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Off-Season (Flash 55)

April 23, 2014

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Off-Season

Istanbul in our twenties, blonde
in the Blue Mosque, toes squishing
into piles of carpet smelling faintly
of toes faced
with overarching tiles, mosaics synced
in their mismatch, sprigs,
prayers, paisleys, but no eyes
except of the men
who watched us in and out
fighting about who would sell us
what we would not buy.

*******************************
A belated 55 for Mama Zen and also a poem for the prompt and photo of Lolamouse of With Real Toads. The wonderful picture, among others, was taken by Lolamouse at a shop in Portland, Oregon, but the blue amulets look identical to ones my daughter bought in Turkey a few years back, so I am guessing these are also from there. One process note is that it is my understanding that Islam discourages (or even prohibits) the depiction of sentient beings, which means that mosques do not have iconography of people’s faces but tend to focus upon geometric shapes or flowers or calligraphy. The “Blue Mosque” is a popular name of the Sultanahmet (or Sultan Ahmed) Mosque in Istanbul.

This is also some consecutive poem–23rd?–for April, National Poetry Month.

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 9 Comments

Epiphanies (of Sorts) around Easter

April 21, 2014

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Epiphanies (of Sorts) around Easter

Easter, as a child, meant ham,
a family tradition,
which I thought back then
was a subtle declaration
that we were not Jewish
though I realize now
was probably the only big meat to hand as Spring sprang
when my parents grew up in Midwest farm country.

My in-laws in the East ate lamb,
which always seemed to me
a rather poor-taste communion with Him,
who taketh away
the sins of the world, blood pooling
on the platter,
but I realize now
was likely the least wasteful fresh meat
Springs.

So, with such food for thought nudging me,
I realized, today, Holy Saturday, that the child whose hands glove glow
in a Georges de la Tour painting, my absolute favorite
when I too was about that age,
is not a girl with her father, also bald like mine, but
Jesus himself with Joseph (“Joseph, the Carpenter”).
De La Tour’s Joseph,
according to Wikepedia, uses an auger shaped
like a crucifix–

And all this time, I thought it was simply
a strikingly beautiful painting, showing, amazingly, how light shines
in dark places and can be caught by hands
shaped by pigment, or
the love of it,
and can be fixed too
as long as the hues hold true
and are kept in place by the rabbit-skin glue
used to prepare the painting surface.

Which is something else we don’t really think of much–
the stuff of paintings,
like the sources of ham and lamb–
all flames of a sort that light us,
waxing our grip,
without, we hope, burning
our fingers–

But I wonder, today,
in this Spring sun
so much brighter
than a candle, how we redeem
the squeals, how
are they too deemed necessary?

All I can think of is the word
“painstakingly–”

************************
Here’s very much of a draft poem for some day of April National Poetry month. I’m sorry if I’ve worn out the Easter theme–but here it is. The painting above is by Georges De La Tour, “Joseph the Carpenter.” I do not claim any copyright in the photograph and think/hope this is fair use. I am linking to the open link night of with real toads. (Again, by the way, I am trying to return all comments, but it is a bit hard right now. I will catch up and I thank you for your kind visits!)

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Comments: 13 Comments

Easter Gloves

April 20, 2014

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I am posting the above, with a typed translation below, as a shaped poem for the wonderful Kerry O’Connor’s post on With Real Toads. I have a great deal of trouble “getting” shaped poetry– in this regard, I extend my sincerest apologies to Hedge Witch–(Verse Escape)–for mucking up her comment box this morning with my confusion. She has a wonderful shaped poem.

Here’s the typed version of mine–

Easter meant ham and little white gloves, one
as pink as a tulip, the other white
as snow; Easter was like that–sometimes falling
in the harsh blow of cherry just blossoming–
I’d have to hold onto my new straw hat–other years, my mother
would glisten in her salmon-colored spring coat, a fish
out of water…

The minister had a way of torquing his hands
like a tense crocus or dragnet cage
to focus our attention, say, on the stone rolled away
from the tomb, but my eyes followed instead
the seams of my little white gloves worrying
that they were already smudged,
not understand that is the way
of stitching, to pick up in its threads
bits of the world, the dust
of so many stones.

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Comments: 23 Comments

The Ordering-of-Words Matters

April 19, 2014

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The Ordering-of-Words Matters

Candle light
can delight.
Candles toyed
can destroy.

Water flow–
what a flow!
Waterboard–
What? Absurd–

Elective shlock
electric shock–
Extraordinary rendition–
(as an extra,
rend his shin–)

Words used
word abuse.
“No torture.”
(Not er…true.)

What a difference
placement makes–
the space between
him, me, you.

****************************************
Here’s for some consecutive day of April National Poetry Month. This one has been bumping around in my brain since yesterday and serendipitously fits Sam Edge’s very cool prompt on With Real Toads to write a poem using/misusing language in an unusual way. Unfortunately, the misuse of the words above is all too usual.

As is usually the case with images on my blog (unless otherwise noted), the picture was made by me, such as it is. All rights reserved.

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Comments: 28 Comments

Figuring Out the Downhill

April 16, 2014

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Figuring Out the Downhill

She was stranded
at the side of the slope, blonde hair straining
from her cap, dark roots no anchor
in this white; a novice slope, but steep here
for a novice.

I thought I understood, being a novice too,
what it was to not bear
to aim your skis downhill one more time, not even
for the space of the turn,
but her children had gone ahead, she said–

Eyes like snow glistening only
circled grey,
face made up
to keep up,
and how’d she’d arranged this trip,
she said, wanting them to have
a good time–

My husband saying, you want some help?
and they’ll be okay, seeing how stranded
the woman’s face was
beneath her cap.

(He knew how I was too
skiing, you know, about speed
and letting go–)

They were from New Jersey, she said,
and that her husband
had been a trader, Cantor Fitzgerald–

And this being New York and late December 2001,
we did not breathe
for a while after she said that,
not even the fir trees breathed,
not even the leafless deciduous–she was almost
in the woods–
only the other skiers whooshed
for they had not heard her, and she shuddered
as they swang past, and
all they found, she said, was his hand,
so lucky, truly, something, DNA,
to bury–

And he said–my own husband–here,
reaching out his glove, and all you need
right now
is just to get to the other side, and he gestured
towards the white blank space beside us–hardly even going down
at all, or just a little–
and can you do that?
While I just wanted
to sit and weep, only I’d
fallen once already, and knew how hard it was
to get up again
on skis–

And anyway this story
is not about me–

He skied backwards slowly–
arms outstretched, you’re doing
great–

While I made myself take the slope on my own,
knowing it was only for a few minutes,
which made it possible.

At the bottom, the incline tapered,
broadened, so that even a novice
could feel in control, so that even a novice
would feel like they might try it
again, the sun shining in that blinding expanse
like glass—

 
*************
I know I say everything is a draft poem, but this really is. But it’s April, so if you are trying to do a poem a day, you have to settle for what you do that day. I am so sorry not to return comments for a couple of days, but I expect to be considerably freer tomorrow. Thanks for your kindness.

Process notes: for non-New Yorkers–Cantor Fitzgerald was a trading/brokerage firm whose offices were in the World Trade Center. Many many of the employees at work on 9/11 died due to the location of the offices towards the top of the WTC.

Ps I am sorry for sentimentality of pic and possibly piece.

PPS– Agh–just edited this piece –I had started saying it was January 2002 then switched to December and left the 2002.  Of course, it was meant to be 2001.

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Comments: 15 Comments

In a Fog In the Quiet Car

April 15, 2014

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In a Fog In the Quiet Car

There was a train that sliced the fog
all of a misty morning.
Nice enough ’till came a dame
who reeked of ignored warning.

I’m talking of the notices
siding packets of cigarettes,
the movements of her jacket
could have advertised nicorettes.

After folding sleeves and torso,
their fabric wafting smell,
she stowed them in the overhead
with another bag or two as well.

About her, the train car rustled
as others did not inhale,
but no complaint was uttered,
gasping silence did prevail.

This was, after all, the Quiet Car–
quiet lets one stop and think–
how much worse for the blow-haired woman
who generated smoky stink.

The stink of Camels stubbed for years,
ash trays left in the damp–
true rain now hid behind the fog,
water staining station’s ramp.

Her chin stuck out defiant,
though her rooted head was bowed–
I can’t speak for the compartment
but my heart at least was moved.

Thinking of lonely nights alone,
and also of lone nights shared–
perhaps a glowing butt would help
(I wasn’t joking, I sweared.)

If only the lady’s overflow
and her reeking jacket too
weren’t sitting right above my head
radiating a habit of two–

Two packs at least each single day,
Oh boy, I felt a lout.
So, the woman had a problem,
who was I to shout?

Especially in the Quiet Car,
how dare I throw a stone–
Me, beside my glass window
with bad habits of my own.

So, I took my shoes off the train seat–
(I fear I often squat–
I find it relieves my back–
though the conductors tell me not.)

Tried too to settle my stomach,
we were almost at Yonkers now,
let go the tightness in my chest–
just had to breathe somehow.

The rest of the car stayed quiet
as if no drama had taken place.
Outside the fog had lifted,
plain grey filled in its space.
******************************************
Here’s very much a draft poem for the 15th of April, a ballad for the wonderful Kay Davie’s prompt on With Real Toads. I don’t know if it’s really a ballad, all that happens being quite ethereal–  And I really don’t mean it to sound nasty–Sorry to any smokers out there!  I have nothing but sympathy, given what a hard habit it is to quit.

PS – sorry it’s so long!

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Comments: 7 Comments

A Room In A Cliff

April 12, 2014

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A Room In a Cliff

There was a young boy with a room in a cliff–
so much better than having a moat.
He could climb a ladder right down to a skiff–
a submarine was his favorite boat.

In his sub, he explored the deep ocean floor,
where octopi (at least two octopus)
once banged their suction cups on his door,
and howled, “won’t you come play with us.”

But that boy, who had a room in a cliff–
he knew quite a bit of the sea,
and though the octis’ howls scared him stiff,
he smiled so they would not see–

But the octupi were giant—in fact, squid–
out the porthole the boy took peeks,
and he counted ten, ten, tentacles amid
rubbery ravenous beaks.

He motioned with hands though he had but two
that some other time he would play,
but just that minute he had else to do
like underwater dragons to slay.

There was also his best pet whale to feed–
He signed the word “balleen” with his tongue–
T’was a signal the squids somehow could read
with the sea-creaking song he sung.

Of a sudden the sub began to spin–
for one squid really loved to play cricket–
It was not a game the boy could win–
he felt stuck in a seaweedy wicket.

But when the sub spun, it also flew
high above the ocean’s dark floor,
for that squid was a batsquid through and though,
now no tentacles knocked at the door.

The boy kept to the surface heading home,
opening the hatch to catch sun;
A whale swam close by so he wasn’t alone.
(A nice whale, though not his pet one.)

At the cliff, he climbed back to his laddered room,
after battening with care the hatch lid,
climbed right through the window where nightly the moon
brightened seas inked with games of the squid.

**********************************************
Here’s a draft children’s poem for the 12th day of National Poetry Month and also for Margaret Bednar’s prompt on With Real Toads to write something in a child’s voice (or for children).   Margaret gave a selection of children’s drawings, but I was thinking of some of the drawings of my nephews, which seemed often to feature submarines and cliff houses.  I’ve tried to recreate one, but it turned out to have an elephant.

Squid actually have eight legs and two tentacles–ten extensions in all–but I didn’t realize their biology until right before posting, so I fudged it a bit.

Categories: children's illustration, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 13 Comments

Wisteria

April 11, 2014

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Wisteria

Wisteria is what I feel
when wistfulness, steamed and congealed,
clusters in its grape-bunched flowers
redolent of bygone hours–
times life was pink (or lavender)
and certainty sure provender–
like clover for the honey bee,
my future then so matched to me.

But on time’s wingéd chariot
came self-doubt with a lariat
lassoing me with slipknot noose
never truly letting loose;
the blossoms that once seemed so pink
turned filmy in the kitchen sink;
the lavender that paled the buds
washed paler still in wilted suds.

Now, when the horses that keep guard
of the wingéd chariot’s yard
o’errun the gate, tromp down the hay,
let acceptance sneak a holiday–
oh, then, wisteria flowers afresh
perfuming with sweet bitter breath,
and I regret and I reform
until those horses fly me home.

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

Here’s a very strange poem for the 11th day of National Poetry Month and Hannah’s prompt on With Real Toads about Wisteria. Neither of the above or below pics is truly of wisteria!  (But maybe close enough!)

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Leaf Sail

April 10, 2014

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Leaf Sail

They tried to sail a sea of fallen leaves
as if they could assail leave-taking
by keeping to dry ground.

For if their keel were only raking
earth, they thought,
at least they could be safe
from any drown.

But the leaves they sailed–they waved
as if still limbed,
their wrinkles crescents
of a misguiding moon–

and soon the winding tides
took the voyagers to a dark salt place
where all they craved
was the swoon

of willows, anything but
the slap of crumble at
their prow, the chap
of spoil.

For a sea of fallen leaves
is a sea of the fallen–
how they now longed to leave
that buried soil.

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Agh. This is very much a draft poem for the tenth day of National Poetry Month, posted for Hedge Witch’s prompt on Odilon Redon for With Real Toads — http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com.  The above is a painting by Redon called Boat in Moonlight.

This poem has been edited a couple of times since posting, once in Grand Central Station! The line I am having trouble with is the crescents line– whether it should just read “crinkled crescents.” Something like that.

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Comments: 13 Comments

April (15th)

April 10, 2014

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April (15th)

For some, it’s formulaic rain;
for others, form-on-form-filled pain–
Ten-forties and ten-forty-ones–
fortified with deduct-ions.
Capital gains, if you are lucky–
“Carried interest,” if high-muck-mucky—
Statements, check stubs and receipts
never saved up nice and neat–
accounting hocus-pocuses
crowding out mere crocuses.
Oh, the Ides that harried Julius C.
pale before these Ides’ ‘Line b’.

******************’
Here’s a silly one for Mama Zen’s prompt on With Real Toads to write of April in 66 words or less. I think mine makes it if some hyphenated words are counted as one!

Process notes–April 15th is U.S. tax return due date. Ten-forty–1040–is the standard U.S. income tax return, a 1041 is a trust or estate income tax return. Capital gains are taxed at lower rates than ordinary income, the “carried interest” rules allow people who work in the investment area, like hedge fund dealers, to be taxed on their standard income at capital gains rates. (These rules are why, for example, Mitt Romney’s operative income tax rate was 13-14%.) The Ides of a month are its mid-point– a low point in March for Julius Caesar.

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Comments: 14 Comments

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