with the hands

that don’t fit the body
eyes, fixtures of course
that’s enough of that
take a brisk walk
& lard up some intentions
no parking in the breezeway
or talking to dead directors
to get more material
it will all come to you
even though you are not open today
put bacon in pan, wait
put in some more

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Pickings

An arm appears
in the radish patch
broken mannequin
& a grey dog
pretending to be lost
a dead lady drinks beer
& stares in wonderment
they have all fallen
through a partially open door
the novelists forgot to lock
they’re always dropping things
I pick them up & wash them off
the arm at least offered
to lend a hand
yet those obnoxious novelists
keep changing my name

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Character

The elegant man disappears

through the bathroom mirror
he will enter another house
stay for a day or two
meanwhile let’s talk
about me, born in Denmark
put in a small box
I mushroomed into a woman
who waits on a steady stream
of imaginary beings
I make things up for them to do
like murder in the afternoon
that man will re-appear
when least expected
somewhere, under a chair
or across the street, there
for me to use

22
The New Agenda

I had the theater people over

to paint our house
blue chartreuse maroon
the walls have nothing to do
with us, what a relief
& through the many purple doors
they’ve added anterooms
to invite people we don’t know in
so we can have a few moments
previously impossible

Just so you know

in this particular house
you must wear a hat
so we can spot you
when you enter into conversations
I’ve put out some leaves
in the garden
& inked in
lawn chairs and trees
the woman in the corner
has been installed to laugh politely
to keep us positive
life itself & the hills have a way
of clogging progress
remember your violin?
it kept us moving forward
following the logic of music

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 *

I’ve arranged for a moment

out of Mansfield Park
candles at the pianoforte
Fanny looks dumbly at the woods
& her heart shakes with rapture
this happens in the yellow room
people are carpooling over
a car will damage a tree
that’s okay, how it is supposed to be
everyone gets a chance
to be in on the scene
before removing
to the outdoor smorgasbord

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