Archive for the ‘poetry’ category

You Learn

June 6, 2015

You Learn

You learn, if you’re lucky,
that no ‘happily ever before’
can be forged
from a ‘happily ever after,’ much less
an ‘okay now;’
childhood dance lessons not
retroactively rejectible,
nor will the mirror where hips swiveled
shine
with an inner light.
Oh, heart, that wants its forehead soothed,
you must push
your own bangs back.

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A poem that was 55 words first go; I am posting for the Real Toads Flash 55 poem, hosted by the wonderful Kerry O’Connor.  There were supposedly bonus points (ha!) available for using jumping off an aphorism from Daily Quotes, but all the aphorisms here are my own.   As is the drawing.  (All rights reserved.) 

Thanks. 

From the Mouth of Irazú Volcano

June 5, 2015

 

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Image by Sony

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Image by Sony

From the Mouth of the Irazú Volcano (Costa Rica) Filled with Flower Petals
by McCann, Filmed by Sony  (No Help From Chekhov)

I’d as lief they left
my lava alone.

If I wanted petals,
I’d live under a cherry tree–
hell, I’d live under a whole
cherry orchard.
I’d write plays
of gloomy paralysis,
the intellectual class going
kaput.

But my harvest
is soot, and my flow glows
even in the eyes of those
wearing little round glasses.

I’ve grown a hole
in this mountain,
filled it
with sky,
limned it
with fire,
rooted it
in rock–charging ahead
to the blossoming of ash
that all cultivate
in the end,
even ad men,
women,
playwrights,
and when I use the word ‘lief’,
it has an I in it.

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A rather silly draft poem for the wonderful Susie Clevenger’s prompt on Real Toads about a quite remarkable video made of flower petals dropped in a volcano (the idea to show the high quality of the color of the computer screen.)  All my best wishes to Susie and her family. 

 

To You, After Shakespeare (No. 18)

June 3, 2015

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To You, After Shakespeare (No. 18)

Rock shifts for Sisyphus at the end of day,
the rock of Venus, but more temperate.
I write about the planet if I may
but also write of my nightly date
with your limbs.  If I could climb, I’d climb their shine–
I can’t actually see it in the dim–
but warm myself with the glow of the decline
of palm’s cascade from shoulder to hip (so trim).
As night goes on, the darkness seems to fade
and the skin of light to pool, a debt dear owed
to those, like us, who’ve endured a treeless shade
but now want branches–yours–now need what grows
even through the blows of rough, of come-what-may–
Oh love, I shan’t compare you to a summer’s day.

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This is very much of a draft poem, but I hope kind of fun, written to the end rhymes (more or less) of Shakespeare’s sonnet number 18.  I wrote this based on an exercise suggested by Bjorn Rudberg’s prompt  on Real Toads about using end rhymes of a specific poem. I did not use the last two rhymes of Shakespeare’s sonnet as they rely on “thee,” so had a great excuse to go my own way.   Pic is old one of mine of elephant influenced by Sisyphus–I don’t really mean the lover in the poem to seem frustrated–just liked the reference–ha!  All rights reserved.

Ps-I have been repeatedly editing the first line since posting.  I still don’t know that it is getting my meaning across but here it is for now. 

Girl

June 2, 2015

 Girl

A small bald girl pushed her head
between my arm and torso the way
a dog might,
her head as silken as a dog’s
only round as a globe,
and, of course, not furred; she whimpered,
wanting water,
and I asked a woman
who might be the ward nurse
or maybe even
her mother, why I could not give her any.
She gave me some dry reason with which I tried
to appease the girl, spouting stock about
tests, treatment, until the swim of her eyes lost themselves
in my side.  When I finally freed myself–for this
was a dream and I had things to do–
realizations to make in lost corridors
of no purse, no keys,
no money or ID–
I found that, while pinned to me, she had sucked
a twist of my shirt, the cloth wrung into
a crooked finger–

and I wondered, hurrying, half-
horrified, away, whether
she hadn’t lost more fluid than
she’d found–but was afraid
to even check the wizened cambric
for damp,
as if her sickness were something I
might catch, or,
her need–

All the rest of the day
the sheen of her scalp shone
in my head’s dim, and I wondered whether
my whole life would be different,
or would have been different
all along,
if I had somehow taken her
to water, let
her drink–dreams
being like that–

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Another draft poem not written to a prompt.  I’ll link to Real Toads Open Platform.  Pic is mine (as well as poem!)  All rights reserved.

Green Scene

May 31, 2015

Green Scene

This evening will lead to no other night.
This evening will end
no other day.

This evening where all that’s seen
is green–how lucky
is that–
except where that bird just streamed–
a line crossing the t of tree and leaf and grass
blade–

My eyes hurt the ache of a heart
that can’t in this green
justify pain–
a farther bird swoops
the verdigris,
this one like the dark dot
of an i, an eye, an I–

Fly, bird, says all that is healthy
in me, all that lets
t’s be, i’s sigh, that breathes in
this evening,
this day,
this night,
as it closes those sore eyes,
then opens them,
looking out.

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A draft of a littlest sort of poem, written just for myself.

 

When Low

May 30, 2015

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When Low

I follow as fish whose lip has been caught.
‘Follow,’ I say, but flop flatter than him–
he, who pants hard with lungs he’s not got,
as eyes, like rolled marbles, marl rather than dim.

I can’t strike ahead, but trail as a shade
might shadow the living, one of those ghosts
who tracks Proserpine throughout Hades’ glade,
as if her curls’ currents will dwarf Lethe’s flows,

for quick and lithe even life’s keratin lies
compared to a spirit that flickers like stone,
this spirit I bangle in bright ribbons, dyes,
trying to tangle its bass undertone

with hues and translucence, with light seen through lawn,
the stranded weave tight, though seams are long gone–

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Don’t ask me what it means!  This was written for Bjorn Rudberg’s prompt on Real Toads to write a sonnet using a series of rhyming end words.  (The specific words were given by Bjorn.  I have used them all and in the correct sequence, though Bjorn said we could use homonyms and slant rhymes, so I’ve substituted ghosts for goes; a slant homonym.  Ha!)

PS – vague process notes–lawn a type of tightly woven fabric like linen; Lethe a river to the underworld whose waters cause forgetfulness; Proserpine, the Roman name of Persephone–goddess (daughter of Demeter)  who spends six months of the year each year in the underworld after having been stolen by Hades (Pluto) and eaten a kernel of pomegranate there; keratin–what hair is made of!   The picture is a photo of a sculpture at the Metropolitan Museum in New York–I am sorry –don’t know the details of the sculpture; photo is mine; all rights reserved. 

Pps– I am joking when I say I don’t know what it means– I don’t know how others interpret any poems but I tend to be pretty specific (if sometimes obscure) in terms of what I am getting it!  

 

 

 

Porch with a View (in a Valley)

May 29, 2015

 

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by Jason Martin (watercolor on paper)

Porch with a View (In a Valley)

The pollen slips like dance wax
on a porch that has seen many
waxed dances, more
than I remember
and I remember enough.

If I could cast sadness as a weed,
maybe I could root it out.
But it’s one of those stones
that comes to earth’s surface,
no matter how we clear it,
with every till,
every until,
every single then here now.

The trick is to dance over it.
So, I tell myself.
Or maybe the trick
is simply to stand still,
or, more simply, to still–
to let the sadness dance over,
understanding that stones in the mind
weigh about as much
as the dust of dandelions and lilacs alike–

Oh, the slippery mind–
how it wants
to hold things in
its palms; how it wants
to have palms–this perch
at the side of a mountain, these
straitened planks–

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This is very much of a draft poem.  I am particularly uncertain of the last two stanzas, and have contemplated (long) ending at the end of the second stanza.  But here I am, with extra lines.  I  am posting it now to move on from it a bit.  The painting is by Jason Martin, and is also used as the cover of my poetry book. Going on Somewhere.   (Check it out!  Along with my other books, Nice, Nose Dive and 1 Mississippi.)

Have a nice weekend. 

 

Also, a Girl

May 27, 2015

Also, a Girl

When a woman is property,
she’s part of the furniture.

A table where men
dig elbows, take
their fill.

A wastebasket, kicked
to a corner, place
to spit.

Shelf where scuffed
shoes sit.

Her vagina, keyhole crowbarred;
pillows, sweated, punched.

When a woman is property,
she also serves
as a means of production.
Run through
an assembly line, busily dis-
assembled.

Oh, how rich they are,
who can destroy
their property
like that.

Who blames a table
because it is scratched, one leg
broken?
But she feels blame, certain
no one wants
such a table–

She feels too
the table leg–still jammed
inside her–

She does not want it to touch
her inner thighs
so splays her own legs stiffly
to its sides
as if they were stilts,
as if they were splints,
as if they too
were wooden.

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I’m back with a rather grim poem, sorry.  This one inspired by (i) reading about the girls released or escaped from Boko Haram in Nigeria, many of whom seem compelled to deny some of their terrible ordeal out of fear that they will themselves be censured or stigmatized.  (ii) This was also inspired by Shay/Fireblossom’s prompt on Real Toads to write a list poem.  I am linking to Real Toads Open Platform. The pic is my drawing; all rights reserved for it, and, of course, for poem.

Note that I was thinking specifically of Boko Haram in Nigeria when writing this poem, but women are treated like property all over the world.  

In terms of my own break–ah–not a good time for it!  Thanks for your real world indulgence.   

Moat

May 17, 2015

 

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Moat

A part of us lives
behind a moat of bone;
it sculls about
our skulls,
on the look-out.

So defended.  Even when it feels it’s been
a pawn, it’s certain it secretly harbors
the queen or king,
of everything.

How lucky that in this bateau ivre
this row of self-deceiving,
we have a skin,
a wall easily pierced
by all’s awl.

How lucky that we have
these isthmuses of
lips, mouth, tips,
peninsulas
of nerve ends;
for it’s the outside that keeps us
centered–

for me–the sage
brush
of this minute’s coolish breeze, the frisson
beneath my sleeves,
the warmth of you,
earlier,
the ripples of the chest
that rises, falls.

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Another drafty poem for my own prompt on Real Toads, relating to John Donne’s “no man is an island.” 

Bateau Ivre worked its way in their somehow–it means “drunken boat” in French and is the title of a poem by French poet Arthur Rimbeaud: in the poem, according to Wikipedia, the boat tells of becoming filled with water, thus drunk.

The pic is mine; all rights reserved. 

PS the end of this was edited just before first posting, now edited again to move back to the original–agh. 

Bells

May 16, 2015
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Bells

We hung bells over your changing table, strung
on a thick silken cord–

A tinkle above your tinkle, as it were, or,
whatever–

For purposes of this piece, it is helpful to understand that the refuse of a little nursed baby often spouts as green as Spring, a new digestive system its own
kind of April.

My fingers were quick
change artists,
but your father’s whole body was sometimes drawn
into gear.

I remember his once clanging those bells full throttle, trying to quell
your wails. He was stripped
to the waist, his other hand keeping
you safe-
father-daughter bonding–still,
you were alarmed–maybe by
his matador’s dodge, the cape
of fleeing shirt tail, or maybe it was just
the green in you coming
to the fore–

The bells were not for babies–
brass.  Probably we should not have hung them
over your head–
still, their weight, their
realness, was also
what made them work (usually)–their rings
more resonant than coo, conjuring
baby awe–

but that day’s jangle of wail
and bell
was like two rivers meeting, a confluence
of conflicting flows, clear and
muddy; eddying sweetness
and screech==

I know now
there is no joy
completely pure, and all joy also
just that–

what is mitigated also
unmitigated–

Maybe this is why
bells can’t seem to knell
without some swell of cry
that also cups sky
while children’s cries ring out–
while children’s laughter
peals–

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A draft poem for my own prompt on Real Toads, about John Donne, and his beautiful lines about bells and connection.  This one more a story than poem, but there it is!  Thanks all.

 

ps-the conjoined pics, such as they are, are mine. They were much bluer when made!