Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ category

“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.

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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.

“Schadenschaden” (Why NOT Me? – Gig of the Would-Be Victim)

June 23, 2012

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Schadenschaden

Like a golfer in search of a handicap,
he found himself mired in schadenschaden–
sadness at another’s sorrow, a slap
face-felt at the sight of their tear-sodden
victimhood, superior martyrdom;
schadenfreude cast to the old school, those
who did not, in the night-dark of some
disappointed sheets, self-scold, “you fool,” then pose
as Rimbeaud’s more tortured kid brother, the “should-
have-been-even-greater than–, but-for’ kind
of guy, some sad sod so clearly struck by
circumstantial lightening that no one could bind
him to words like “his own fault.”  If fucked by
life quite obviously, you had a real gig,
he thought, like that poor bugger there, the pig.

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It’s always dangerous to write a poem from a voice that is not exactly admirable, but also, I hope, fun.

The above was inspired by the dVerse Poets Pub “Poetics” prompt on “logophilia” hosted today by Anna Montgomery and Claudia Schoenfeld.  Anna, a great wordsmith, challenged us to write something relating to words, perhaps even coming up some new ones.   I do not actually know if schadenschaden is a new word since it is, more or less, German, a language that I do not speak.  The idea is that it’s the inverse of schadenfreude (taking joy in the misfortune of others).  In English, we often talk about “sour grapes,” yet another variation.

Have a great day, check out dVerse and all the great poems based on this prompt.

AND if you get a chance, 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, and Nose Dive, perfect for a pool or beachside escape.

“Mind Wave (For Virginia Woolf)”

June 22, 2012

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Mind Wave (For Virginia Woolf)

One bemoans but understands
the stones,

thinking of a mind that, like
a wave, washed crevices, even
those not known
to be inlets, seeping between grains
of sand, nuances
of dust; a fractal mind that
traced a perimeter so much bigger than
its area (a coastline infinite, if intricately
measured, no
matter the isle’s square miles)–

A beam-from-a-lighthouse mind that
in its illumination of
what was writ got all
the way to “q”–a quadratic of empathy–a mind
that could put itself in the shoes of
any person, beast, street, room–its floorboards
creaking–shaping the handle of a pen knife, the tug
upon a mustache or
heart, a woman’s carried bag, time, space and, finally,
ash, the blitz
of two generations.

One thinks
of the fatigue of
impersonation, the burden of voices
heard, articulated, not
drowned out–

A mind that got to “q” but not perhaps
to “r” as in relief or respite, that, sleepless, heedless, seething
as a wave, sought weights against such
weight–

one hates the stones–

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I wrote the above poem (and made the drawing) for a prompt made by Fireblossom to write about a famous person for the poetry blog Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads.  Virginia Woolf, great lyrical writer of the twentieth century, and certainly one of my favorites, died by drowning herself, after filling her pockets with stones.

Summer begins in earnest (with Elephant and Dog)

June 20, 2012

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Luminous

June 18, 2012

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At Joyce’s Tower, Dublin; Happening Onto a Robust Woman – Celtic Quatrain

June 17, 2012
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Supposed to be Irish Soda Breads

At Joyce’s Tower, Dublin; Happening Onto a Robust Woman
Who’d Just Bathed In the Sea

Irish soda bread for real
lined shelves at shops’ rush hour;
clothes, that she had shed or peeled,
buffed feet, Martello Tower.

Pink her cheeks as plum blossom;
dimpled her skin about the midst.
Ah….  Ah… (her fulsome bosom)–
to call it else would be remiss.

‘Twas–did I forget to say?
Winter–even sun was damp,
gave us not a lot of day.
She, she shone, her own dugs lamps–

Whiteness shimmering shimmied
by a hand towel that she rubbed
staunch (like that ringing hymn we’d
sung when “Onward” sounded scrubbed

and squeaky clean), her panties
stretching wide like grin-full face,
hair wet in sea-curled shanties,
thick bare legs a true soul place

beyond Joyce, at least, for me,
that day, that year, that winter,
when what had been a history
of whole slipped into splinter.

How I got there? Roundabout.
From up to down, high to low.
Though by that sea, brown as stout,
somehow footing firmed below.

Failure, that had tolled my doom,
seemed instead part of life’s flow,
which would make a bold try room,
allow hope oar along strife’s row.

At my side, a waxen pouch,
fingered crumbs that shed or peeled–
caraway, raisins (yes, and such)–
Irish soda bread for real.

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The above is supposed to be a poem drafted in Celtic Quatrains in response to a challenge from Kerry at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.  I don’t think it’s so successful, but it was great fun to try.   Thanks also to Hedgewitch (Joy Ann Jones) who wrote a great one and encouraged me to try.

At any rate, this form, the Celtic Quatrain, is supposed to have interlocking rhymes – with triple rhymes  (i.e. three syllables) in the first and third lines; and double rhymes in the second and fourth.  Also, there are supposed to be seven syllables a line.  I tried to stay true to the rhyme scheme (more or less( but found the syllabic limit very difficult and I’m not sure that enjambment is allowed!  At any rate, try one yourself!   To learn more, check out Kerry’s informative post.

“Writing Exercises” – Triversen?

June 14, 2012

Writing Exercises

The wheel cannot willfully–
not new as still-nude dawn–
be invented every day.

Still we work our brains,
poetry our chin-up bar,
re-wrought words our reps.

Expecting (regularly) Inspiration–
she, gartered, glad-handing,
as we, gripping pens, grapple.

Whips away, stockings running;
our words whistle after,
wheezing poetic (at least in part).

We moon till next dawn dawns,
but this time wisps of sibilance
blinker pink and blue.

Thumping rhythmically below,
a flat–tired, but still rolling–
yet another poem.

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What do you write about when you have nothing to write about?  Writing!
A triversen is a form I’ve never heard of that was apparently developed by William Carlos Williams.  The above is my attempt (ha!), inspired by the challenge (very well-explained) by Gay Reiser Cannon at dVerse Poets Pub for as  part of its “Form for All” series.  If you are interested in the form, check out Gay’s wonderful article.

Shel Adelson (iPad Portrait)

June 13, 2012

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Meet Sheldon Adelson (in my primitive iPad portrait), Las Vegas Casino Billionaire who (with his wife) has so far donated $25 million to super pacs supporting certain Republican presidential candidates, $10 million promoting Newt Gingrich and now $10 million promoting Mitt Romney.  ‘

In an interview with Forbes Magazine, Mr. Adelson expressed a willingness to donate up to $100 million in the presidential campaign in order to defeat President Obama.

Ironically, some have estimated that Mr. Adelson has made more money than any other American during the years of the Obama administration (gambling apparently being a relatively recession-proof industry.)

I’m not sure how exactly Mr. Adelson’s ability to make such large political contributions fits in with the Supreme Court’s “Citizens United” decision, which allowed corporations to be treated as persons for purposes of campaign donations.  Mr. Adelson is not a corporation.  Moreover, his ability to give such large sums does not feel exactly like an example of an action of “citizens united” but rather, one citizen having an overweighted financial influence.  (But maybe that’s just me.)

“Untucked”

June 12, 2012

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Untucked

When he’s away (increasingly,
these days), she
sleeps at the foot
of the bed.  It’s for the light, she
tells him, or rather
the turning off  of the light,
the lone lamp that sits on a
dwarfed file cabinet at the bed’s
bottom, not the best configuration, but rooms
are not always perfect for the
furniture people bring to them.

It was hard at first
to find a spot down there; hard to tug the top
sheet from its tuck, and even once uprooted,
to squeeze into its tight pocket, her limbs
a swaddled ricochet of angled waist, hips,
knees, aimed to keep her feet from
the opposite dangle.

I miss you too, he replies,
but he, someone who sleeps when tired, eats
when hungry, does not quite understand her fidget
around burning vacancy, the twist and turn of one
so defended she
can only meet need through
a maze, or over
a parapet.

It’s for the light, she tells him, the turning off
of the light, trying to describe the purgatory of
the doggedly dwindling, but
the truth, of course, is
more complex.

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Here’s an older poem posted for dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night, hosted by the wonderful Hedgewitch a/k/a Joy Ann Jones.  I am also linking this post to Imperfect Prose, hosted by Emily Wierenga.

Barefoot Elephant Run?

June 11, 2012

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This is not meant as a serious promotion of any shoe company, shoe, or non-shoe.  It’s just me waxing amazed.

About two months ago, when my feet were especially sore and bulbous (I have weird misshapen bones), I bumbled into some “barefoot” running shoes.  I bought them because any real running shoe hurt.

The barefoot shoes hurt too at first.  Getting used to them takes time.  They make you run on your toes/balls of your feet – a new sensation for plodding me, and difficult at first.

And frankly, even after giving the shoes time, it is hard not to be dubious. They are so thin, like a second rubbery skin;  they are ugly, like Hobbit’s feet; and they aren’t so great for just plain walking.  So, it’s a bit hard to believe that they are not secretly hurting your joints.

And yet, and yet, they are just so much fun.  Fun enough that they have turned me into sort of a runner–a slow, and not very far, but very light-footed (at least, I feel light footed), enthusiastic runner.

And so, I am waxing amazed – my friend up above too, who, unlike me, had to buy TWO pairs.

Incredibly weird, right?!