“I started Early, Took my Dog.”
--Emily Dickinson
Novelist, memoirist, and poet, Joseph Di Prisco published his fourth book of poetry, My Last Resume: New & Collected Poems in 2023. His work has appeared in numerous journals and periodicals, and his poetry has been awarded prizes from Poetry Northwest, Bear Star Press, and Bread Loaf. Joe champions writers, artists, educators, and students through his decades of teaching and his involvement with organizations dedicated to the arts, theater, and children’s mental health.
Joseph joins us remotely via Zoom.
Welcome to the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey. Joseph, what poems have you brought for us today?
“I started Early—Took my Dog—”
--Emily Dickinson
Joe Di Prisco reads "The Satrap Will See You Now," "Being at Home in You," "Poem in which no one appears to show up for his party," and "Poem in which he shares what he learned today at the spa."
THE SATRAP WILL SEE YOU NOW
Because later he has a tennis date.
He’d delight in a bowl of figs,
Your fatted calf, a bucket of balls.
These days, he likes a little company.
Take a shot if you can tell a joke.
The loneliness of a satrap is the hood
On his falcon, a goat on the side of a hill.
When he graduated first in his class
From Satrap School, was he a tent on fire!
Taxes to levy, rebellions to crush,
Aspiring maidens to bed.
They would feed him grapes, he’d shave
Their legs. He updated his threaded-gold
Caftans, he encrusted his shoes with gems.
Satrapping around took its toll in time.
His memoirs did not take off.
Nobody in Hollywood took his call.
Take the Satrap to Work Day was a bust.
Edicts were ignored, decrees, mocked.
He begged the dog to chase the ball.
The Saluki preferred the rabbit dream.
The Satrap will see you now,
Tomorrow he beheads himself in the square.
BEING AT HOME IN YOU
Seasons house us, tongue & groove,
Tongue & groove, ducts & beams.
Love in search of other worlds?
My heart & hands are full in this.
Joist & clamp, mortar & stud,
Roof, frame, floor, tongue & groove.
Sighs desire: this is all that is.
Transferred load, flashing & frame.
Stairs & tile, pitch & stone,
Plumb & charge, tongue & groove.
To fit snug in one world is all
That holds me here in thrall to time.
Flue & wall, window & door,
Insulating, brace, stucco & trim,
Conduit you, tongue & groove.
POEM IN WHICH NO ONE APPEARS TO SHOW UP FOR HIS PARTY
The cleanup committee seemed elated.
So will the old friends who could
never talk heart-to-heart during parties.
Amaryllis and periwinkle, everywhere
birds of paradise, and the not bad
champagne chilled down, and before
I knew it, no one showed. This was good
I guess for someone's grandfather who
post-surgery would have laughed too hard.
And the big guy I would never invite
who leaks out tears near the fireplace.
The incredible comeback and drive into
the power pole. At least you-know-who's
husband didn't challenge the whole room
to arm wrestle and didn't get caught
in the sauna with you-can't-be-serious.
At least what's-her-name (black clunky
shoes, black turtleneck, black garrotted hair),
didn't read The Idiot sprawled on the love seat.
At least no one fed the Japanese fighting fish
pate. And no one had the bright idea
of introducing the Rottweiler to the toucan.
The whole night, not a whisper of Tarantino.
Nice that pillows won't lounge on the lawn,
that no trembling earring washes out the sea.
And good thing the paparazzi will be out of sight
when I turn into the life of my own party
and the wallflower sweeps me off my feet.
POEM IN WHICH HE SHARES WHAT HE LEARNED TODAY AT THE SPA
I should take better care of my biggest organ,
says The Spa News, and they mean my skin. Were
you aware that you shed 5 billion dead skin cells
a day? That dead skin accounts for 80% of household dust?
If you're anything like me, you won't put off hiring
that domestic help. In the spa, I also learned, from
watching the younger smooth organs pass me by,
how to grow old gracelessly. In addition, you have
28,000 pressure points and 72 channels or so
for chi, that the state of California considers my diet
a class B felony. As I wait here in my plush terry
robe and smart red rubber espadrilles, I would not
dream of telling alien abductors where
to harvest, but here's got to be more fertile
than Roswell, New Mexico. Today, I found out, too,
that I do not technically need sex to survive,
though it may in fact need me. Have I mentioned,
not to brag, that my second biggest organ is my
linch pin, my third my thalweg--or is it my lunette?
Did you know that when I am in love my biggest organ
sing that the air tastes sweet, that your name
is a lozenge down the slide of my throat?
I was all primed for the herbal body wrap (though
it was not rosemary and thyme), and up pops the potpourri
migraine again. Which is when it dawned that I too
will someday die and that deluxe spa packages
would not be ill-advised. No wonder on this slick
of ointment all I want for lunch is extra salt
with my six margaritas. Pry from my face the cucumber
wedges, let me and my supple nib breathe.
You've been listening to the poems of Joseph Di Prisco on the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey.
