Archive for the ‘poetry’ category

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What Those Who Believed in Purgatory Maybe Knew

October 15, 2014

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What Those Who Believed in Purgatory Maybe Knew

That there were dry spaces, in-between places,
where one must step through slews of shriveled souls
like so many fallen leaves–the faces,
crimped at the curves as old potatoes,

yet, still eyed–  where one would mute one’s gait
to cause no crackling, slide to not break a spine
(nor crush the dun spine once had backed). No, the game
was to walk as one walked through clover, thyme,

to schuss the crinkling wince, as if they were bees
that buzzed beneath, bees that didn’t truly
wish to sting, but needed warning of lithe feet;
to walk the freeze as one might walk July–

except with mourning pace, with low-bowed head–
just in case they traced your gaze, these waiting dead–

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Here’s a poem that’s gone through many iterations, in part because this is one of those I read to someone else (my husband) when still in draft, and he kept telling me he liked some earlier no-longer-quite-intact version better.  This is not one of the earlier, allegedly better, versions.  The only claim I can make is that it’s a sonnet–and it’s unintentionally Halloweeny–I am posting it belatedly for With Real Toads, hosted by Magaly Guerrero.  I am also going to hazard posting this for Izy Gruye’s “out of standard” prompt re zombies, since this may be the closest to zombies, I can get today (without looking into a mirror.)

Yes, it gets a little rhyme-y there at the end.  And the pic (mine) should really be browner leaves, which in fact is the case in upstate New York where I live–but I am in Manhattan just now, where the leaves are still pretty green!  

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Comments: 18 Comments

A Round of Cloud

October 12, 2014

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A Round of Cloud

The moon’s a round of cloud this morning,
the milkweed cloud strands–
what’s rock is wisp; what’s fine immense;
everything becomes its other–frost sparking
the fields–everything being
what it truly is, sometimes.

It tells me
that what I think is big is small; that what I discount, counts,
and I can’t help but notice, that even on this calmest of days,
stalks shift, spores waft, the clouds traverse
with footless continuity the blue,
and there, at the farthest edge
of my hearing, a stream
runs on.

It tells me, I tell myself,
that I must change my life.

But immediately after this telling,
I despair–
knowing that the moon, the grass, the milkweed,
don’t really care what I will or not–
they won’t pat some special spot
upon my head, send me particular caresses
of even breezy encouragement,
and change–the idea
that I can–feels
like my own cloud puff.

I sit down, slightly slumped,
when  a crow caws, raucous,
and me, being thoroughly human,
find commentary, a taunt–
but also something to hold to–
hope–
as if nature, in its kindness,
were sending me a sign,
knowing that I speak squawk
so much better than
moon, cloud, milkweed,
knowing that I may need
dark wings.

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Here’s a second poem written thinking about Eugenio Montale after Grace’s prompt on With Real Toads.  I don’t know if I can post two for the prompt, so may link it up to Real Toads Open Link Night. 


I’ve actually been writing a lot this weekend!  (And may end up posting more than I should.)   Trying to avoid all the things I am supposed to be doing!  Thanks as always for your support and encouragement.  Also, please, if you have time, consider checking out my new book Nice or any of my old books.  

 

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Tasked

October 11, 2014

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Tasked

There are small children
in my brain tasked
as whipping boys.
They take it and take it
and take it,
while I stand by, increasingly
mortified.

We have, you see, been educated together
from birth, which has created
a strong emotional attachment
between us–these small children
and all of me,
or rather, the rest of me,
or rather, Queen Me.

A part of that part of me cries
when they are punished,
as if, in my stead,
but educated from birth,
I’ve learned to keep it
in my head.

But these, my whipping boys,
grow into smaller and smaller children
as I age,
and now, unable to keep to one place, pained,
leap from brain to limb
from chest to face,
and my feet trip
and my hands mistake–
all because they refuse
to just sit still, take it.

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Here’s a very draft poem for Grace’s prompt on With Real Toads to write a poem inspired by Eugenio Montale.  I love Montale;  I’ve not read enough, and I can’t say how this poem was inspired by him–only that I read Grace’s prompt and struck by his poem about a well and this was what I wrote shortly after.  Whipping boys were used in the English court, when young princes were basically unpunishable by their tutors–the whipping boy was punished in place of the prince; the idea to teach a lesson  to the prince through the punishment of what was sometimes an only friend.  

I’ve not had much time for drawing lately so using photos I have!  I like this one though (taken in the beautiful Catskill Mountains.) 

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Charlotte On My Mind

October 10, 2014

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Charlotte On My Mind

I miss her.

The legs, sure–
(what a pair, what a pair, what
a pair, what a
pair–)

The spelling–tops–
(not everyone knows when to stop
putting r’s
in “terrific.”)

Of course, the web had
its icky side–
but there’s those out there who can’t abide
a trough–will scoff
at a rim of pancake,
act way too thin
for a tin’s skin of milk (even sweetened, even
condensed),
anything of that ilk–

(Oh, she would have liked, sniff, “ilk”–)

She killed flies,
KILLED
flies, and would have definitely
hurt a flea–

But she saved
me–

And that, I realize, is what life
is all about,
at least, if you’re (snort) living–

having someone in your corner–
in my case, of the barn door–
who listens kindly to your grunts upon the floor,
who wants every whisker on your pork
to wave in the fork
(non-fork)
of tomorrow, I mean, today–
this very morning–
when the moon gleams still
in the great blue hill
of the way beyond me,
just like the memory
of her round grey (whiff)
(blort) orb–

A friend of more than sorts–
that’s a friend who
when you’re immured
in fresh manure, reminds you
of the ineffable being
of being–that even
weeweeing all the way home
is a worthy roam; 

who makes you feel
like you’re “some pig”–
no matter how old, fat, unexciting–
because that’s what she once called you
in writing–

Because there’s something about words
written down
even when they’re written up,
that you hold onto
in your heart
long after the dew’s departed,
even when the paper/ink/web/ silk–
all that ilk–
has frayed to wisps, can only
whisper–
(she, sniff, would
have liked
that–)

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An overly long poem belatedly for Kerry O’ Connor’s prompt on With Real Toads to write a poem in the voice of an animal.  This one from Wilbur the pig, of Charlotte’s Web, by E.B. White.

I have to confess to having aborted other attempts at this prompt especially in the face of some of the wonderfully clever poems others have posted and that I’ve read so far–Kerry O’Connor’s wonderful “Dylan Thomas’s Dog’s Request” and Hedgewitch’s Nevermaiouw.  (Check them out–I’m sure others on Real Toads are also great–I’ve not yet had a chance to check them out !)

And I am so very sorry to be late in returning comments.  This has been an unusually busy week. But I will (eventually) get back to people.  Thanks much for your patience.  And if you are truly patient–prove it by checking out my new book, Nice, or any of my old books!

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A New Yorker Thinking About Depictions of Icarus

October 7, 2014

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A New Yorker Thinking About Depictions of Icarus

The closest to Icarus
I’ve ever seen
was the second plane streaming
into the World Trade Center.

Though the plane
was not trying to ascend–
it was flying level, straight,
dead-on.

There was no wing flap, no halt
of collecting breath.
It seemed, in that great blue stare,
as if the plane expended
no effort at all–

until it made its own
fire ball, a gaseous fist
of orange sun blooming black,
and the street, which had like me
been watching dumbly,
screamed.

All that felt like wax
was time–it fixed us–me at Bleecker
and Sixth; to my side, a tall woman,
grey streaks in parted hair, face re-running
her partner’s schedule that downtown day–

When seeing the dark shapes that later spiraled
from the smoking windows,
some science high school kids, much closer to the scene,
thought  that they were desks being thrown out,
people trying, for some strange reason,
to save their work–

Smaller children, led away
from a nearby elementary,
looked up and saw
big birds.

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Here’s a drafty poem for Marina Sofia’s prompt on dVerse Poets Pub. Marina’s prompt is really to write of something seen from the corner of an eye, but she discusses, in a lovely way, Breughel’s painting, “The Fall of Icarus” and various poems about it; so this was what came up for me.

Process note–Icarus, the son of the great craftsman Daedelus, escaped from Minos’s palace in Crete with wax wings fashioned by his father.  Despite his father’s warnings, he flew too close to the sun, and the wax melted.  Of course, many people jumped from the WTC rather than be burned.

The above image is Rubens’ painting of Daedelus and Icarus–no copyright infringement intended. 

PS — sorry for the plug, but I’d be most grateful to anyone for checking out my new book, Nice–available on Amazon and in Kindle.  

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Comments: 27 Comments

Autumn, Chilling

October 6, 2014

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Autumn, Chilling

I misread the saunter
of fall leaf
as butterfly landing,
but it’s cold for monarchs;
swallowtails, too, long high-tailed;
even moths
look for sweaters.

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Here’s a poem for open link day on With Real Toads.  Both pics are mine from recent beautiful days!  (Admittedly. the bottom one is a bit watery, but loved the swirls.)

 

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Too Long Out Of Eden

October 5, 2014

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Too Long Out of Eden

Increasingly, when I come to joy,
my heart breaks,
aching for those
who’ve gone ahead too soon.

I’ve grieved already–
that nothing could make them stay,
spirit them away
from what would take them.

But good ongoing
brings fresh loss–even the sweetest fruit
of the tree of knowledge
hard to swallow
in such shadows.

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55 sad ones for Real Toads.   (Sorry!  I’ve been meaning to post something humorous, but you write what you write.)  (Photograph, mine, is of some kind of apple-pear in a very poor fruit year.)

Also, the original title of this was “In Age” — this may have been a better title but I wanted to give more of a hint to the tree of knowledge metaphor–I am thinking of the understanding of the distinction between good and evil that the bite of the forbidden fruit gave. K. (Obscure– I admit it.)

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A North American, on Being Prompted To Write a Poem about a Vietnamese Cave

October 4, 2014

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A North American, on Being Prompted To Write a Poem about a Vietnamese Cave

I can’t think about caves in Vietnam
without picturing soldiers
hiding–or boys who would be made
to be soldiers,
girls who would be made
to serve them–

Which shows, I suppose, how stuck in time
I am, mired in old sores as if they were a ditch
and me a rear wheel, wayward,
blades of switch grass buzzing
in the spin of my caught hub.

My ditch–and I want to make this
crystal clear (as some around that time
used to affect)–
has nothing to do with any dislike
of the Vietnamese–rather, it collects its ditch-pitch

from a consciousness of my own (our own)
wrong turns, reckless
wreckage, last minute
not-saves–

I picture tendrils
of tan fingers.  They touch for balance–
for who could grip?–the lime sluice
of a stalag-something (that serves as
both bar and shield). Their eyes, schooled
in a glittering verdigris of frond, sun,
paddy, ache in the echoing dank,
but there are just too many
damn greens outside–
khaki, camo, olive drab–

And now, sitting here on my side of the spin,
I wonder about their stepping into
the sun after all that–years–
those would-not-
be soldiers,
blinking below a leaf canopy, sleek hair
dull for that spent time,
yet still framing their faces wholly,
looking up.

Why do I not know more?
Why did we not learn more
about such things?

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Yes, I know–I’m pushing it.  A poem of sorts for Hannah’s prompt on With Real Toads to write something inspired by the beautiful Hang Sun Doong Cave.  The cave was not formally discovered until 1991, some time after the Vietnam War. 

Also, I couldn’t find a cave picture that I felt sure was in the common domain, so the above is mine–it doesn’t have to do with caves!  But yes, with reflection.

And I am sorry for the endless self-promotion, but if you have any interest (and 99 cents) do check out my new book, Nice, which takes place during the Vietnamese War. 

Process note–Richard Nixon was known for often making things “crystal clear.”  

 

 

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Waking

October 3, 2014

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We lay as if dead.
I’d pled with you
best I could hardly moving
to keep your head
back of my legs,
but could not
raise my own
to track yours.

They’d be back
any second–after the shots
and shouts,
some side stairs seemed
to have beckoned–
an echoing clamber up
that set us wondering
if we could run, but
we lay close, only hearts
darting.

I kept thinking
that only one was bad, the other one
on the chase,
but I realize now
I had no basis for that.
Still, when the bad guy flowed by,
I felt relieved briefly,
even as the other turned
into our niche,
bending his knees to the same pitch
as his weapon, whispering,
“I’m sorry, ladies.”

I thought at first–almost–
that it was an apology–as if
for the inconvenience–until
we were rinsed by blur–shards
of stopped-time–maybe pocked
concrete,
and whether we too were hit, I wasn’t sure, only
that we were lying now
harder than ever.

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A sort of a poem that was prompted by a dream (rather than another site’s post!)   The drawing is also one of mine.  (All rights reserved.) 

I’m sorry to have been slow returning comments–a lot going on, but I will visit!  In the meantime, if you have any free time, please do check out my new book, Nice, available on Amazon and on Kindle (99 cents!)  Or check out any of my old books!  Thanks much.
PP Native Cover_4696546_Front Cover

 

 

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Eos At The Never-End

September 30, 2014

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Eos At the Never-End

She took
to locking him in a room.
She took
to rolling rugs against the jamb.
She took no one
into her confidence,
not the sons of her womb,
the sons she’d won
by taking him,
then beautiful.

She, who gave birth to herself
each day anew;
she, who gave birth
to each day anew;
could do nothing–
against the decay
of his loved limbs,
the wither of his skin,
nor yet against
the forestalling of
the dust of him.

She took to polishing
everything;
burnishing the door’s brass handle
until it fretted into the flute
of an icon’s
pilgrim-palmed foot,
the metal worn to its marrow
by eons’ pleas.

She hummed, polishing,
as if dusting thin air,
but truly to guard against
the threadbaring
of the rolled rugs, their insufficient
immutability,
for she could not bear to hear
his gristled babble,
his dried tongue,
the chirping
of chapped bones.

Oh how she ached, when there;
oh how she hurt, when apart;
but still she could not enter,
not even in those dark hours
when oblivion corralled
her pale chariot,
and rose was a shade
not imaginable.
Especially
not then.

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Here’s a sort of poem for dVerse Poets Pub’s poetics prompt, hosted by Abhra Pal, to write a poem arising out of myth.  I have resorted to the myth of Eos (the Goddess of the Dawn) and Tithonus, the human lover she captured, who, upon her request to Zeus, was granted the boon of immortality.  Eos forgot, however, to request that Tithonus also be granted endless youth; thus he was doomed to live forever, growing older and older.  There are numerous versions of the myth–in some Tithonus becomes so old and parched that he turns into a cricket; in others, he simply becomes very very old (and I guess, senile) and Eos locks him away in a room so that she does not have to hear his feeble babbling. 

The above is a photo (supposedly in the public domain) of  Eos and her son (by Tithonus) named Memnon, slain in the Trojan War.  (So, it’s not Tithonus–too young–but a beautiful figure.)  This is from an Attic red-figure cup, ca. 490-480 BC, signed by Douris (painter) and Kalliades (potter).  It is sometimes called the “Memnon Pietà.”   (It’s in the Louvre Museum. No copyright infringement intended.) 

PS this has been edited since first posting;  one edit was done on the iPhone and left out a word!  But I think I’ve fixed that now.

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