Archive for the ‘poetry’ category

Odd Shoe

March 26, 2013

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Odd Shoe

And then there is the loneness of the odd shoe atilt
in the closet; a singleton,
it can’t even manage “akimbo.”
Sloped sides speak
of particular toes; they stood, stepped, sweat,
swanked, sidled, made
their mark.  But where now
is my fellow? the shoe pleads (whether
or not tongued, pumping dust
for some clear lead.)

And you, whose soul is also scuffed
but whole, insist that the shoe
still fits, insist on
wearing it, though
you limp, clump clump, even with
the trial, though even that you fear
may hear.

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Draft draft poem for dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night hosted by Tony Maude.  Wanted to join in the fun.  You should too.  (Sorry if you’ve seen drawing before.) 

Hey George!

March 24, 2013

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Hey, George.

Hey, George. Sorry to bother you in your bath, I mean…errrr
studio.
But it’s ten years now, officially, and tens
of thousands of lives….deaths, and
ruin and bankruptcy and–

What? Can I fix that mirror?
How’s that?
And the soap?
Don’t worry, I’ll shut my eyes (stretching one hand
into the stall)–

Which is what
you did too, hey Buddy?

Okay, sorry.
Sure, you’re a good guy.
You love kids, dogs; Barney as gosh damn cute
as they come, and Laura’s
been a real trooper.

Speaking of which, 4,486.
And the wounded, well, tons more, but those Army docs
have got so gosh darn great they can put just about anyone back together.
Sort of.

And you’re right–Dick was a real dick,
and Donald–forget about it–
and then there was your Daddy and goddamn
Saddam, and what were you supposed to do, and I
can bet you sure did pray–

What? The soap again. No?
the paintbrush?

Okay, fine, I’ll get it.. But this time,
I will not shut my eyes.

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Sorry to raise old wounds with this draft poem (of sorts) but it’s the tenth anniversary of the beginning of the war in Iraq this month, and this conversation was all I could come of up with for the dVerse Poets Pub prompt by the wonderful Claudia Schoenfeld re imaginary conversations with the famous or celebrated. I think Claudia was pushing for imaginary conversations with the dead, but there are more than enough dead to go with this conversation.

The references to studio and painting refer to pictures of paintings by George W. Bush that recently came out on the Internet– two are self-portraits painted of him in the bath, one with his face reflected in a small convex mirror. (And absolutely no offense meant here towards Laura Bush whom I genuinely admire, especially for her advocacy re libraries and literacy.)

For those who haven’t seen, here’s a link that shows two Bush’s self-portraits painted in the bath – one of just feet and legs, the other in a shower apparently.

Dream Lids (Friday Flash 55)

March 22, 2013

Dream Lids

We baled out
into a swamp–bad idea, turtle
wading onto my head,
snapper, its creased leg eye-dangling khaki,
mottled shell
a dangerous helmet. You turned
to help.  “Don’t use the oar,”
I pleaded at your hoist, but seeing aim
in your eyes, shut mine,
dream lids able to shield
as needed.

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Here’s a re-write of an older poem whittled down to 55 vine-tangled words for the G-Man.  Let him know.  

A week of a lot of work at work.  Agh.  Have a great weekend. 

Bear

March 21, 2013

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Bear

We were like two bears in the forest, destined
never to meet, only we did meet
and we weren’t furry or fat–
well, maybe a little love-handled,
except that we hadn’t been love-handled
so that when you touched me–you do have pale soft
hairs on the tops of your fingers–I shivered–
just like one of those bears stepping out
from under a waterfall or ducking down
to catch a fish, droplets arcing in finned
sparkle around my head–instead, we stood
in an abandoned hall, wooden closets
built into the walls, and only my nostrils moved, flaring a bit
with the dust; your hands as warm as a bear’s
certainly, only his would be pawed, and I
don’t know if bears put paws around each other
when they come out in early Spring, but when we met
in that wood hall, we barely paused in what was
warm, moist, musked, emergent
if you know what I mean–as if we’d each been stuck
in some dim den, as if we’d each
been hibernating, only we’d been awake
in our dens, lying so
unbearably alone and
sleepless.

Until, that is, we met,
like two bared, destined,
in a forest—wait, did I get
that right?

Yes.

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A blogging buddy cheered me up the other night by sending me a list of some very silly analogies written by High School students.  That thought let me to this poem which I am posting for the With Real Toads prompt by Susan re writing with an extended simile.  I am not sure that this qualifies but it was fun.  

Pea

March 19, 2013

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 What I tell myself

To find peace, I should become
like a pea (post-pod), wholly
self-contained (if plain), without hand
to go unheld, back
to hold too much.

Except, even footless,
I’d roll to some dim chink where
I’d dry, wrinkle, winkle out
a sprout–starting out somehow
again (though tendrilled),
clinging to anything
once more, blossoms
in search of busy.

So maybe best to leave be, not become like
pea–but let snagged jags sprout, as they do,
their ragged growths of
pain, astonishment, wrinkles—hands stretching
from each chink,
back crumpling
with stumble, feet finding pace
each roll, each
start-again.

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Kind of an odd draft poem for dVerse Poets Open Link Night.  I don’t know what the poem’s about;  I do like peas. (I don’t eat them with a knife.) 

Green

March 16, 2013

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Green

I.

She viewed herself as blue,
in need of rescue, which may have been
why she saw the guy, older, as someone able
to treat her nice.
But she was green truly,
green as a moon-new lawn, green as damp
dancible grass that imprints with lightest
footstep, so that when he said, huskily, once
there was no way out, that he wanted to hurt her,
she tended, later, to tread hard
on that same pain, self-blame tracking it everywhere.

II.

He (a very different he, a young-man-he, soldier, from
a separate story), saw himself as
brown, tanned, taut-tendonned,
only he was green, green
as a sapling–stripped, admittedly,
and sharpened to pointed stick–but still a boy beneath
the bark, no cudgel–and when
blood spread red over every kind of viewfinder, including
his bared eyes,
he felt both the gouge and the puniness
of the stick that they had made of him, and there
was no wood where he might escape, nor
water either, not even
the vaulted sky.

III.

They felt grayed, faded (a different
they, yet another
story) –leathery–and were amazed
how the pain of things that had
no physical weight–mere words–could penetrate–as if
their many coats of wool, silk, cotton, years,
scar tissue, were butter melted by anything
that might be mouthed.

But for all the pallor, they were still green
inside, and when they held each other,
wept, they felt the stir of that
that will grow, seek light, of that
that also held them.

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I am calling the above a draft poem, because I just wrote it and have edited since posting and I feel like it could probably be cut and the first part (especially) fixed in some way. But I am posting it for dVerse Poets Pub’s Poetics prompt on “It’s Not Easy To Be Green” – which I am hosting. Please do check out dVerse and, if inclined, post a poem!

Also, if you have even more time, please do check out my books: Children’s counting book 1 Mississippi -for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms. Or, if you in the mood for something older, check out Going on Somewhere, poetry, and Nose Dive, escapist but very fun fluff.

Cinquain on Nerves, Nerves on Cinquain (And Friday Flash 55)

March 14, 2013
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This elephant looks a litlte nervous. (It’s because I am including this caption in my 55 word count!)

Cinquain On Nerves

Sinking
stomach rising
to chest, slinking to loins,
groin, purloined to fight or flight–flight
mainly.

Nerves On Cinquain

Cinquain!
Sing me some peace!
Pacify with puzzling
those wracked synapses that capsize
night heart.

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Today has been a day of very stretched nerves, leading me to write  these paired cinquains for dVerse Poets Pub Forms For All Prompt on Cinquains.  See the great article by A.B. Maude (a/k/a Tony).  I also wrote them for the inimitable G-Man.  Do not tell him that I had to include the caption of my elephant in order to come up with 55 words.  

Lake

March 12, 2013

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Lake

Mist rises like fish jumping, like
heart thumping, like firs
sighing, like memory
crying, like
hope dying–not needed-not even
considered–like dawn
breaking, like love
making, like water curling in
upon its fall, like head on lap on
lips on lips on
hips, like you and me and fingers
fingering, a brush against a nipple,
or being brushed against,
like something somewhere sure
of joy, like
the thing itself.

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A revision of a poem from my book,  GOING ON SOMEWHERE, by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco (though the photograph above is mine and is actually of the Hudson River).  Posted for DVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night, hosted by the wonderful Claudia Schoenfeld.

Worry During Wartime

March 9, 2013

Worry During Wartime

I listen to cheerful bagpipes–a silly indulgence
at dusk, a scissoring
of frenzied buzz, blurred knees, imagined whipsaw
of pleated plaid, swirl of too much
warmth swallowed, my forehead aching
at the sudden undertones
of those other bagpipes, the ones that
line up in plaintive rows,  inexorably even
in height of hem,
step,  drumbeat–a tuneless
six feet below turned
earth, church on green
or granite, too much warmth
swallowed.

Try not to think
about it.  Should think about it,
but try not to.

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Draft draft draft poem for the dVerse Poets Pub Poetics prompt by the most wonderful Brian Miller and the also most wonderful Gretchen Leary.  Gretchen suggested writing to music.  I have. 

“Home”

March 8, 2013

Home

Last visit, her face was swollen, foreshortened by
pink scarf, but her cheekbones (Cherokee, she told me
when we were young) have now reasserted
themselves, her scalp refeathering.

You look so beautiful, I say, words she seems
to pick up, smile flickering,
until she turns again
to trying to sit, though we have
to catch and lift and
her husband
to support her,
which she cannot
bear for long.
I have to get up, she says,
I have to get out of this place.

He tries to stall, talks of brushing her hair
first, and for a moment, she leans
into his fingering
of brief curls, but then, determined, arching away,
I’ve got to get home.

You are home, he tells her,
in your own room, your own bed,
but she pushes now so hard
that we turn her legs, gather her arms, lift and walk
her to a chair, which despite whimpering
urgency, she cannot take, its chintz print
roses on vines.

Did you call the car? Tell him
to come right now?  You know you’ve got
to call it. 

I called it, her husband lies
as he holds her head close to slide down drops.
But I’ve got to go home, she cries, pulling away
from body, pain, still air.
Just stay for a bit, he whispers.

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I had determined to take a break from writing but I am posting this revised version of an older poem for dVerse Poets Pub “Meeting the Bar” prompt on home, hosted by the wonderful poet Pamela  Sayers (who writes of Mexico) and Victoria C. Slotto.  This is a poem that I have rewritten many times, never really able to get it right.  A different version can be found elsewhere on this blog and in my book of poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco).