Archive for the ‘poetry’ category

“Missing Something” (Read Directions First Maybe)

December 1, 2012

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Missing Something

Yellow-black burn
spilled into linoleum dim, overswarming
with olfactory buzz
the warm hum of being eight
and baking on my own.

My mother tromped from bedroom telephone
to bemoan the oven floor puddled
with goo that still dripped
stalactite-like
from tube pan liner, a reverse lava swirling thick
amarillo onto the glowing U
of heating element.

So elemental, it seemed to her, that the eggs
in a sponge cake (her favorite) must be separated, whites beaten
into stiff peaks
as the recipe I had not read through
required,
and that the lining of a tube pan, especially
when incorrectly positioned, could not, like first base fumbling,
hold
a running batter.

So, I learned, or was taught–for
I’m not sure I’ve learned it yet–that life
is not simply a stir-in
of the sequential–that you can’t,
in other words, just pour a bunch of stuff
into a bowl and expect
to eat cake–

But how could it be? Magic,
my burning cheeks were certain, was supposed
to work my way,
just as in every story–
except perhaps The Little Match Girl,
Bambi, Charlotte’s Web….

Okay.
But there should at least,
I was sure, be a third wish, a silver lining
to re-capture the remiss, cloak consequence
with iridescence, not
leak.

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A reading of the poem, if interested:

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I am posting the above for dVerse Poets Pub Poetics prompt hosted by Stu McPherson, about ‘missing’.  I did another poem earlier today about missing my brain, and worms, but decided that even a failed cake was a bit more savory.

For those who don’t know, a tube pan is a pan with an inner liner and tube that fits into a bottomless frame.  It should ideally be used for very thick batters (like fruit cake), or very puffy batters (like angel food cake or sponge cake).  Or my problem may be have been that I put the pieces together backwards!

Have a nice weekend.  And if you get a chance, check out my books! Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco). 1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, orNose Dive. Nose Dive is available on Kindle for just 99 cents!

Somewhere Under the Sidewalk (Subway NYC) – Flash Friday 55

November 30, 2012

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Somewhere Under the Sidewalk (Subway NYC)

He was silvered–not in the usual sense–hair only bit not greyed –

Oh–and two beige bands (leg) between shimmer pants, chrome socks –

and the eyes, focusing from foil-creased sockets, whites yellowed–irritated
when
train’s twist toppled

his pole-wedged bike, though,
as oilcan funnel hat
unhandlebarred—we other riders ahhed, understanding, tin.

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Here’s a flash 55 for the G-Man – true story of Tin Man sighted on train yesterday.  It took a while to figure out who he was, then felt rude to take pic in confined train car, but after holding the door for him and his bike, and well, falling behind him, I felt a little more justified in trying to get a shot.

Have a nice weekend.  And if you get a chance, check out my books! Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco). 1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, orNose Dive. Nose Dive is available on Kindle for just 99 cents! Nose Dive really is very funny and light hearted, and 1 Mississippi is a lot of fun for little teeny kids. 

IN(n)ATE – Erasure Poem

November 29, 2012

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IN(n)ATE

A child is the father
executed, the registrar
of the form, deed recorded, putative
added chapter, filed
genetic marker
openly
and notoriously obligating
support, and, in
a (b)(r)(ief) absence,
kind letters.

(From New York Estates, Powers and Trusts Law, Section 4-12.)

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Here’s my attempt at an “erasure poem” for the dVerse Poets Pub prompt by Anna Montgomery.  This one, kind of quick, is based upon a section of the New York legal code. My sense is that this is not a copyright violation (though perhaps not the best poetry.)

“Fighting”

November 28, 2012

Fighting

Insatiable fences line souls,
sheepdog rails
split to nip.
I tell him, stolidly,
to leave me alone, a soliloquy that means
don’t leave me.
But it’s either a lifetime or nothing–
we can’t seem to share five minutes
in-between, hearts
skipping beats in broken record
plaints; he
feints, pretending not
to understand; fence posts yap
at our heels.

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I am linking my poem above to the wonderful prompt by Kerry O’Connor of With Real Toads about Ingrid Jonker, South African (Afrikaans) poet (1933-1965) and writing about relationships.  I’d never heard of Ingrid Jonker before – she’s wonderful.  I urge you to check out Kerry’s post and the other poets participating. 

To any wondering about my nanowrimo!  I have worked on it, but in notebooks, by hand, and life (not blogging exactly) is giving me exceedingly little time this November, especially not for transcribing.  I do hope to keep working on it.

Note if a subscriber – I’ve edited this slightly since posting. k. 

Shoeshine

November 27, 2012

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Shoeshine

He holds his fingers, swaddled
in plastic, then linen, with the slight bend
of a benediction, sprinkling –  like so, like so-
what seems to be
special
water.

After a rub
of my dark-nubbed toes, he dips
pawed fingers
into a cannister of black as thin
and deep as spiders’ bellies, fresh
widows’ skirts, sin
in tunneled night.  He is

short, born where height
adds insult
to climb, and since I’ve been perched
upon an upholstered throne, he stands
at my feet, stroking now
my blushing-if-they-could
shoe ribs.

His caress penetrates
the leather which serves as medium,
conductor–how we manage
in this unjust city–and, as he kneads,
paints, buffs, lightly lightly
whips, I think–not about what you
are thinking of right now – but of the feet
of statues,
patina-draped icons
in cathedral dim, whose feet have been supplicated
into stumps of tongue by those
seeking blessing–though here, everything’s
backwards–he,
who blackens my uppermost sole, blesses
me, making my worn
new.

It is something of which we do not speak.

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I am posting the above rather odd re-write of an old poem for dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night hosted by the wonderfully intellectually curious Claudia Schoenfeld. It’s about the very few times I’ve had my shoes shined (professionally) in New York City.  I always find it a very affecting experience, and one–and I’m not a foot fetishist (that I know of) – that I find strangely intimate and spiritually satisfying.  The shoe shine people have always been just incredibly kind.  It’s a hard job so if you do get your shoes shined – it’s worth giving about 100% tip.

I have edited this twice since first posting.  Taking out and putting back the last line!  Any thoughts?! 

Guilty (Pleasure)

November 23, 2012

Guilty (Pleasure)

It started, I think, with my Lutheran baptism,
which damply paired pleasure with cataclysm
(though it’s not really part of the catechism),
guilt then clung to fun like reverse jism–
(something that gunks up motility
rather than serve its mobility)–
So, the label of sin deemed original
stuck to sweetness that wasn’t subliminal,
aping price tags enfuzzed on a peach,
or tar strips that bake on a beach,
and pleasure was coded with bars
safe only if you’d got to Mars–
Like the sword swallower learning to tilt
the throat that was drowning the hilt–
just so, I learned to down guilt,
as if my gullet had been built
for it.

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A reading of the poem (if you are interested): 

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I am posting the above draft poem very belatedly for Izzy Gruye’s Out of Standard prompt for With Real Toads about “guilty pleasures.” Coming from a Lutheran Scandinavian upbringing I’m afraid those two words are pretty much synonymous. I am also linking to dVerse Poets Pub Poetics prompt on “preparation,” hosted by the very prepared Mary Kling.  Self-denial of a sorts a key part of my training for life. 

(When Calm) Thanksgiving – Flash 55

November 23, 2012

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(When Calm) Thanksgiving

I give thanks (when I think)
for having been loved
wholly, and for
(at least, at times) loving
wholly, a miracle
(holey holey holey) for
this moon-pocked
soul, a miracle
(wholly wholly wholly) for
this earthen-worn
heart, a miracle
(holy holy holy) that makes
even the most porous clay
stay flesh.

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55 words for the G-man and for dVerse Poets Pub (being thankful) hosted by Samuel Peralta, a/k/a Semaphore.  Belated thanks to the dVerse community and the G-Man and the blogosphere and beyond!

Yeatsian Interlock – “To My Father”

November 18, 2012

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To my Father (Ill for Some Time Before Death)

I miss you more than I can say–
you, who sat in a chair all day
so far away–  What did we say
those days? Just know I called each day
and you would listen–I say, hear.
I miss you in the buzz of silence,
where listening is silenced; I can’t hear
your ear, your soft soft ear, in this silence.

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A reading of the poem, which may be interesting due to the breaks. – (Note that it does not have the full title.)
This is a poem posted for Kerry O’Connor’s “mini” challenge on With Real Toads to write a poem in the form of Yeats’ “He Wishes For the Cloths of Heaven” – (check it out on With Real Toads.)  The Yeats’ poem (a wonder) uses interlocking repeated words and rhymes. 
I found this very challenging.  My poem  uses a bit more rhyme and repetition (just to make sure I got it all), which probably makes it way too sing-songy.  But I enjoyed the challenge nonetheless.   Thanks, Kerry!   
I am also linking this post to dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night.   Pearl (my dog) and I are currently working on Nanowrimo so couldn’t get a new poem up today. 

Memento (Aide Memoire)

November 17, 2012

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Memento (Aide Memoire)

Tile–pure tchotchke – the terra cotta
Southern California’s sierra/
siesta/sonesta style, with snoozer in sombrero
beneath a palm.

Below, a jaunty “howdy” greets
at a slant, with a dashed
date from ’77, which make me think not
somehow
of ’77–though that the year when Grethe
Rask, Danish surgeon who’d worked
in Zaire, died so strangely–but
of the next ten years,
when thousands died, tens
of thousands, as politicians
of Terra Cotta, SoCal and beyond, snoozed
determinedly beneath waved palms, proclaiming,
when not plain silent, moral failings, medical
misinformation, howdy
 doody, their own
damned fault.

Sores
wept, bones
bared, lungs
drowned, and with the sores, bones,
lungs, were blanked
so many eyes and hands and hearts
that lit the world with sparks
and sparkling,
and those too who perhaps
lit only a few
dark nights, too few, too
many.

Honestly, I can barely stand
to look
at this tile, sun baked so carelessly
into its squared veneer, yet rub
my finger over its gloss
as if to trace there
that lost time; howdy, howdy.

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A rather emotional (sorry) reading of the poem:

Here’s a draft draft draft poem for dVerse Poets Pub Poetics Prompt hosted by the wonderful Claudia Schoenfeld, and featuring evocative photos, one of which I’ve posted above, by Mobius Faith a/k/a Terry Amstutz.

My nanowrimo novel, if I ever get it written, takes place in the mid-80s or so, so I’ve been thinking about that time, which was when the AIDS epidemic hit. Ronald Reagan, elected as President in 1980, serving till 1989, mentioned the word AIDS in only one speech in 1987.  I’m not saying this to be partisan; it’s a fact from a complex and very sad period. The CDC reports that in the U.s. there were approximately 50,000 reported cases of AIDS in the U.S. between 1981 and 1987, 48,000 deaths. Between 1988 and 1992, there were another 202,502 U.S. cases reported, 180,000 deaths.   Of course, there were (and are) many many more cases  and deaths worldwide and into the present.

I should add as a process note that Grethe Rask was one of the first confirmed cases of AIDS (in a non-Afridan) though the cause of her death was not known until a few years after her death as AIDS had not been identified as such in 1977.  She is likely to have been exposed performing surgeries in Zaire.

One Way of Looking At Thirteen Blackbirds? (“Homage To Wallace Et Al.”)

November 15, 2012

Photo by Tracy Grumach

Homage to Wallace Stevens and His Thirteen-Sided Bird

I.

Instead of finding thirteen ways to look
at one
blackbird,
I get stuck in one way
of looking at
thirteen.

II.

Like the thin men of Haddam, I look
for golden birds, not gleaning
the ebon sheen of present
wings, or worse, mistake it
for the shadow
of my own equipage.

III.

O Wallace, Sage of Hartford–Connect(itcut) me
with nothing that is not there, and also
the nothing that is;
the path flown by the
blackbird, hard to miss, harder still
to trace.

IV.

I often revisit
regrets.
Blackbirds circle
the chaff-strewn field, cawing
when they land.

V.

“Should” is a word to which
no blackbird
pays much mind.

VI.

My mind, when sad,
ia like a tree in which
there are no
blackbirds.

VII.

Sometimes the heart takes flight, sighting, hawk-like,
the bright eye of an idea.
Other times the heart takes flight
simply because it has seen
a blackbird.

VIII.

A man and a woman are one.
A man, a woman and a blackbird
are a man, a woman and a blackbird.

IX.

No blackbird will ever
be baked into one
of my pies.

X.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night,
thank you.

XI.

When I want to see a blackbird, I just shut
my eyes.  It helps if there’s bright
sun.

XII.

In city rains, each droplet carries one small speck
of
blackbird.

XIII.

The tree trunks stretch limbs of jet black wing;
my heart expands and constricts at once;
in this, it is like
the blackbird.

The blackbird, wings beating, labors,
then soars; in this, it is like
my heart.

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I’m sorry that many of you may have already seen an earlier version of this poem!  A draft was originally written fot the the beautiful photograph of  Tracy Grumbach, above, a dVerse Poets Pub Poetics prompt, and also, of course, “Thirteen Ways of Looking At A Blackbird” by the incomparable Wallace Stevens.  I am not sure if Tracy’s photograph is really of blackbirds–they look more like raptors to me–but the Stevens came to mind, so I used a bit of poetic and ornithologic license.

I am re-posting this for dVerse Poetics Meeting the Bar challenge to write about allusion – hosted by Victoria C. Slotto