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The Lead Guitarist (a collection of 25 poems)

By Dan Lukiv

This the first installment of a serialization of respected Canadian poet Dan Lukiv's collection The Lead Guitarist. Lukiv's work has appeared in poetry publications around the world, and we are pleased to feature his work in *spark for the first time.

The Editors *spark-online

The First 7 Poems

TARANTULA

Far from Scythian Females, in The Amazon- Jungle of monster- Leaves, where Nobody severs The right breast To make the bow fit,

Little-clad Men-folk eat Tarantulas. Held Between two sticks Over flames that burn off Leg-hair, the Salty meat sizzles And steams.

Tang and season are as Foreign as a Visa card Or an army helmet. But Tarantulas abound. Crack Open The crustacean shell For the jungle- Candy.

An entomologist on CBC Said you cannot compare The meat to anything-- Not to rabbit or chicken: Tarantula is to tarantula As bullets are to bullets And hate is to hate.

These people love tarantulas. They love the spicy Meat.

WINTER-REPTILE

In the dawning valley, A cloud-snake-- A bread-dough-viper-- Lies along the Ice-mottled river, Sliding from sand cliffs To beach-homes, And back, Like a fickle breeze, Or key-jumping Jazzman.

It's a vapor-tunnel, A wintry plume on its belly, A vertebrate hiding from the sun That awakens people And burns fog.

WHIRLPOOL

Glacial water/ Blue-green silt spins A whirlpool, A twirling eyeball That slides--as mindlessly As a bullet--between Diluvian boulders of Discarded mountains,

Spinning, spinning Like a planet Or a dream,

But the raw current Grabs hold, Unwinding the weird screw,

And then it's gone; As quickly as life Leaves the eye At death,

It's gone.

NIGHT-LOONS

The night, like this dock, Is mine: The dark waves of Green Lake Look oily-- Hardly a ripple--

As loons cry (Their voices disturb me),

And I wonder: Would I be happy If I could remember everything I've forgotten?

Another loon cries: The sound is hollow and cold, Like echoes in a barge.

I wonder: Have I ever actually Seen a loon?

I can't remember.

ARCTIC KILLER

Polar bear: Hiding, With a paw, Your black nose (Ingenious) As you stalk prey. You're eidolic, A Portuguese man-of-war, To the flesh You eat.

Photographer-pilots "Captured" you In your white desert: Click. But you, In an 8 by 10 paradox, Weren't there, Like a Hollywood vampire Without a virtual Image.

Even infrared fails To capture you Who, Like a black hole, Harvests solar heat That black skin Absorbs.

Ultraviolet film Exposes you: A great, Black amoeba, As unphotogenic as The small, White seals (They too are Heat-absorbing miracles) That you eat.

You stalk men-- You, The most beautiful Of all bears (Some say)-- Just as Nimrod Stalked me

In war-play.

In a zoo-cage You're adored By awe-struck children ("He's so cute!"),

But in the wild, Face to face, You're a gargoyle With teeth That kill.

THE GOAT

A cream goat, Crusty with manure, Has a full bag. She butts away Smaller goats. She wants a mouldy orange Overlooked in Black mud.

THE LEAD GUITARIST

From a winter-scarred porch, I peer at the skyline-- I'm a radar Scanning for altitude (Not that you should steer By radar: that's like inviting rocks Into your hull).

I see lines of Trans Atlantic Clouds As grey as poor rhythm And as long as Beethoven's ninth. But I imagine them as Simply grey beasts, Or ship-punching fists, Or strings of blue hearts lost In Les Paul-pickups-- Pickups that change finger-licking Scribbles Into electric licks And screams.

I scan the blue sky above

The grey lines; I'm a Malibu surfer Sighting a dream-wave, A Cariboo logger Attacking lunch,

And a sunbather With red shades.

Before my day ends, I'll turn the color blue Into an overdrive- Feast,

In spite of the ache-- In spite of Me.