Archive for the ‘poetry’ category

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“When Violence Flash Flares” (Petrarchan Style)

September 14, 2012

When Violence Flash Flares

When violence flash flares with red-black spark
and men can only see through teeth and blur,
their skin bit-bristling like claw-sharpened fur
that seeks the carve of scar as truest mark,
that bites the curve from every moment’s arc,
as if time’s belly something to regur–
gitate and spit again–again–a lure
to not make lush, but tear instead to stark–

Then, oh, what can be done to stop the woe?
Reconstitute the mob as one and one?
That he, who likes to brush, with rueful care,
his child’s hair from the cowlick that will grow
upon her crown, and that lost mother’s son
who hums remembered songs in twilit air.

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

Agh!  I am posting the above would-be Petrarchan sonnet for dVerse Poets Pub sonnets prompt, hosted by Gay Cannon.  I’ve written lots of sonnets – usually of the Shakespearean or Spenserian rhyme schemes (wonderfully explained by Gay.)  This is my first serious try with the Petrarchan.  I’ll say it again – agh!   I’m not sure I like the rhyme scheme which in this case is abba abba cde cde–it feels like the rhymes are a bit diffused.  But there it is.   Check out dVerse for Gay’s article and what I’m sure will be wonderful examples.  Also, if you’ve a chance, check out my books!  Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (for slightly more polished sonnets);  1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.  Nose Dive is available on Kindle for just 99 cents!

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Comments: 25 Comments

A View From Downtown (NYC – 9/11)

September 11, 2012

A big part of me would really like to store 9/ll in a plastic bag and not think about it any more.

Another part of me thinks that would not be such a great idea (even if I could do it in downtown NYC where I live.)

First, because we still have young men and women actively serving in Afghanistan, as a direct response to the event.  Secondly, because the day provides such important cautionary tales.   Third, well, because I swore not to forget it.

So here’s an older poem, and above and below are photos I took in downtown NYC this a.m.  I’ve also included a (rather fraught) reading of the poem.

9/11

The burning buildings woke me from a sleep
of what I thought important, nothing now.
I ran hard down the smoking, crumbling street,

praying that my child was mine to keep,
dear God oh please dear god I whispered loud;
the burning buildings woke me from a sleep.

Some stopped to stare, all of us to weep
as eyes replayed the towers’ brutal bow.
I ran hard down the smoking, crumbling street–

North sky a startling blue, the south a heap
of man-wrought cloud; I pushed against the crowd;
the burning buildings woke me from a sleep.

I’d never complain again, never treat
with trivial despair–or so I vowed.
I ran hard down the smoking, crumbling street.

I’d change, give thanks—I saw them leap—
and begged for all the grace God would allow.
The burning buildings woke me from a sleep;
I ran hard down the smoking, crumbling street.

I’m linking this to dVerse Poets Pub’s Open Link Night, hosted by the wonderful  Brian Miller.

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“Clothing Statues”

September 9, 2012

Leger, Fernand- 1921

Clothing Statues

It’s not so much the copper fig leaves
as the red velvet sleeves
I wonder at–the belled robe on the
enamel-faced Madonna, the trim of
seed pearls edged by rough
stitching, while wedged
below the carved curls
of a wooden Christ the drape
of sateen cape, doubling some
seasons for the Babe’s bright
swaddling.

Further East (or West), Buddha’s
bronze chest is vested
winters in knitted wool; while Vishnu
sports an orange bib; silk
scarfs, marigold
necklaces,
collect blessings.

Cozy icons, divine
mufflers – when heaven’s chill
descends, we rub our arms
with cupped palms.

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

I am posting the above for The Mag (134), which features a pictorial prompt hosted by Tess Kincaid.  The poem was inspired by the Fernand Leger painting above – which felt to me like a sculpture with a black muffler.  The poem itself concerns the practice of clothing religious statues – pretty common both in Christian churches (especially Catholic) and in Buddhist and Hindu shrines. 

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“Election Day, November 1968” (Poem)

September 8, 2012

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Election Day, November 1968

The wind blew hard
that blow-hard day.

My own school straw-polled
for Wallace–famed for
blocking schoolhouse doors in
Alabama; his
running mate–Bomb-
Them-Back-To-The-Stone-Age Curtis
LeMay –

Then there was Nixon (Tricky
Dick) whose secret plan to win
the war sounded just a tad
too secret.

So, at the requisite
sidewalk distance, I pleaded
(sweetly), smiled (winningly),
for the guy I hoped meant
peace (Humphrey), justice (maybe),
hoping, if I were just nice enough, voters
might be swayed last
minute.

But people proved harder
than trees, and the next noon,
my smile-taut face
wept in the narrow of locker
while, behind me,
greasers grinned; I remember
one boy particularly–
the low belt of his Dickies’ pants thrust ahead–

The war went on for seven
more years.

Seven more years.

I’m not saying I was so smart – in fact
I was so not-smart that I never thought
of how many of those same
slicked-hair-back boys
may have ended up on blade-whipped
ladders, copters leaving
Saigon.

So not-smart that I never
even thought about how much I’d
like to see them again, even just that
one boy, his forehead wan
below the Vitalis, his
surly-curled lips, slim jut
of hip, bare
chin–

how much I’d like to just sit
with him, both of us sagging
into firm but comfy chairs, side by side,
not opposite–it still might
be hard to look each other in the
eye–till we’d spent some while
in talk, swaying too
now and again to our
old songs–he
was shy of dancing, I
remember, for all
the swagger.

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

I am, in fact, so not-smart that although I knew that Saigon fell in 1975, I did the math wrong and said that the war went on for eight more years instead of seven. (Agh- I somehow subtracting 68 from 75 and got 8!  Yes, I am thinking of Bill Clinton and arithmetic in this moment.)  

At any rate, I’ve corrected now and extend my apologies to those reading the original version.

The above draft poem is posted for the dVerse Poets Pub Poetics prompt hosted by Mary Kling on the subject of Autumn.   Check out dVerse for wonderful poetry and, if you have extra time, 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, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.  Nose Dive is available on Kindle for just 99 cents!

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Comments: 46 Comments

“Second Marriage” (Out of the Frying Pan and Into the….)

September 6, 2012

Iron Pan

Second Marriage

He’s the kind of guy who carefully seasons
an iron skillet, oiling the surface,
eschewing soap.  I know all the reasons,
understand rust, stickiness; nonetheless,
I squeeze Dawn right onto the blackness,
and when I smell that low-heated oil, I
rebel.  “Are you,” I charge (nearly senseless),
“seasoning my frying pan?” As if to try
traditional method, some slow process
of caretaking, were a sure scheme to defy,
deny, descry, the rushed independence
I’ve professed; those hurry-up lone years I
scraped so many sharp implements across,
getting rid of the hard bits, loss and loss.

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

Here is an older sonnet that I am reposting today (i) because I’ve always liked it, and (ii) for dVerse Poets Pub’s prompt on the use of symbols in poetry, hosted by the wonderful Victoria C. Slotto.

Check out dVerse and Victoria’s article, and the other poets, and 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, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.  Nose Dive is available on Kindle for just 99 cents!

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Comments: 52 Comments

People Who Really Upset Me (Inner Monologue?) (No, it doesn’t have to do with Politics.)

September 5, 2012

People who really upset me  (Inner Monologue?)

First, there’s that one in the glass,
whose bra strap always shows,
and whose (big) feet can be often found
stepping on her very own toes.

And then there is
that other one–
who lives in the other
lobe–
who steps
on her own–
toes some line–
who sorrows in
what glows–

who, strapped,
may be found
in “very” (though
not so much in
“own”)–

who, made of
glass,
steps on, towing–
that other one.

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

This is a rather odd poem for a With Real Toads challenge hosted by Kerry O’Connor to write an inner monologue (i.e. bit of a rant) about someone annoying to you.  I’m afraid I went for the obvious–looking in the mirror, and the other side of my own brain.  Dashes are meant really for pauses rather than for any coherent grammatical purpose.  

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Squeaky Bean

September 4, 2012

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Squeaky Bean

Freshly picked and
steamed
green beans
squeak
against teeth
like windows washed
streak clean;
the freshly picking, steaming,
human being
tests each bite
like a clown’s bright horn–with
crinkled wince and laughs;
chews, shines
inside.

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

I’m posting the above for dVerse Poets Open Link Night, hosted by the wonderful Joe Hesch.  Check out dVerse for super poems, and also, 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, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape. Nose Dive is available on Kindle for just 99 cents!

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Comments: 26 Comments

Drinking, Under a Blue Moon, From a Cup That Is Already Broken (Tritina)

September 2, 2012

Summer Night, Albert Bloch, 1913

Drinking, Under a Blue Moon, From a Cup That Is Already Broken

I think of the Buddha, who, when his mother
lost a child, assuaged her grief with the promise
that a seed from a home that has not known mourning–

just a mustard seed–I can get one this morning,
the mother cried–could bring life, with all its promise,
back. Lest the child grow cold, the mother,

feet made fleet, spine steeled, with anxious promise,
rushed from house to house  – have you known mourning?
Known death?  All had mustard seeds – but the mother–

the mother learned then–the promise–of each new morning.

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

Explanatory note – this is based on a Buddhist tale of the Buddha (coming back after acquiring Buddha-hood) to visit his family at the time his mother lost a young child.  He told her that the child could be brought back to life by a mustard seed coming from a house that had not known death.  The mother could find plenty of mustard seeds – a common spice in India – but no house that had not known death.  This then brought her to some understanding of the universality of suffering, and that, in turn, helped her to accept her grief.  (Yes, it’s a bit hard-hearted; not made for Hollywood.)

Also – the saying “the cup you are drinking from is already broken” refers to the fact that everything comes to an end; that its end is incipient in its beginning.  In other words – the cup is destined to be broken, not that it is actually already chipped.   (That is, unless you’ve taken it from my cupboard.)   

The poem is a tritina – a mini-sestina, that rotates around certain end words, and tries to follow a consistent meter.   I have put in the dashes to slow down the reading of the last line – they don’t really have grammatical significance. 

I am posting this for Tess Kincaid’s Magpie Tales, where Tess posts a photographic prompt each week. 

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“Rebellion – I’ll Tell Them Where I Live”

September 1, 2012

Junk News Speak

Rebellion – I Will Tell Them Where I Live

I.

I will turn off
the TV.
I will not pretend
that horse-race political
prognostications pontificated
by pom-pommed
hair reflect a meaningful analysis
of anything but Nielson ratings.

II.

I will not shrug, saying all
politicians
are the same
anyway.

I will take the time to read
newspapers, even books,

not accepting “lies
for dummies,”
not even settling for “facts”
for dummies, but
acknowledging that
the world is complex no matter
how much
I’d like it to be simple.

III.

I will write letters
to congresspeople, even heads
of state, not
hesitating
to give my return address.

IV.

I will always bear in mind
family members waiting
to be deployed.
I will understand
that persons in other countries also
have families, people
whom they love.

V.

I will not allow the clout
of those spending millions
to quell my two-cent throat,
decide my invaluable vote, and–

I will vote.

I urge you
to do the same.

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

I am posting the above for dVerse Poets Pub Poetics Prompt about “Rebellion” hosted by the wonderful Stu Macpherson. 

I have been disheartened in this campaign by the dishonesty of political discourse.  While it is true that both sides have stretched the truth, the Republicans seem, so far, to be winning in the “pants on fire” race.  As Sally Kohn, a contributor to Fox News – note FOX NEWS – said of Ryan’s convention speech:

“Ryan’s speech was an apparent attempt to set the world record for the greatest number of blatant lies and misrepresentations slipped into a single political speech. On this measure, while it was Romney who ran the Olympics, Ryan earned the gold.”

Check out dVerse and also my books!  Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco). 1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape. Nose Dive is available on Kindle for just 99 cents!

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Comments: 33 Comments

Tundral (Heart)

September 1, 2012

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Tundral

The heart does
take prisoners; hers
housed exiles,
dissidents, a gulag
for thoughts
that once dared speak
their minds; also a lone
scrub pine, leashed
to mewling wind at neck,
at crown, and at its base,
stiff ground.

Roots,
made clumsy by
permafrost, sent still
pale tendrils down,
plaintive missives, towards
warmth, that molten
core so very far below,
while above,
the exiles fumed
as best they could.

****************************************
The above, kind of a draft still, is posted (belated;u) for the writing blog, With Real Toads – challenge by Hannah Goselin to write from voice of Tundra.  I don’t think this quite complies but there it is. 
Check out With Real Toads, and also my books!  Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco). 1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape. Nose Dive is available on Kindle for just 99 cents!
Also check out a just-started blog by my very dear friend, Theo Martin – http://knaveslodge.wordpress.com – for advice and commentary on cooking and country life. 

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