Ric Carfagna

from Symphony No. 13
(deconstructed idyll idol)

from Insignificant Figures

Where one is
alone with age
illusions to deceive
the sag to portend
that the house
will soon be
will soon be
a succession of seasons
passing the glass
glazed with hoarfrost
and rime
with the stars
with the galaxies
returning to the eye
with a night sky
with sparrows in the alcove
rodents gnawing the rafters
and this great turn of light
among angular columns
and spiral stairwells
accruing pestilential shadows
the numina of extinction
the sundered tapestry
the distillated tincture
dripping sustenance
from shrouded deity appendages
and the saviors from saucers return
within entropy’s convalescent hem
weathered and frayed
with a last word to contrive
visions for abandonment
a quantum dissolution
a dead tree
a crow
a sparrow in the privet
an iron balustrade
angling down
as the road curves east
and a light that cannot be
traversing the windowpane…


A ship passes the window
morning without an ocean
a meadow’s fragrance
scorched edges
retrieved from memory
as if childhood
was not the sentinel
guarding the citadel
where ghosts reside
transparent only to the physical eye
to the patches of bare ground
beneath footfall
scraps of paper
scribing deciphered
as in a view through haze
a convalescence of shapes
days retracing a labyrinth indistinct
movement in a room
removed from observation
removed from an ocean
austere in isolation
a solidity of mirrors
and a voice
where there is no
to hear
echoing in a
through this day…


Some idea of a past
gathered into gaps and hinges
into equations and variables
the number six
and a partial ghost
resolving only
this indeterminacy of touch
this nullity of vision
this quiescence of vacant houses
wandering corridors
to notice paint peeling
from ceilings
(to believe) voices are still
possessors of presence (of pretense)
an absence of flesh
the gray shapes
of disembodied thoughts
the blurry light
filling gaps in crevices
the continuation of music
viols in framed occurrences
terrestrial facets
across a relativistic divide
across hemispheres
of blood and DNA
across interstellar otherness
and of what cannot be
anthropomorphically contemplated
through a glass darkly
through verities of saints (of scholars)
through scalar incomprehensibilities
through a raving madman’s amphetamine slaw
through a continuity somewhere within
the obvious (the oblivious) the clandestine
a matter of relative measure
or an old woman with her dog
waiting at a window


From here to return
is to traverse wilderness
with mountains removed
by one questioning faith
with a forest surrounding
a deity unnamed
where severed limbs
marked a trail
with briar and nettle
blighted latitudes
limiting touch
on a physical plane
anomalies appearing
a corollary to the invisible
face in the mirror
trash in the grass
debris prescience extinction
a deity absent
blood among flowers
a wind through trees
words dismembering (remembering)
torsos limbs
womb of orphans
and end to things
through a doorway
Lazarus returning
into a future that has been
a preordained presence
defining a vision gathered
a vague perception
this slow drain
of isolated occurrences
not specific in tone


from Fractal Labyrinth


Of these (latter) days
nothing remains only

    fragments of a history
disinterred and entombed
latitudes lost to spatial mutations
that cannot be
    fully articulated
primordial states
and not the straight line given
evolution’s percussive dissonance
afterimages of ancillary radiance
terrestrial alcoves
the sporadic bleed
of essence in decay



Somehow resolution
is a weedy patch
of newly-mown lawn
a line representing
the density of
is a
myth with structure
    and sentience
a burden to endure
a labyrinth tracing
a sun falling in angles
with perspectives
    of intimacy and detachment
with ebb and flow of life
and estrangement
when observed
    through a telescopic lens



A book open
page one
still no resolution
in all this useless knowledge
a butterfly beds down

    in the tall grass
it is enough to know
where there is no need
to circumvent the boundaries
to travel there to understand

the weight of semaphores and stalemates
the pull
of gravity’s progeny
approaching at the speed of light

the breath returning
to animate
the flesh
the sparrow on a branch
the end of the day


Klee Waifs - 4

The concern with form…

I realize I am not
not the constructivist

painted into a fusion
through tones

the third dimension
yet I
dream of myself
an epigonic age
of not being discovered

with consciousness
crumbling around me



Physical progression
a theory contingent
on the rise and ebb
of tides
an ocean
at the window
the swing of a pendulum
from here it seems

days withdraw into obscurity
calendars of
empty numbers
a sympathy
of hours
lost among weeds
growing at the pavement edge
thresholds complexities
and what is unfinished
in shadow
always hypothetical

always itinerant



Temporal again
this heart

this stone
atoms create
grey fates where eyes close

at the end of the day
another page unread
another wind
the widow’s frame
the door ajar
the corridor light
voices down stairwells
dim reminders

when ghosts where echoes
dismembering the past

Ric Carfagna was born and educated in Boston Massachusetts. He is the author of numerous collections of poetry, most recently: Symphonies Nos. 5,& 9 published by White Sky Books-

Symphony No.3 (caryatids for the firmament) (pending from Unlikely Stories Press)

His poetry has evolved from the early radical experiments of his first two books, Confluential Trajectories and Porchcat Nadir, to the unsettling existential mosaics of his multi-book project Notes On NonExistence.

Ric lives in rural central Massachusetts with his wife, cellist Mary Carfagna and daughters, Emilia and Aria.
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