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Weather or Not – Villanelles (Traveler’s Wedding Side by Side A Nap)

July 7, 2012

Monsoon Skirt

I am posting the villanelle below, an older one, for dVerse Poets Pub Poetics challenge, hosted by the wonderful Stu McPherson, to write a poem influenced by the weather.   To spice up this villanelle a bit, I have made a doublespeak audio recording of it,  pairing it with another villanelle called “The Nap (Post-Fight)” (whose text may be found here.)   I personally find the mixed audio more intriguing than reading the single villanelle bel0w–there is a really odd music to two villanelles together, that, as incomprehensible as the words are, kind of transcends the texts –at least my texts!

Traveler’s Wedding/Nap (ITunes)

Travelers’ Wedding – Bangkok

The monsoon sky grew slowly thick with grey
as sweat like traffic stalled the steaming city.
It didn’t feel much like the first of May,

not even in his shirt saved for the day,
nor in the Indian skirt she’d thought so pretty.
The monsoon sky grew slowly thick with grey

as they hurried to the bureau where they’d say
“I do”, or if required, some learned Thai ditty.
It didn’t feel much like the first of May;

still was, and, as they found, a holiday.
Closed office doors made clean clothes somehow gritty;
the monsoon sky grew slowly thick with grey.

“Tomorrow then,” they sighed, feigning dismay,
and then made jokes that almost passed for witty.
But it didn’t feel much like the first of May,

stained, like his shirt, with portent and delay
as sweat, like lifetimes, stalled throughout the city.
The monsoon sky grew slowly thick with grey;
it didn’t feel much like the first of May.

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Thanks for your patience with this new technique!  I definitely have a long way to go with it.  K.

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized, villanelle, writing exercises
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Accident? Parody? Double-speak? (Tribute to John Cage?)

July 5, 2012

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As some of you may know, I’ve been experimenting with audio versions of poems. Here’s one that happened accidentally. I originally  linked it to With Real Toads, which had a prompt of self-parody of one’s own poetic style, since it arose from my fascination with villanelles.  ( Everyone’s there was super clever and funny by the way – check them out!)

Then dVerse Poets Pub had a wonderful prompt on the modern, posted by the brilliant poet Charles Miller.  And, frankly, the Sixties – which this sound poem focuses on seems to be as modern as I will get tonight.

So here goes.  FYI, John Cage is a very cool modern composer, one of whose most famous pieces is 4’33” (pronounced “4 minutes and 33 seconds”) which consists of three movements of silence.  (All instruments are instructed to keep quiet.)

This is not silent! And it does give a picture of facets of modern life i.e. (i) multi-tasking, (ii)  low-tech meeting higher tech, and (iii) minds  getting stuck in grooves.   So, give it a click!

Flag/Swimming

Here are links to the text versions of the poems, Swimming in Summer, and Flag (After Vietnam). 

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized, villanelle
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“Flag (After Vietnam)” (A Villanelle – Spoken)

July 4, 2012

“Flag” drawing by Diana Barco

As a child, I was a school patrol, charged with the raising and lowering of our school’s American flag each day.  This was actually a very solemn post which certainly required as much care as directing kids across streets.  There were strong rules back then about the handling of the flag; these were, of course, affected by the protest movements of the Sixties, but also (perhaps even more) by subsequent commercialism–i.e. using the flag as a pattern for everything from shower curtains to napkins.  Then came all the business with the lapel flag pin, where use of the flag became incredibly polarized (and almost co-opted by various political movements.)

After 9/11 – let’s say on September 12th–flags were briefly solemn images of unity, but  their use soon became (to my mind at least) very polarized again, and somewhat jingoistic, with flags even used as antenna decorations.  As an old school patrol trained to run to retrieve and safeguard the flag at the first sight of a raindrop, I found these frayed and faded car flags rather troubling.

At any rate, here’s the poem AND a taped reading.  I urge you to check out the tape.  A villanelle on the page can seem incredibly inane–this one in particular, because its pauses that do not conform at all with the line or stanza breaks.

And finally, Happy 4th of July all, especially to my beloved country.

(Click the title for the spoken poem.  And honestly – if you are pressed for time,  click rather than read on.)

Flag (After Vietnam) Recording

Flag (After Vietnam) 

There were rules.  You weren’t allowed to let it
touch the ground.  If it did, it should be burned
or buried.  You couldn’t just forget it,

pretend it hadn’t slipped (if stained, to wet it)–
our trusted God would see and you’d be spurned.
There were rules.  You weren’t allowed to let it

rip or fray.  To be flown at night upset its
regimen, as it were.  The darkness turned
it into something buried.  Don’t forget it,

leave out in the rain; you had to get it
(getting soaked yourself, your last concern).
There were rules. You weren’t allowed to let it

pass—even at the movies, we would fête it—
until the Sixties came, and their war churned
and buried much—you couldn’t just forget it,

pretend we hadn’t slipped.  The fall begat at
least two flags—one paraded, the other mourned—
but just one rule—you weren’t allowed to let it
be buried; we couldn’t just forget it.

************************************
The poem is from Going on Somewhere,  by Karin Gustafson, drawings by Diana Barco, cover by Jason Martin. 

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized, villanelle
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“Independence Day” (Pageantry)

July 3, 2012

Sparkler?

Independence Day

You sashayed down a gangway raised
for the day over the concrete stucco (the place
that normally held the tether ball pole, just a hole now
covered), people sweating hot dogs beneath
a salt white sky as
you pivoted in your brand new suit like
the Misses on TV–Hawaii Maryland Maine–
your hands carefully cupped over
that bit at the back of upper thighs
that was fat on everyone, your smile careless of
missing teeth (baby incisors last to go) quietly
beseeching the judges for the sash, to pick you
as someone’s
idea of beautiful, someone
besides your mother–it would make her
so happy; you too
maybe.

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

I am posting the above draft poem for dVerse Poets Pub Open Link night, hosted by the wonderful Claudia Schoenfeld.  Check dVerse out!  And Claudia!  And if you have time over the holiday, check out my books!  Children’s counting book 1 Mississippi -for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms,  Going on Somewhere, poetry, or  Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.  

Nose Dive is only 99 cents on Kindle – so if you want to make someone happy–i.e. me – take the risk!  Even if you don’t have a Kindle, you can download the software to your computer!  Plus if 99 cents is too much – just let me know, and I’ll be happy to set up some sort of free day or coupon. Thanks much and have a wonderful 4th. 

Categories: poetry
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Zen Koan Poem (With Bird, Fly, Buzz)

July 1, 2012

Check out my friend.

Zen Koan Poem

So, what IS the sound of one hand
clapping?

I tell myself that I can answer
“cla-”
and just not think about it anymore,
if,
when I hear a fly buzz, I
sto–
myself from a good quick
sla–
with the swatter and, instead,
let it out
through the screen.

The same with
the spider in the bathroom that,
rather than squish, I
tra–
in a releasing
cu–

I make no promises
to
mosquitos–

–p.

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

I hesitate to post the above photo, especially in the context of a Zen Koan poem, because it makes yours truly look like a bona fide meditator.  (I most regrettably  am not.)  The little bird who landed on my head, however, was not aware that it was catching me on a rare attempt.  It stayed for about five minutes (ensuring some measure of stillness on my part and the need to wash that baseball cap.)

The poem was written for the “Zen Koan” prompt by Kerry O’Connor of  With Real Toads. Kerry’s post  beautifully exemplifies a rarefied form combining Koan and poetry.  Mine owes a great deal to Terry Pratchett, the wonderful British satirist, and in my opinion, Zen master (if not, perhaps, Zen practitioner.)

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P.S. If you have the time and are in the mood for something silly or elephantine, check out my books!  Children’s counting book 1 Mississippi -for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms,  Going on Somewhere, poetry, or  Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Audibly Swimming in Summer

July 1, 2012

Odilon Redon, “Ophelia”

So I thought it was too hot today to write a new poem, even for the lovely prompt above posted by Tess Kincaid  of MagPie Tales and that I would re-post an older poem with (ta-da!)  my first internet audio recording.  Needless to say, the recording has required far more time (and maybe even heat) then expected, and is still very much in the trial and error phase.

But , if you’ve got a moment on this hot day – give it a listen.  (It’s a bit slow at the beginning but speeds up very quickly.)   More importantly, it illustrates  punctuation at work!  (As a tool against line and stanza breaks.)   To listen, just click.

“Swimming in Summer” (Karin Gustafson)

Swimming in Summer

Our palms grew pale as paws in northern climes
as water soaked right through our outer skin.
In summers past, how brightly water shines,

its surface sparked by countless solar mimes,
an aurora only fragmented by limb.
Our palms grew pale as paws in northern climes

as we played hide and seek with sunken dimes,
diving beneath the waves of echoed din;
in summers past, how brightly water shines.

My mother sat at poolside with the Times’
Sunday magazine; I swam by her shin,
my palms as pale as paws in northern climes,

sculpting her ivory leg, the only signs
of life the hair strands barely there, so prim
in summers past.  How brightly water shines

in that lost pool; and all that filled our minds
frozen now, the glimmer petrified within
palms, grown pale as paws in northern climes.
In summers past, how brightly water shines.

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

The poem, btw, is in my book of poetry,  Going on Somewhere.  Check it out or also  Children’s counting book 1 Mississippi -for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms,  or  Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized, villanelle
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Comments: 28 Comments

“Parkinson’s (Father)”

June 30, 2012

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Parkinson’s (Father)

My brain, see, now has to consciously
tell my feet to move.

I mean, he tries a laugh, your brain
always tells your feet to move
on some level, but now
I have to remind them how.

I do see what he means soon enough, as
my father, the opener of all
that needs to be opened, the keeper
of all that needs to be kept safe, targets
a key towards a door as
one might aim a dart, his forearm moving
back and forth as if to throw it,
though he pushes now–
here–here–trying spots about the knob
as one might poke
a needle into the fabric backing a button, pricking
one’s way to its eyes, or as one
might thread the eye
of the needle itself, poignantly.

But the disease progresses, as territorial
as Genghis Khan, and soon all
the buttons in his world are blocked, refuse
to be battened, will not even
be pushed down, until finally, his own eyes
seem locked behind the placket
of stiff lids.

I see the strain of forehead, the
conscious manipulation of muscle, nerve,
above struggling chest, until at last
the mottled blue of his pupils targets
our own.  I love you, he whispers, the opener
of all that needs to be opened, the keeper
of all things safe.

 

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


I wrote the above for dVerse Poets Pub‘s Poetics prompt of “buttons,” hosted today by the indefatigably kind and creative Brian Miller, but I am also linking up with Real Toads for their Open Link Monday.

Secondly, a big apology to my father in absentia – I am not sure what that drawing is supposed to be- it looks nothing at all like my father, or even really like a man, or a button come to think of it.  But I was at the hairdresser today in honor of Nora Ephron, and that’s the drawing I made, thinking of Brian’s prompt.

Do check out the wonderful poets at dVerse and Real Toads, if you have the time, and also 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, or  Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 35 Comments

“Box” – Square Poem

June 28, 2012

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Box

I squeeze me, fitting into box;

squeeze all rounding, as sharpness shocks

me, rounding on even muted plaints,

fitting (as even sides) soul’s constraints

into sharpness. Muted soul’s clamped voice

box shocks plaints, constraints–voice noise.

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The above is a “square poem” written for dVerse Poets Pub “Form For All” challenge, hosted by Samuel Peralta, and based upon a matrix form developed by Lewis Carroll in which the poem reads both horizontally AND vertically, with the first line of the poem made up of the first word of each line; second line made up of all the second words, etc.  Sam has a wonderful article about the form, so check it out! 

In the case of my poem, PUNCTUATION is very important, as I only intend for pauses to be taken where punctuated, and not at the end of each line.  I tried to make my own recording to illustrate that but so far I haven’t been able to upload it.  (Probably for the best!) 

Aside from checking out dVerse Poets Pub, also check out my books!  (If you have the time and are in the mood for something silly or elephantine.) 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, or  Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 25 Comments

“Through Tattered Clothes” – Shakespearean (?) Sonnet

June 27, 2012

“Through Tattered Clothes Small Vices Do Appear” (Before Going Out Almost Anywhere)

Even nearing ninety, she changes,
then changes again; electric rollers
a must as twixt mirror, clothes, eye ranges–
“They just treat you better,” (some shoulders
padded, all lined) “if you dress up a bit.”

The sins she tries to hide: that she was poor
as a child; that she lived on a rick-
ety run-down farm that had no power,
no water–she switches to  yet another
suit, navy better cover for that farm’s house–
And her sister, never quite right (a shudder)
in an age when right (beneath her bright, bowed blouse)
was required–and all her lifetime’s care
of her– smoothed now beneath the just-curled hair.

************************************
I swore not to do prompts for a while — just too busy–but here’s a sonnet (of sorts) written for Kerry O’Connor’s challenge on Real Toads to write something based on lines from Shakespeare and also posted to Imperfect Prose (though not prose) where Emily Weirenga writes about how we are held by thepast.   In this case, my title is taken from some favorite lines from King Lear (Act IV, Scene VI):

“Through tattered clothes small vices do appear;
Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold,
And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks:
Arm it in rags, a pigmy’s straw does pierce it.”

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“Actor”

June 25, 2012

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Actor

Silence falls like a velvet bell,
clapperless–a rehearsal only–
but reverberant, quivering
like a kitchen table
slammed to wall, slabbed
fist, smashed
bottle, strangled ululation of
throat-stoppered
sob–till “super,”
calls the director (like a conductor turning
triumphant after the loosening
of that final orchestral knot), “just great.
Take five, guys.  No,
better make that ten.”

Lights blink (gaze after
dark) and the younger actor, the one
who still holds a cowering
balance, left hand upon center stage, half-
topples, shaking his head, “whoa man, that was
smokin’.”
And the veteran,
because emotion can never
be old hat, reaches quickly
to his propped fedora, swiping below the brim, his forehead,
eyes, as he pulls himself across that bridge of
craft, which has supported his shape,
voice, the planned span of time and space, like borne traffic,
but where he truly reaches is
deep into the flow below that bridge, a burning artery
that runs from lungs to loins, through longing
and blood lust and
the softest murmur of the heart, this Lethe
where he loses himself
on cue.  So,
he wipes its damp
onto the back of one hand as he reaches
the other to help up his fellow player, hazarding
a smile.

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

Poets! Question :  I have redone the first line about twenty times–I had “Silence falls like a velvet bell,” and I’ve now gone back to it!  I had had Silence knells a velvet bell,”  then “Silence rings a velvet bell,” “silence tolls a velvet bell,” “silence clangs a velvet bell,” “silence falls like the dome of a velvet bell==”  “silence descends like the dome of velvet bell.” Any thoughts?

I am posting the above draft poem for Tess Kincaid’s Mag 123 and also (unless I have time to write something new!) for dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night.  Tess posts a photographic prompt; the above is my version of it.  (The image is, I believe – though wasn’t conscious of when writing – from  Orson Welle’s A Touch of Evil.  I am not a big Welles’ fan and really was thinking of any actor.)  Check our both Tess’s site and dVerse for wonderful poetry.

AND, if you have time, 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, or  Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape.

Categories: iPad art, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 61 Comments

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