Archive for December 2012

Downtown NYC Not-So-Kyrielle

December 20, 2012

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Downtown NYC Not-So-Kyrielle

Little black boxes line the street.
I don’t quite know how caught rats meet
their doom; just that this life’s sure tough,
though we cry uncle, Lord, enough.

Walk next by 9/11’s hole
now asphalt filled, pressed ash and soul,
where shuffling tourists huddling chuff
(and I cry uncle, Lord, enough.)

Tied to cell, a broker f-words:
“don’t tell clients to buy secureds==
our fee’s cut down with that f- stuff,”
(as I cry uncle, Lord, enough.)

Sidewalks grey; the sky-rofoam white–
day chases cAsh to black-box night==
I seek the lee, but find the luff,
crying uncle, oh Lord, enough.

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Here’s my (draft) version of a Kyrielle, a French form, which I’m trying for Gay Cannon’s prompt on dVerse Poets Pub Form for All.  Gay has a great article about them – my understanding is that they started from the idea of Kyrie Eleison in the Catholic mass, though have ventured far afield. 

A couple of process notes – yes, there are these weird black rat boxes all around downtown.  9/11 is meant to be pronounced “nine-eleven.”  (I’m sure you got that.)  (I have nothing against the tourists.)  And yes, a broker from a bank was shouting f-words very loudly today by my ATM at the thought of a reduced investment commisions.

Frustrated (Filial)

December 19, 2012

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Frustrated (Filial)

I have my mother here.
I get furious at her, perhaps unfairly, because
she does not always understand people
who are different from her.

Often she is open, sympathetic
to all beings of the
world, other times
less so.

And just as she does not mean
to be intolerant, I do not mean
to be angry.  But old habits-what it meant/means
to be misunderstood–what it means/meant
to fail at being
nice–
die hard.  Anger certainly
won’t cover
lost ground; and yet we trot it out, an
old plough horse that knows well
its way home.

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Ha!  Here’s a draft poem.  No resemblance to any person living or dead is intended.

My mother is, in fact, a very tolerant person.  She likes to get involved in political arguments that I personally find almost intolerable.   I just don’t like politics very much. 

Also, as in the case of many people’s mothers probably, she has a hard time understanding the demands of a second career as, for example,  a blogger! (Agh.) 

Stupor (Steubenville)

December 18, 2012

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Stupor

I don’t care what kind of girl (16)
she was; you don’t lug around, for
amusement, a person
passed out, undress her, pose
her (poking
her privates), possibly piss
on her.

And you, photographers multiple–what
were you
on the other side of your
phone’s lens? From what planet/pit
had you crept? Probocsides and digits
flywalking, snapping; clicking tweets
flesh-beaked–

In upload, no hand left
for humanity.

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Another terrible incident in the news, in Steubenville, Ohio. I make no pronouncements on facts – I only have read what’s in the paper, and what I’ve gleaned from that is that a fair amount of awful stuff seems to have been photographed and put online.

Posting this for dVerse Poets Open Link Night.

Trainspotted – What Just Makes Me Kind of Nervous

December 17, 2012

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I find it nearly impossible to write anything in the wake of the shooting in Newtown, Connecticut.   I avoid TV news, but every time I  look at the paper, or read news online (many times a day), grief is renewed.

But here is one story that occurred to me this evening – and please note in reading it that I have huge respect for first responders, police (most of the time), soldiers.

It happened on a cold night approximately eleven years ago, shortly after 9/11, when my daughters and I were seeing one of their close friends (then in his early teens) onto the New York City subway system after a dinner in Chinatown.

Just as we got to the head of the Canal Street subway stairs, a school bus pulled up beside us filled with GIs.  Mainly men, some women–all wearing camo, bullet-proof vests, and carrying at their chests very large  (presumably semi-automatic) firing arms.  In a close-cropped line, they quickly trotted down the bus steps and then, just in front of us (we stood back), down the subway steps.

There were actually two school buses, i.e. a lot of soldiers.  A lot of big guns.

I asked one young woman as she swung by us – “what’s happened?  What are you hear for?”

The answer came without a trot-break–“we’re here to protect you.”

I thanked her.  And with a series of  nervous (and slightly guilty) looks at each other, the kids and I decided that this was not a good subway station for their friend, and walked up to the next station on the line though it was (a) several blocks further from his destination; and (ii) required us to walk along the side of a very dark and slightly menacing street park.

We did not avoid that station because I dislike GIs.  (I actually rather like all the young U.S. soldiers I’ve ever met.)

What I did not, and do not, like is the idea of myself (or anyone I care for) being on a subway car with someone carrying a large semi-automatic gun, much less two or three or more people carrying such guns.

I don’t even like that situation when the gun-toter is someone anxious to “protect” me.

Call me silly.

 

 

(P.S. For all NYC’s problems it has relatively strong gun control compared to the country as a whole.  Of course, it is difficult for New York to keep illegal guns from being imported from other states due to lack of greater regulation around the country.  Nonetheless, I’m sure the laws we have make some difference.)

Purgatory

December 16, 2012

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Purgatory

We sat in the back seat arguing
about mortal sin, seams
of steaming upholstery creasing
backs of knees, nice
dresses, car an oven
waiting for Celeste’s
mom stopped to get something first
at the BX.

Even Celeste’s freckles haughty–being Catholic,
she felt she knew so much more
about such things–the classification
of sin–laughing in a funeral parlor one, but way worse
dying without
first communion.

But she was only two
and a half.

She shrugged shoulders boney
as chicken wings, confident
of her stuff–her whole family
somehow scrawny, seven kids and dad a pilot,
Vietnam.

The actual place smelled so thick–of dark
and wax, flowers that came
from a shop (refrigeration and
pollen stilled
by spray)– that I feared that I
might sneeze, Celeste
laugh, and then me too, both damned

forever– until I saw her–Dolly–Dorothy–
as molded as her nickname petaled
in satin white, lips pinked
into a rose bud like the nips
of the smallest bouquet by her head–a card that looked
like embroidery on
a bib–“Grampy”–in looping letters.

Celeste’s mom’s plank-back shook–a loose board
stepped on hard, as Mrs. Kerner, Dolly’s mother, appeared, her face
shining as if washed with water from a frozen
bucket, Celeste and I carefully not looking
at each other–it wasn’t that
we would laugh, but the idea
that our throated chests
could move at all, our eyes, our unbound
suntanned legs, felt
like a sin in that room, surely
mortal.

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The above is a draft poem for dVerse Poets Pub’s Poetics prompt by the incomparable Brian Miller to use more detail in making a scene.  Still away from home but have my computer at last (have been relying on mobile devices, which are fantastic in many ways, but not like a computer.)  

Sad, as we all are.  I’ve tried to stay away from TV coverage; unbearable. 

Walnuts (Washington, D.C.) Flash Friday 55

December 14, 2012

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Walnuts (Washington, D.C.)

Several
glasses of wine, blocks
of stop-start walk, still
can’t get the damn dog down
to business.
December irises make me
wonder if we haven’t wandered all the way
to Tunlaw–street where backwards
gets stuck in front–but don’t think the dog
can read in this dim light. Street signs
too high too.

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55 loopy words for the G-Man. http://g-man-mrknowitall.blogspot.com/

Sorry not to do link correctly, doing everything on mobile devices the last few days, and I’m not that good at them.

Have a great weekend. k.

In The Second Person

December 13, 2012

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In the Second Person

Your brain is mapped into fault lines.
“I” marking each spot typically–
where blame fell or was
assigned, responsibility–until
there arrives, unexpectedly, a point of
surrender.

There is a reason that “you”
are called the second person.
The gimlet “I” that was charging so assuredly ahead
crumples faster than could have
been guessed, those old demarcations blotted
with smarting
tears, leaving you all that can see
through its covered face.

At first, you only make out corners — that bookshelf
framed in brown, that yellowed grass peripheral to
stuccoed sidewalk, but your rangy heart knows
escape routes, can find even the smallest
interstice slicing the hard here, harsh now.

You take the “I” in hand, but gently–a reassuring
pat not
out of order–
whisper, “come”.

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I am posting the above extremely rough draft poem for (dVerse Poets Pub prompt hosted by Victoria C. Slotto on writing in the Second Person.

I’m not sure what the picture has to do with it! But like the picture.

A certain slant of Christmas tree light

December 12, 2012

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I am having a rather difficult time writing right now, but I thought you might enjoy this photo, unaltered, which shows the lights of a Christmas tree reflected in a revolving door. It happens to be in downtown NYC, taken at the World Financial Center, hence the aura of gold.

Stream

December 11, 2012

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Stream

You want someone
to make amends, a specific
someone, though you know
they won’t, can’t–that it is like expecting flotsam
to swim butterfly
upstream. So you tell yourself
that maybe you should make
the grand gesture,
if not towards that particular someone then
someone else, certain that simple motions
of atonement, no matter where
directed, will slosh froth
back, will be,
as it were, self-
(a)mending.

Such strategies do
net ripple but an eddy in
your hippocampus still gyrates around
a blur of that more particular
reconciliation, an unfurling
of shine and flow in which your specific
someone would free, with a single stroke, the knot
that has clotted your spine
for nearly a lifetime.

But they won’t. Can’t. And you–
if you cannot, on your own, stretch straight, must learn
to crawl crooked, adjusting
for habitual kinks through a purposefully
listing keel.

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Posting this, really kind of a draft poem, for dVerse Poets Open Link Night hosted by the wonderful Grace.

Going Somewhere? (Hudson River Morning)

December 11, 2012

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