The Rialto Books Review vol.007
The Rialto Books Review vol.007 includes The League of Berries and Laurels pt.III by Russell Block and the poem Cupid and Eternity by Tom Porter. Click to buy.
The League of Berries and Laurels
pt.III
by Russell Block
Passage along the banks of the lake offer the more familiar path homeward. Memories of the indifference of its interest, themselves the interested observers of the lake, take shape in a life as facets do that we are blind to, such being the perfection of wave, the air, in the unobserved formation of these native, prodigal youths raised beside its pageantry. Along its frozen-over sands, a friend likewise traversing its open lane could be found approaching from the opposite distance. Not much more, nor much less, likely to occur along the trail along the tracks than it is along the waves, no specific word of assent carries them in the other direction, eastward, upon the closing of the gate. They instead, for no other reason than the sight and song of train tracks, go by the paved trails alongside the tracks of the train. With a rule observed everywhere have those clutches closed on stems and found nothing in their wintery grasp, and new, anemic intervals in the earth that was broken for the tracks strain heavenward up ahead. Without care, they skid down the embankment and regain their balance on the trail. The song of excursion on land with sturdiest paces keeps, a song without lyrics, without much notice keeping. Madly do the reaches of the trunks rush past their passage, an outline of the space the train travels along formed where the reaches do not reach, the trail between the two embankments forbidding roots, forbidding the unity along their way nature would otherwise produce. Homes too run apace, their lines, and the textures of shingles and siding, quicker seeming than the scatters that show clear to the winter sky. With prouder and more satisfied looks, they understand the advantages of one’s pockets overflowing, a state of such abundance that they cannot but let the yarn of their mittens breathe the comforts of the chilling air. It is as Ulie’s grandpa asked of them: does the sower, postman, or politician walk with their hands in store? To walk with less than fullest stride, despite the bitter winter, would hinder the issue of their station, seeds, handshakes, or letters. In their rumination on the late advice, they talk much less. When they do, it is on the subject of licorice, and how good a licorice would be, if they could root down to where those wait to reward their patient industry.
Cupid and Eternity
by Tom Porter
Eternity. Droll I do not wish to seem, but how do you,
Cupid, whose unfettered arrow relieves
Those fetters man wears all to willingly,
Plan for proliferations of your sport,
Love’s continuity rare in this age
Whose youthful century cares not for it.
Cupid. Not like lesser embodiments, shriveled
When reverent tribute slakes the boundless thirst
And empowers limbs no more; Revelry,
Fortune and Pride, Arrogance their master,
Are threatened once forgotten, not this sprite.
Why I feel fit as a daisy’s first day
In May’s sisterhood. See how still I fly.
(…)
