In Discomfort
Oh, how prominent the body
when it does but hurt.
When it works,
it’s the slovenly servant
(each not as pretty or clever
or fast
as others in its class.)
But when it pains,
the servant reigns.
We supplicate, cajole,
pretend to ignore,
pray for, hold
(in its arms), pledge allegiance to
(hoping for a truce.)
It is not amused; it is not
amused.
More poetry! Or draft poetry! Whatever you want to call it. I think it’s a little difficult to consider a poem finished on the day it’s first written. (The initial draft of this was actually written on the subway yesterday, but still to say it’s “finished” may be a bit premature.)
The Conversation
He, who has not always been
kind, but wants to be,
told me of a dream.
“I was crying,” he said,
“as I looked at you,”
and that it had to do, he thought,
with something painful that
I had once refused to disclose,
he’d forgotten what.
I knew the conversation,
but also could not remember
exactly what I’d not said–there is so much
I would not tell him–only
that it was suddenly more painful than ever
it might have been
in the reflection of that girl,
the girl in his dream, enough so that
when he looked at me, I felt small
cracks at the backs
of my eyes and, for a moment,
could not speak again.
“Well?” he asked, and I said,
“anything else?”
Pattinson
Palin
I was thinking last night about past topics/obsessions of this blog. Two came to mind: Sarah Palin and Robert Pattinson (who, for the non-cognoscienti, plays Edward Cullen, star vampire, in the movies based on Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight.)
So, what do Palin and Pattinson have in common?
Turtle On Head
We began the swamp on foot.
This was a bad idea,
a turtle suddenly on my head,
a large one, I dreamed, a snapper.
I could just make out the
creased unwrinkling of one short khaki leg
as it dangled down my brow like
an ancient bang; its mottled shell,
a dangerous helmet.
You somehow got a boat, turned to my aid.
“Don’t use the oar,” I pleaded,
as you hoisted the long, smoothed wood,
but I could see aim in your eyes.
shut mine.
(This is today’s draft. Any suggestions? Especially at beginning or end, let me know.)
Self-appointed Tasks
Invent duties in order to feel dutiful.
Propose purposes.
Appoint tasks.
Why? you ask.
To crowd out the required,
that, we are mired in,
what makes us cry uncle
but from which we can’t bunk off.
Cast them onto a list
where they can almost be forgotten
till ticked off,
one being to die,
another, surely, to live.
Rain Today, Melting Snow
A rainy day. I thought I’d try a villanelle; the draft is below. In this one, I’ve played with internal rhyme and word repetition; also used slant rhyme to avoid the flippancy of straight rhyme. I am linking this also to Bluebell Books short story slam–their picture was a girl outside in the rain–this is a woman inside (in bed with iPhone) in the rain!
Any suggestions, re-writes, corrections–feel free to let me know!
Rain today, melting snow
It rains today. What was a scrim of white
frays to a stark and intermittent thread,
as browning fields bring softness to the eye,
and rumpled folds of brush and weed deny
the brambles that will later stalk my tread.
It rains today. What is a scrim of white–
the screen that fixates, though two inches wide–
and, like a stalker, ties me to my bed–
(’till browning fields bring softness to the eye)
as intermittent glances, window-wise,
prise digital fingers from my real-world head.
It rains today; what was a scrim of white,
as bright outside as in, in puddles lies–
as clear as any water (over mud).
The browning fields bring softness to the eye,
reminding one that even autumns die,
snow too, its shine reduced to what was then
by rains today, a threadbare scrim of white.
The browning fields bring softness to the eye.
I appreciate that the poem has a certain similarity to other efforts of mine. (But there it is–you write what you write.)
For other villanelles, or posts about the mechanics of villanelle writing, check out the category “villanelle” here.
Posting from iPhone (a very welcome gift that has a steep learning curve), so will try not to include weird typos from touch screen.
The crazy words and lines typed by a new iphone user could be a poem in themselves but i have been thinking about yesterday’s poem about choosing the wrong train. I used the phrase “tremorous grind” to describe the quivering plod of the wrong train. I knew ( from spell check) that tremorous was probably not a word but it seemed right to me — a combination of “timorous” and “tremor”. On the other hand, I tend to question invented words–words invented by me at least–since (1) my brain is faulty and (2) the ENglish language as currently constituted is pretty comprehensive. Which makes me think today that the word I truly wanted was “tremulous”–“tremulous grind”.
On the other hand, the subway trains in NYC really do shake and quake.
Tremorous? Tremulous? Is it all just a grind?
Any of you English language or poetry mavens have any ideas?
(Finally–an apology. I’m not sure I’ve figured out the interface of iPhone and wordpress enough to edit this! It’s just amazing to me to be able to post without internet connection.)
I’m typing up this post in a freezing (closed-for-winter) house which happens to have an Internet connection.
A sonnet! A draft sonnet! Because my teeth are chattering, fingers growing stiff, I am posting this before making final decisions about the poem, especially the last lines. I’ve posted a few alternatives. Any preferences let me know. Any suggestions–absolutely let me know!
In a Hurry, Choosing the Wrong Train
I worry that, in my forgetting much,
the best route from here to there eludes
me. I overthink, then blurrily rush
to a train I barely know that broods
upon the track while my regular line
goes whoosh (in my mind). Beneath the slow chug
of this one’s start and stop, tremorous grind,
ears burn with trains not taken that speed snug
along their rails. All for some two or three,
maybe four, saved blocks–my brain’s too tired
for the calculation. The part of me
that invents tests it hopes to ace, that’s wired
for glee in a glide, tick-tocks by the door,
longs for time itself to open, offer more.
Some alternate last lines:
longing for time to open, offer more.
longing for time to spare her, feeling sore.
longing for time to spare it, feeling sore.
longing for time to open, time to spare.
Is “spare” close enough rhyme to door?
An early freeze on an early eve in early December. I am stopping briefly in my frigid apartment on a day that has been go-go-go before I dash again into the outdoors cold, the subway, and then, I hope, the overheated snug of a birthday party, then, after the party, to a bus aiming for the greater than ever cold of upstate New York.
But it all stops for a moment, for a book, a present for the birthday girl/woman. (I would really not mind getting the book myself some day–hint hint.) The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke, a bilingual version edited and translated by Stephen Mitchell. I’ve had other books that were selections from Rilke — I guess mine was Selected Poems. This is more comprehensive.
What I love about Rilke: well, everything. (What I don’t love about Rilke: not much, although sometimes I find the longer poems, a bit difficult to sustain as a reader. But truthfully I have this problem with any long poem that doesn’t contain a clear narrative. The Odyssey, for example, is okay.)
What I find especially remarkable is the blend of music and meaning. I don’t read German enough to get anything but the sound; but the poems, amazingly, the same poems whose sensations and points and observations are so subtle and perspicacious and unique in English often rhyme in German, or slant-rhyme, and scan, and if not, still have a lilting haunting music (even in my halting pronunciation.)
And then, there’s “the vision thing.” Rilke continually sees what is there, and what is not there, but what is, of course, really there, the “reflections upon the polished surface of our being”– only that’s not a good quote truly because he sees the core, not just the reflections, and he see that that is beneath or outside of the polish: the gaze of Apollo in the headless torso (“Archaic Torso of Apollo”), the shell of face of the woman weeping who has left it in her hands (The Notebooks of Malte Laurid Brigge), the ghost of his lost friend (Requiem.) He sees all these things (and they see us), then he tells us we must change our lives.
But I’m not quite changing mine yet. (Got the book for someone else.) Must run.
(ps – sorry this painting not really Greek! Edited!)
Toast and the Flag
Oh, the brave House Democrats who say they will oppose Obama and the Republicans’ tax deal, their last best chance to avoid tax raises on the middle class and keep unemployment benefits in force. They are like people who have run to hide under their beds during a kitchen fire (i.e. the election) and later say that they can’t stand burned toast (even with some of the most charred crusts shaved off.)
Oh, the stalwart Senate Republicans who won’t budge on anything, especially any thing they weren’t likely to budge on anyway, like don’t ask/don’t tell and benefits for 9/11 workers, without getting tax breaks for the rich.
Oh, the brave 9/11 workers who did charge into fire and smoke and charred their lungs (not just their toast).
Oh, the stalwart gay soldiers who have long been asking, not telling.
ManicDDaily 
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