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Before Ever Hearing of Plato (And Frankly Even After)

June 12, 2015

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Before Ever Hearing of Plato (And Frankly Even After)

The time was once upon a
and the place the space
between her bed
and wall, her head
and torso wedged
between box spring and
plaster.

Can a human being be
the gold ring that is found
in the fish’s belly?
That ring, long lost,
that redeems an all?

The mannerless dust fingered
her nostrils; she sipped the air
as if it were a glass she were forced,
but thrilled, to swallow–

How worried they would be,
if they would
but look for her–
she imagined their alarm,
called it love,

though heard their voices leaf soft
as turning pages down
the hall, the changing of
a channel.

But this is not a poem
about love, there for the looking.
This is a poem about
the love of shadows–how sometimes
all three of your wishes
are to be
the mouth of your own cave–

how pressed against
some wall inside your head,
some time once upon a,
you love that dim,
that flickering,
that dance–how she
certainly did.

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

A poem, much revised but still, I guess, a draft, for Corey Rowley (Herotomost)’s prompt on With Real Toads to write about something you might think about in a cave.  For some reason I thought of both this scene and Plato’s Cave (from the Republic).  The drawing is mine; all rights reserved for it and poem.  Have a good weekend. 

 

 

 

 

Categories: iPad art, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 16 Comments

In An Instant

June 10, 2015

In an instant–

In an instant
all I can remember are the shapes
of his fingers pulled
from the water, digits big
as cigars, and, though they curved
as I caught the arm, sodden under the shirt cuff, streaming
sleeve of suit,
the effect was of someone raising his hand
to ask a question–

I can only think of the one I had been calling out
the long blue minutes before, which still rebounded
about the floating surfaces,  a stone caught
in a single skip–
where are you?
******************

A rather enigmatic poem. 

The pic, such as it is, is mine;  as with the poem, all rights reserved. 

 

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 9 Comments

Love In A Sweet Spell

June 8, 2015

Love Poem in a Sweet Spell

He was a prince
among the amenable,
which is to say
she knew where he stood.

More importantly, she also knew
where he lay,
where his head rested,
where his hands roamed,

and that his heart,
for all its fixed lodging–a room at her inn,
room for her within–burned
with a blue-red flame
as if the blood coursing through it
had simply added an “h”
(blood, of all elements
one that is able to spell)
for hearth,
husband,
honeypie.

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

A poem for no prompt but my dear husband’s sweetness.   I will likely link with Real Toads Open Platform.  

Categories: elephants, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 21 Comments

Green Scene

May 31, 2015

Green Scene

This evening will lead to no other night.
This evening will end
no other day.

This evening where all that’s seen
is green–how lucky
is that–
except where that bird just streamed–
a line crossing the t of tree and leaf and grass
blade–

My eyes hurt the ache of a heart
that can’t in this green
justify pain–
a farther bird swoops
the verdigris,
this one like the dark dot
of an i, an eye, an I–

Fly, bird, says all that is healthy
in me, all that lets
t’s be, i’s sigh, that breathes in
this evening,
this day,
this night,
as it closes those sore eyes,
then opens them,
looking out.

*********************************
A draft of a littlest sort of poem, written just for myself.

 

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 7 Comments

Also, a Girl

May 27, 2015

Also, a Girl

When a woman is property,
she’s part of the furniture.

A table where men
dig elbows, take
their fill.

A wastebasket, kicked
to a corner, place
to spit.

Shelf where scuffed
shoes sit.

Her vagina, keyhole crowbarred;
pillows, sweated, punched.

When a woman is property,
she also serves
as a means of production.
Run through
an assembly line, busily dis-
assembled.

Oh, how rich they are,
who can destroy
their property
like that.

Who blames a table
because it is scratched, one leg
broken?
But she feels blame, certain
no one wants
such a table–

She feels too
the table leg–still jammed
inside her–

She does not want it to touch
her inner thighs
so splays her own legs stiffly
to its sides
as if they were stilts,
as if they were splints,
as if they too
were wooden.

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

I’m back with a rather grim poem, sorry.  This one inspired by (i) reading about the girls released or escaped from Boko Haram in Nigeria, many of whom seem compelled to deny some of their terrible ordeal out of fear that they will themselves be censured or stigmatized.  (ii) This was also inspired by Shay/Fireblossom’s prompt on Real Toads to write a list poem.  I am linking to Real Toads Open Platform. The pic is my drawing; all rights reserved for it, and, of course, for poem.

Note that I was thinking specifically of Boko Haram in Nigeria when writing this poem, but women are treated like property all over the world.  

In terms of my own break–ah–not a good time for it!  Thanks for your real world indulgence.   

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 17 Comments

Sally & Seemore Samples? (Woes of Non-Illustrator)

May 23, 2015

  

Hi All!

On my break from poetry, I’ve been thinking about poems all the time!  (Also, doing a bunch of long-overdue cleaning projects.)

I have not yet had the courage to look at the children’s book project–a manuscript for a child’s novel–that I hope to finally finalize.  But I did get myself to do a couple more pics with the book in mind.

When you try to draw pictures for a book, you become immediately conscious of how wonderfully skilled trained illustrators are.  They draw in single defined strokes instead of ten or twenty pale scratchings!  Their characters look the same on every page!  And yet not the same!  Meaning that the characters are recognizable, but the postures and facial expressions change.  The difficulty in drawing consistent human beings is why I usually stick to elephants.

Anyway, here’s a couple of new ones.   I don’t know if I can use them as the little girl is just too young here.    And really the dog should probably not be smiling quite so much.  And these pictures are supposed to take place in an attic; I completely forgot about any kind of sloping roof.

But thought you might enjoy.  (Or hope so.)

PS – girl’s name is Sally; dog is Seemore.

Categories: children's book, children's illustration, dog, Sally & Seemore, Uncategorized
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Comments: 10 Comments

Elephant Break?

May 21, 2015

Hey all!

I love writing poems!  Frequently!   Largely thanks to you guys!

But I have long-standing projects on back burners.  I tend to neglect these when focusing on poetry.  (Especially since my employer also expects me to do stuff.)

In order to resuscitate the other projects (and relieve that slow burn–it really gets to me), I seem to need to take a formal break from blogging poetry.

So, here’s my plan.  I am going to try to take a break from posting poems, but I do hope to keep posting–mainly little drawings and such. (Probably complaints!)

But hopefully, they’ll be fun drawings/complaints.

Anyway, keep visiting!  (If interested.)  Not to make you feel obligated (ha!) but your support is very deeply appreciated!

Thanks.

 

Categories: elephants, Uncategorized
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Comments: 14 Comments

Moat

May 17, 2015

 

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Moat

A part of us lives
behind a moat of bone;
it sculls about
our skulls,
on the look-out.

So defended.  Even when it feels it’s been
a pawn, it’s certain it secretly harbors
the queen or king,
of everything.

How lucky that in this bateau ivre
this row of self-deceiving,
we have a skin,
a wall easily pierced
by all’s awl.

How lucky that we have
these isthmuses of
lips, mouth, tips,
peninsulas
of nerve ends;
for it’s the outside that keeps us
centered–

for me–the sage
brush
of this minute’s coolish breeze, the frisson
beneath my sleeves,
the warmth of you,
earlier,
the ripples of the chest
that rises, falls.

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

Another drafty poem for my own prompt on Real Toads, relating to John Donne’s “no man is an island.” 

Bateau Ivre worked its way in their somehow–it means “drunken boat” in French and is the title of a poem by French poet Arthur Rimbeaud: in the poem, according to Wikipedia, the boat tells of becoming filled with water, thus drunk.

The pic is mine; all rights reserved. 

PS the end of this was edited just before first posting, now edited again to move back to the original–agh. 

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 23 Comments

Bells

May 16, 2015 
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Bells

We hung bells over your changing table, strung
on a thick silken cord–

A tinkle above your tinkle, as it were, or,
whatever–

For purposes of this piece, it is helpful to understand that the refuse of a little nursed baby often spouts as green as Spring, a new digestive system its own
kind of April.

My fingers were quick
change artists,
but your father’s whole body was sometimes drawn
into gear.

I remember his once clanging those bells full throttle, trying to quell
your wails. He was stripped
to the waist, his other hand keeping
you safe-
father-daughter bonding–still,
you were alarmed–maybe by
his matador’s dodge, the cape
of fleeing shirt tail, or maybe it was just
the green in you coming
to the fore–

The bells were not for babies–
brass.  Probably we should not have hung them
over your head–
still, their weight, their
realness, was also
what made them work (usually)–their rings
more resonant than coo, conjuring
baby awe–

but that day’s jangle of wail
and bell
was like two rivers meeting, a confluence
of conflicting flows, clear and
muddy; eddying sweetness
and screech==

I know now
there is no joy
completely pure, and all joy also
just that–

what is mitigated also
unmitigated–

Maybe this is why
bells can’t seem to knell
without some swell of cry
that also cups sky
while children’s cries ring out–
while children’s laughter
peals–

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

A draft poem for my own prompt on Real Toads, about John Donne, and his beautiful lines about bells and connection.  This one more a story than poem, but there it is!  Thanks all.

 

ps-the conjoined pics, such as they are, are mine. They were much bluer when made!  

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 24 Comments

Imagining Oklahoma (May 2015)

May 15, 2015

Imagining Oklahoma  (May 2015)

I write of swimming Tulsa’s parks–
it’s rained so much that some have Arks
(Snitched, I think, from church displays–
plastic giraffes in porthole bays.)
But I’ve no boat, nor yet canoe–
the crawl (Australian) best I can do.

Stroking, I ponder the pour of rain–
here in the land of Dust Bowl fame,
where folks went west-er for water, honey
(milk too and, they hoped, some money==)

Or, so it once seemed in older times
a warning time we’d mucked with climes–
that word’s poetic for another, close,
and please excuse my lines verbose–
but State Reg. Nine-Ten-Eye-Eye-Eye-Eight
prohibits that I articulate
that “climb”-start word that rhymes with “pate”
and has naught, says the State, to do with our fate–

Don’t you dare (they tell me) blame fossil fuels
for converting us all to corporate tools–
or else the drillers will pull their rigs
and we’ll have to devise some other gigs
(which would be especially mis-er-a-ble
for those on oil’s-lush payroll–)

So, I guess I’ll just crawl silently
right next to this poor drowning bee–
By the way–you have a Nicorette?
it’s like cold turkey in this wet–
or so he buzzes, busily tells–
somehow addicted to what kills–

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

Here’s a poem of sorts for Marian’s prompt on With Real Toads relating to Dr. Seuss and Taj Mahal.  I love Taj, but I stuck mainly with Seuss, except I suppose one could also think of Taj’s song Queen Bee–

Process notes–it is my understanding there are intense downpours right now in Oklahoma, while California, even the parts not traditionally dry, are in terrible drought.  The nicorette reference is to the nicotinamides in pesticides which many think are causing the decimation of bees.

Final process note–I am in New York City right now–so apologies for my ignorance of Oklahoma–California too– though I took out that stanza!  Also I am without either pencil, eraser or drawing pad– I really am not used to drawing without an eraser!  Agh! 

PS– I fear that fracking and earth quakes may be an even bigger problem in Oklahoma right now, but decided to keep this poem relatively simple.

PPS – I am informed, upon posting, that this is my 2000th post on this blog.  Ha!  Thanks to you all for the encouragement. 

 

 

Categories: elephants, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 16 Comments

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