Mark A. Fisher


The Astronomer’s Reply
(Reply to Walt Whitman)

When I saw the respected poet
get up and walk out on me,
with glazed eyes and staggering gait;
bent with the weight of formulas and charts
crowded in his head.
I followed him as he walked to his home,
watched as he looked in mystic wonder
at the silent stars above.
And, I sighed, in pity, for his limitations,
and waited for him to go inside.
Then greeted my friends, the stars, by name,
and inquired of them their health.

Blue Island

Bound by gravity
far seeing Moai
look out into space
seeking distant stars.
Birdman stealing gifts
from distant shores,
the last tree standing
mere ashes and myth
forgotten dreams
of a golden age
for fading Rapa Nui.


silken star-scape
torn down
to shatter old stones
with fiery lines drawn
that climb far mountain slopes
rising like obelisks and trilithons
in some great stone ring
where clouds of
star dust and diamonds rise
to blot out the sky so
long days drift into
longer nights
until the rains come again
with new seasons,
new stars in a night sky,
seen by new eyes


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