Corey Mesler


The Barbarian Heart

          “For the haiku poets, the cry of a mosquito is just as important
          as a general’s hat or a storm.”
                    Robert Bly

Basho and I sat in the moonlight.
In his lap he held a trout.
Basho signaled to me that
the trout was about to speak.
I discovered that my pen was a stone.
The moonlight began to sing.


Life During Wartime

In Louis Malle’s Black Moon
the unicorn is fat and dull.
The naked children scrabbling
after the pig represent
something or other.
The young girl, wandering the
wartorn landscape,
is lovely like a rill.
Eventually, she finds Family
but the fairy tale
threatens to engulf her. And the
pet rat has a name.
We should all live like this in
wartime. We should all
look to the Archetype for adjustment,
for the way out of the
dream. We should all understand that
the way out is the way further in.


A Treasure Hid in a Field

The lock on the keyboard
didn’t work. I spoke
to the assembly about the
menace of assembly.
In the paper I find my name
with a letter beside it.
It’s a Greek letter. I don’t
understand, nor do I
have time for such fribble.
I write this down with
a burnt stick. What
stays is the attitude, the constant
consonant. Really, I
say to my family, don’t come
to me for homework
anymore. I’m a desiccated husk,
a wastrel. As I leave I
say one last thing, not expecting
it to last. Everyone turns
a deaf ear. This is as it should
be, here in the gibbet
shadow, the last show on Earth.

past simple home