William Doreski
Chiasmus / Khiasmos
You ask if chiasmus occurs
in Aristotle, but this Latin
mutilation of Greek khiasmos
wouldn’t happen for centuries
until exegetes unraveled
the New Testament for clues.
Actual chiasmi, or crossings,
mar the snow in my yard where
wild turkeys strut and gambol
with their heavy Y-shaped tracks.
Such insolent rhetoric shames
the ordinary social usage
on which I expend myself
at the coffee shop, where strangers
mumble into their smartphones
and ignore the newspapers heaped
on the shelf by the stainless urns.
I get discursive when alone
drinking coffee among strangers,
my notebook flopping like a flounder.
So I try to converse in colors
bright enough to attract attention;
but digital sighs and groans
stifle my attempt to be friendly.
So much for manners developed
in small-town Connecticut
where winter features bobsleds
and Homeric snowball fights.
It always comes back to the Greeks,
or maybe the ancient Hebrews
before Babylonia destroyed
the first Temple and stole the Torah
to ponder in limestone palaces
of which little trace remains.
But crossings occur daily
in nature and culture, and Greek
and Jewish history overlap
as texts murmur and converse
and language begets language
and the turkeys gobble and flap
inadequate wings in protest:
inscribing the snow so firmly
the gods on their clouds can read it
without squinting or straining their gaze.
William Doreski’s most recent book of poetry is The Suburbs of Atlantis (2013). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in many journals.
Chiasmus / Khiasmos
You ask if chiasmus occurs
in Aristotle, but this Latin
mutilation of Greek khiasmos
wouldn’t happen for centuries
until exegetes unraveled
the New Testament for clues.
Actual chiasmi, or crossings,
mar the snow in my yard where
wild turkeys strut and gambol
with their heavy Y-shaped tracks.
Such insolent rhetoric shames
the ordinary social usage
on which I expend myself
at the coffee shop, where strangers
mumble into their smartphones
and ignore the newspapers heaped
on the shelf by the stainless urns.
I get discursive when alone
drinking coffee among strangers,
my notebook flopping like a flounder.
So I try to converse in colors
bright enough to attract attention;
but digital sighs and groans
stifle my attempt to be friendly.
So much for manners developed
in small-town Connecticut
where winter features bobsleds
and Homeric snowball fights.
It always comes back to the Greeks,
or maybe the ancient Hebrews
before Babylonia destroyed
the first Temple and stole the Torah
to ponder in limestone palaces
of which little trace remains.
But crossings occur daily
in nature and culture, and Greek
and Jewish history overlap
as texts murmur and converse
and language begets language
and the turkeys gobble and flap
inadequate wings in protest:
inscribing the snow so firmly
the gods on their clouds can read it
without squinting or straining their gaze.
William Doreski’s most recent book of poetry is The Suburbs of Atlantis (2013). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in many journals.