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MEL CATALAN

Mel Catalan studied poetry/prose writing at the Educational Center for the Arts (an art magnet high school) in New Haven, Connecticut. He is a senior at Central Connecticut State University, and is also the editor of the school's Art/Literature publication Helix.

GENESIS

I find it fascinating to watch the brilliance

Of sun rays kiss the window pane -

And it pains to stare at the untouchable flowers

That these spectrums produce.

I wonder (perhaps pity) how they never seem to shine

On the outside -

Through the air, through the trees, through the three mile long cities …

This equates to their presence -

With their opaque-feathered wings

And their luminescent halos.

I never believed in the ivory robes but

Envision silhouette wisps radiating,

Even repelling whatever unknown sins

We that breathe but can not comprehend.

This often occurs early before noon

Like a hand clasping my shoulder,

Assuring that there is always an answer,

A gentle draft from the window whispers

Bursts of shivers behind my head

This in turn shocks my heart from rest.

I close my eyes and pretend the dark exists …

Entice and give me the chance for seven days.

ESCAPE ARTIST

It is a task to find the perfect tree to lean against

Among the swift shoes and sandals that blur,

I watch the sewer smoke rise and intertwine with

The grill smoke of the nearby hotdog stand.

The fog and smog accompanies the noise of

An out of tune symphony of horns and bells,

This frightens the ears toward the underground trains and the graffiti it wears.

I brave these bleeding sounds and compose my rising chorus -

Single note simplicities drive me

Closer to the dream world.

The chords follow

In unison transforming pain into sound.

I attempt to hum a verse,

Forget the biting wind cracking my lips.

The white is starting to fall

It’s that time of year when I envy how the evergreen stays alive

Among the graveyard grids made of concrete and windows

Outlined with yellow dashes and black ice.

Inside these tombs the meetings commence

On polished undead oak and rosewood.

Beneath mechanical luminous lights,

They compose their own melodic laws and issues.

I keep my chorus in my head,

from being distracted to these neon billboard signs.

It is the background nightmare to the forests and hills.

It is the unforgiving magic show.

VISION IMPAIRED

Blueprints scatter awkwardly,

around and on the edges of my maple-glossed drafting table,

consuming every speckle of lamplight -

focused on skeletal drawings of bay windows, archways, architraves,

stairway curvatures to coalesce beauty and shelter.

A birth with precision,

A birth to pay the bills.

My eyes concentrate,

I wipe sweat off my forehead

before drops can touch tracing paper;

the horror of ink blotching miniature measurements -

flawed inches and angle degrees could transform

hefty commissions into a carpenter’s nightmare.

I used to believe in creating my perfect cabin,

perched atop the highest cliff,

surrounded by grassy fields,

on the edge of a sheer drop leading to rock and ocean.

But these days, passionate art translates into

packing flying buttresses into a kitchen ceiling.

And these sketches,

these are mere sketches ,

sold to the highest bidder,

nothing more.

Just focus on sketches and

increase the salary and

therein lies the so-called passion -

money acting as living satisfaction …

maybe even more than what that cabin could offer.

HOW OWLS DREAM

a wake up call -

from my wooden music box

chimes the familiar toy bells,

stimulates the pixie figurine

perched on top

to slowly circumnavigate;

my head spins faster than

my eyes fixed in this loft.

arise to the open window and

soon the song drowns:

peering down the cobblestone streets

banners flap along window sills,

doorways, sidewalks, corner vendors,

crowds amass around the town parade;

jesters with cornets, bards embracing lutes

carolers chanting joyous hymns -

the town’s anniversary

and I celebrate with a retreat back to sleep…

heavy eyelids arise -

seeping in last traces of afternoon sun,

furniture shadows begin to stretch

toward the corners of my loft.

My feet on squeaky wood planks;

I prepare for the night and

the pub on the other side of town.

creeping inside the velvet lair,

regulars station the bar, hunched,

shouting woeful pangs of their day.

I make my way to the back room

into the aromas of opium.

I take my usual seat and breathe.

arousal sets in -

softly exiting the velvet lair,

rejuvenation leaves me strolling

a lively pace to the gardens outside town.

Lanterns line the pathways flickering

silhouettes of tulip beds and rose bushes

while vines hang on

oak and dogwood trees.

A nightly marvel brings foreground

to the star-littered sky.

I notice the center plaza

accumulating vibrancy

of stragglers, wanderers,

love birds and the desperate.

I mingle in rhythm,

matching their relaxed pace.

Momentum carries me -

east to the canal

that flows to the reservoir.

By the edge, I hang my legs,

gazing at the murky water;

it is the moon’s mirror

which distorts its cratered face,

a vain act that I try to mimic

and fail to receive any attention.

wandering back around side alleys,

remnants of today’s parade

congregate in elongate

celebrations with bonfire dancing,

drumming pots, and serenades.

A quick glance, apathy, I wander on.

The party noises are

reduced to tired quiet.

I can feel headaches amplify

with sweat saturating

my forehead, making me nauseous,

too nauseous to barely walk.

I hurry back.

Starting to feel blisters

grow on my feet; knowing three hours

passed since my last fix.

I can feel withdrawal

take me hostage;

starting to panic …

refueling at the velvet lair,

smoke and theories swirl above my head,

attempting to solidify the intangible,

jealous how God can give life from dirt

and bury it with ease.

panic intensifies -

these rugs are a prison cell,

these cushions are my cot and pillows,

this pipe is my ball and chain,

I become an escaped convict at the velvet lair.

running feverishly

toward my loft, delirium starts

while the fragmented sunrays splatter

along the horizon in the distant fields.

two more blocks and a right turn,

toward the front door of my loft;

I can feel the morning heat rising

and sweat drops from my neck -

just in time to collapse in bed.