By Edward Butscher

If an experiment can be repeated

it proves itself, as may a name sung

by steeple bells in a mind’s Norway.


Language and consciousness echo

each another, a scholar reiterated.


I think I said I said I think I said I.


Edvard Munch’s sequences of lovers

and screams and self-portraits (set

between a clock and Van Gogh’s last


bed) retrace his global scream,

ringing out in cartoonish ripples


that ululate into a cosmic ocean.


Say it again, again and again, knees

exposed to rocks and shame in short

pants, finally shed for knickers, then


long pants, and a detached boyhood

of tulip trees and their visible roots


clawing at sky and armies of the dead.


Ordinary shapes paint in awareness,

walls, doors, women walking away

on high heels, repeatedly framed by


long slow days after broken nights

at the far end of an island and a life


that replicate what art once saved.


Poet, critic, and literary biographer, Edward Butscher resides with his wife, Paula Trachtman, in Greenport, Long Island. His poetry and essays have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies since 1976. Collections of his poetry include Poems About SilenceAmagansett Cycle, and Child in the House. His biography Sylvia Path: Method and Madness, was the first of that poet, and Conrad Aiken: Poet of White Horse Vale won the Melville Kane Award from the Poetry Society of America.

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