Archive for the ‘poetry’ category

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No Place To Lay Head (Asylum)

April 25, 2014
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Photography of Lisa Gordon

No Place To Lay Head (Asylum)  (From  A “Firm’s” Perspective)

Sometimes I did
get my danders up–
so many bristled heads
pushing me
into the bedsteads–

Not even a bit
of sacking, potato-faced,
lumped by the press
of Adam’s apple,
too soon split
at the seams–who knew
your own feathers
could poke
so sharp–
even straitened stripes
bunching punch drunk
in the clenches–

Flakes filled
my folds–
eye, sob,
paint, dinner–

Pillow, pill-ow,
pill-low,
I whispered
into their ears,
sure speaking down to them
could help, sure some–the poor, women–knew the language
of down.

****************************************************

This is very much of a draft poem, posted for Margaret Bednar’s prompt on With Real Toads, which asked us to write a prompt based upon Lisa Gordon’s moving photographs of Willard Asylum and to write in the first person from some perspective.  This is written from the perspective of a pillow.    I do not mean it to be funny at all;  I find this a terribly painful subject.
On the good side, this is the 25th day of National Poetry Month.    At this point, it gets hard to tell if anything one writes has meaning! In this regard, I had many different endings and have edited since posting, adding the last several words. Still very uncertain of ending.  

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Comments: 19 Comments

Thinking of Shakespeare, Caught At A Closed Gate —

April 24, 2014

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Thinking of Shakespeare, Caught At a Closed Gate–

I hear him cursing “Zounds” (‘His wounds”)
at the dusk-dropped gate, its iron lattice,
even then, mottled with thick and thin.
He presses his forehead almost
into its rivulets, nipping cold, as
Hamnet of an instant pricks
his heart, like a foul hollow tripped upon
in the sluicing cobbles,
that little tiny boy—

How foolish to toy
with what is no more, he thinks,
knowing even as his next breath moves the rain
like a feather
that only one who never had a son
could think
so foolishly.

For his poor fool
is dead.

So, his mind works—words, stones skipping
across a river, light slipping
across a sea—figures
of speech that
from tossed ships
salvage sails
for wings–
even as he pulls his own cloak, sodden–
(for the rain, it seems, has rained down
every day)–
closer than the night, and heads back
to a pallet at the theater,
looking up to the heavens
for signs of gentling.

 

*******************************************************

Here’s a draft poem for the 24thday of April, National Poetry Month, written for Ella’s (of Ella’s Edge) prompt on With Real Toads. Ella’s prompt was to write a poem based upon a sentence from a book. I opened up Bill Bryson’s book on Shakespeare— a section  that discusses the period after Shakespeare lost his young son, Hamnet. Of course, very little is known of Shakespeare’s feeling about the loss except through his plays. I’ve tried to incorporate very loosely some lines from plays, including King John, King Lear and Twelfth Night, and very obliquely, The Merchant of Venice. “Zounds” was a euphemism for God’s wounds or Jesus’ wounds.   The sentence that was the spring board is below:

“A separate question is why Shakespeare moved in this period to Bankside, a not particularly salubrious neighborhood when his theatrical connection was still with the Theatre, at precisely the other side of the city. It must have been a slog shuttling between the two (and with the constant risk of finding his way barred when the City gate was locked each dusk) ….” Bill Bryson, Shakespeare.
MY APOLOGIES FOR SLOWNESS IN RETURNING COMMENTS.  A VERY BUSY COUPLE OF DAYS.  I WILL GET BACK TO PEOPLE AND THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCE!

(PS – I appreciate that the photo has little to do with the poem!  Agh!)

 

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Comments: 15 Comments

Off-Season (Flash 55)

April 23, 2014

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Off-Season

Istanbul in our twenties, blonde
in the Blue Mosque, toes squishing
into piles of carpet smelling faintly
of toes faced
with overarching tiles, mosaics synced
in their mismatch, sprigs,
prayers, paisleys, but no eyes
except of the men
who watched us in and out
fighting about who would sell us
what we would not buy.

*******************************
A belated 55 for Mama Zen and also a poem for the prompt and photo of Lolamouse of With Real Toads. The wonderful picture, among others, was taken by Lolamouse at a shop in Portland, Oregon, but the blue amulets look identical to ones my daughter bought in Turkey a few years back, so I am guessing these are also from there. One process note is that it is my understanding that Islam discourages (or even prohibits) the depiction of sentient beings, which means that mosques do not have iconography of people’s faces but tend to focus upon geometric shapes or flowers or calligraphy. The “Blue Mosque” is a popular name of the Sultanahmet (or Sultan Ahmed) Mosque in Istanbul.

This is also some consecutive poem–23rd?–for April, National Poetry Month.

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Comments: 9 Comments

Estranged (Out West)

April 22, 2014

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Estranged (Out West)

She broke the everywhere flat
by interpretive dance, saying
“this time I’ve got a good one,
no, really–”
until he pulled to the side
of emptiness
and she jumped up, lay down, flailed,
a complex choreography enacting eggs
scrambled or banana smoothies
under construction.
He never could guess
that her collapse in two
showed the cracking,
her arches her unpeel,
the quiver (frying)
the whirl (time
in the blender)
but as the gravel poked warmth
into her bare
feet, arms, he would
laugh at last,

his throat echoing
the rough swish
of her movement,
all that could be heard in that desert
except the tick of the engine;
you know how cars do that sometimes,
after they’ve stopped.

*******************************************

Another very drafty poem for some day of April National Poetry Month. I am linking this one to Shanyn’s prompt on dVerse Poets Pub about road trips.

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Comments: 15 Comments

Epiphanies (of Sorts) around Easter

April 21, 2014

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Epiphanies (of Sorts) around Easter

Easter, as a child, meant ham,
a family tradition,
which I thought back then
was a subtle declaration
that we were not Jewish
though I realize now
was probably the only big meat to hand as Spring sprang
when my parents grew up in Midwest farm country.

My in-laws in the East ate lamb,
which always seemed to me
a rather poor-taste communion with Him,
who taketh away
the sins of the world, blood pooling
on the platter,
but I realize now
was likely the least wasteful fresh meat
Springs.

So, with such food for thought nudging me,
I realized, today, Holy Saturday, that the child whose hands glove glow
in a Georges de la Tour painting, my absolute favorite
when I too was about that age,
is not a girl with her father, also bald like mine, but
Jesus himself with Joseph (“Joseph, the Carpenter”).
De La Tour’s Joseph,
according to Wikepedia, uses an auger shaped
like a crucifix–

And all this time, I thought it was simply
a strikingly beautiful painting, showing, amazingly, how light shines
in dark places and can be caught by hands
shaped by pigment, or
the love of it,
and can be fixed too
as long as the hues hold true
and are kept in place by the rabbit-skin glue
used to prepare the painting surface.

Which is something else we don’t really think of much–
the stuff of paintings,
like the sources of ham and lamb–
all flames of a sort that light us,
waxing our grip,
without, we hope, burning
our fingers–

But I wonder, today,
in this Spring sun
so much brighter
than a candle, how we redeem
the squeals, how
are they too deemed necessary?

All I can think of is the word
“painstakingly–”

************************
Here’s very much of a draft poem for some day of April National Poetry month. I’m sorry if I’ve worn out the Easter theme–but here it is. The painting above is by Georges De La Tour, “Joseph the Carpenter.” I do not claim any copyright in the photograph and think/hope this is fair use. I am linking to the open link night of with real toads. (Again, by the way, I am trying to return all comments, but it is a bit hard right now. I will catch up and I thank you for your kind visits!)

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Comments: 13 Comments

Easter Gloves

April 20, 2014

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I am posting the above, with a typed translation below, as a shaped poem for the wonderful Kerry O’Connor’s post on With Real Toads. I have a great deal of trouble “getting” shaped poetry– in this regard, I extend my sincerest apologies to Hedge Witch–(Verse Escape)–for mucking up her comment box this morning with my confusion. She has a wonderful shaped poem.

Here’s the typed version of mine–

Easter meant ham and little white gloves, one
as pink as a tulip, the other white
as snow; Easter was like that–sometimes falling
in the harsh blow of cherry just blossoming–
I’d have to hold onto my new straw hat–other years, my mother
would glisten in her salmon-colored spring coat, a fish
out of water…

The minister had a way of torquing his hands
like a tense crocus or dragnet cage
to focus our attention, say, on the stone rolled away
from the tomb, but my eyes followed instead
the seams of my little white gloves worrying
that they were already smudged,
not understand that is the way
of stitching, to pick up in its threads
bits of the world, the dust
of so many stones.

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Comments: 23 Comments

The Ordering-of-Words Matters

April 19, 2014

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The Ordering-of-Words Matters

Candle light
can delight.
Candles toyed
can destroy.

Water flow–
what a flow!
Waterboard–
What? Absurd–

Elective shlock
electric shock–
Extraordinary rendition–
(as an extra,
rend his shin–)

Words used
word abuse.
“No torture.”
(Not er…true.)

What a difference
placement makes–
the space between
him, me, you.

****************************************
Here’s for some consecutive day of April National Poetry Month. This one has been bumping around in my brain since yesterday and serendipitously fits Sam Edge’s very cool prompt on With Real Toads to write a poem using/misusing language in an unusual way. Unfortunately, the misuse of the words above is all too usual.

As is usually the case with images on my blog (unless otherwise noted), the picture was made by me, such as it is. All rights reserved.

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Comments: 28 Comments

(Self) Portraiture In the Modern Age

April 18, 2014

(Self) Portraiture In the Modern Age

I sit
in front of my computer
squinting into
the screen.

Gallup asks me
to rate my life,
on a scale
of 1 to 10,

Then to rate my life
five years from now.

My answers are supposed to be
confidential,

meaning that only a select few
sitting in Omaha, Nebraska,
and their computer system,
now know
not only how I think the President,
Congress, the military industrial complex,
health care reform, various commercial enterprises
my employer and workplace and my exercise program
are doing,
but also
how my life turned out
and will.

(Participation is my chance,they tell me,
to “make my opinions count.”)

Sometimes I only need go up to 5–a half-life–
that being a world that I cannot imagine
without–you name it–Pizza Hut–Citibank–Ramada Inn–
and 1 meaning that I think the
pizza/services/rooms
really stink.

I picture these (presumably) Nebraskans
depicting me
as a series of checkered squares mounted
onto the sides of their cubicles,
not so much like the pixels of a super close-up
as the pattern of a restaurant tablecloth
tacked up over damaged sheetrock–

The cut-out is shaped
like a woman–as slender as the target at
a shooting range–only this one
is of a certain age group, i.e. her squares
intersect with other squares
perhaps of a different color–
but only with those that also do not frequent Pizza Hut,
are able to imagine a world without Citibank,
and can’t remember whether they ever stayed
at a Ramada Inn–

And yet, the squared curves
have a life, although, admittedly,
it rates below 10.

Were the questions interesting?
Gallup asks me at the end of each survey,
as I sit
in front of the computer,
squinting
into the screen.

*************************************
Ha.  Here’s another silly one for DAY 18!  Of National Poetry Month.  Posted for Brian Miller’s prompt on dVerse Poets Pub to write a self-portrait.  I am, in fact, a proud member of the Gallup Poll.

And I’m sorry for the length–my editing capacities wearing down.  

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Comments: 16 Comments

Chaplinesque

April 17, 2014

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Chaplinesque

The eyelashes bat like the reel
beating
as the hat signs civility by raised
greeting;
the brows, roused high in fear or wonder,
lower when facing forbidden plunder.

Hands rub fingers dastardly;
lift pinkie up when masterly;
cup thread-bare arms in blow-coat cold;
cuddle shoulders when showing “shy but bold;”
wizen when hope can’t be cajoled,
a roughed carnation in their fold–

And so, heart strings are tugged and pulled
by hands, by brows, by outlined eyes
that flicker beaded joys and sighs,
surprise us with damp lashes’ bat
as we rise and fall by the little hat.

******************
Another draft and slightly dopey poem but this one is for the 17th day of national poetry month and I take refuge in that. I am linking it to the real toads prompt by the wonderful Kerry O’Connor to write of silent movies.

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Comments: 15 Comments

Figuring Out the Downhill

April 16, 2014

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Figuring Out the Downhill

She was stranded
at the side of the slope, blonde hair straining
from her cap, dark roots no anchor
in this white; a novice slope, but steep here
for a novice.

I thought I understood, being a novice too,
what it was to not bear
to aim your skis downhill one more time, not even
for the space of the turn,
but her children had gone ahead, she said–

Eyes like snow glistening only
circled grey,
face made up
to keep up,
and how’d she’d arranged this trip,
she said, wanting them to have
a good time–

My husband saying, you want some help?
and they’ll be okay, seeing how stranded
the woman’s face was
beneath her cap.

(He knew how I was too
skiing, you know, about speed
and letting go–)

They were from New Jersey, she said,
and that her husband
had been a trader, Cantor Fitzgerald–

And this being New York and late December 2001,
we did not breathe
for a while after she said that,
not even the fir trees breathed,
not even the leafless deciduous–she was almost
in the woods–
only the other skiers whooshed
for they had not heard her, and she shuddered
as they swang past, and
all they found, she said, was his hand,
so lucky, truly, something, DNA,
to bury–

And he said–my own husband–here,
reaching out his glove, and all you need
right now
is just to get to the other side, and he gestured
towards the white blank space beside us–hardly even going down
at all, or just a little–
and can you do that?
While I just wanted
to sit and weep, only I’d
fallen once already, and knew how hard it was
to get up again
on skis–

And anyway this story
is not about me–

He skied backwards slowly–
arms outstretched, you’re doing
great–

While I made myself take the slope on my own,
knowing it was only for a few minutes,
which made it possible.

At the bottom, the incline tapered,
broadened, so that even a novice
could feel in control, so that even a novice
would feel like they might try it
again, the sun shining in that blinding expanse
like glass—

 
*************
I know I say everything is a draft poem, but this really is. But it’s April, so if you are trying to do a poem a day, you have to settle for what you do that day. I am so sorry not to return comments for a couple of days, but I expect to be considerably freer tomorrow. Thanks for your kindness.

Process notes: for non-New Yorkers–Cantor Fitzgerald was a trading/brokerage firm whose offices were in the World Trade Center. Many many of the employees at work on 9/11 died due to the location of the offices towards the top of the WTC.

Ps I am sorry for sentimentality of pic and possibly piece.

PPS– Agh–just edited this piece –I had started saying it was January 2002 then switched to December and left the 2002.  Of course, it was meant to be 2001.

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Comments: 15 Comments

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