Posted tagged ‘Karin Gustafson poetry’

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Expression of Emotion in Poetry (Muted) – Burned Soldier

December 8, 2011

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Victorio Ceretto-Slotto is hosting the dVerse Poets Pub “Meet the Bar” event today, and has posted an article about infusing poetry with emotion through use of particular detail and metaphor (among other things.)   She has very kindly included my poem “Far” in her article.  (I am also, at a later date, linking this poem to the Poetry Picnic.)

Here’s another older poem, a villanelle, that doesn’t really have the kind of particular detail Victoria writes of.  Still, I’m posting it because it deals, quite literally, with the muted  expression of emotion.  (My apologies that some readers may have seen this poem, or its companion villanelle.)

Burned Soldier (A Mask For Face)

He tried to smile but found that skin would balk;
a mask for face was not what he had planned.
Right action should give rise to right result,

saving the day as it called on God to halt
all burn and bite of bomb as if by wand;
he tried to smile but found that skin would balk.

When they talked of graft, he always thought of molt,
as if his flesh held feathers that could span
right action, then give rise to right result:

cheeks that were smooth but rough, but loose but taut—
it all had been so easy as a man.
He tried to smile but found that skin would balk.

Hate helped at times; to think it was their fault.
But how could “they” be numbered? Like grains of sand,
like actions that give rise to like result,

like eyes that fit in lids not white as salt.
This lead white face was not what he had planned.
He tried to smile but found that skin would balk;
right action should give rise to right result.

On a very different (i.e. humerous) note, check out my new silly teen novel, Nose Dive, by Karin Gustafson, illustrated (terrifically) by Jonathan Segal.   (When you’re there–take a look at Going on Somewhere, or 1 Mississippi.)  Sorry–but it’s that time of year.

Categories: iPad art, poetry, Uncategorized, villanelle
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Comments: 28 Comments

Not really Comic or Super Poem (For dVerse Poets Pub “Comic” Prompt) (But at least has elephant)

December 3, 2011

Here’s a new poem (too long–sorry–and still very much a draft), written for dVerse Poets Pub “Poetics” challenge relating to comics.    The drawing (done on my iPhone) doesn’t really suit the poem, but I couldn’t resist using it.

Power of Choice or Need

My childhood comic of choice was Archie and heroine
Betty, (fellow blonde and would-be
do-gooder), even though doing good,
in those comics, seemed
synonymous with disappointment.

Of course, the disappointment, was only in the long-lashed eye
of the short-sighted; those impatient
grasping sorts who did not
understand that good-hearted losses,
like all karmic set-backs, must turn golden (i.e. blonde)
at the end, as the universal
balance of good and evil (i.e. Betty’s cute turned-up nose vs.
Veronica’s snooty turned-up nose) righted itself, and a date
with Archie was achieved.

But now that I have no hope of cinched-in waist,
parabolic breasts, or a date with even a
rather bumbling teen throb, my sites turn to the super, those
tragic but helpful figures, only I think
that if I could grow a super power of choice or need, it
would sprout not in my limbs, but inside my heart, taking
the crud of resentment
as its Krypton;
transforming the sting (recurrent)
of abandonment into
the spark of a magic spider’s
teeth.  (With what else
do they bite?)
Morphing the hurt that embeds the claw
into the wide yaw
of empathy; telescoping
that chopped controlling beat into
a galaxy of embrace whose
planets orbit some other sun, where
there are no black holes, and where love, like other
universal forces, can be found in the radial outreach
of just about everything (sound waves from dropped pin,
ringed water round skipped stone, mossy antlers on
rutting stag, maple branches in
wet snow, the listening
consciousness).

It would be a strength, I think,
inked in the unhealed, unhealing heart, allowing it
to flow with the currents of uncertainty,  to
fly vulnerable.

Categories: iPhone art, poetry
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Comments: 19 Comments

Image, Simile, Metaphor in Poetry–A Keel To Float Your Poem–(“Family Finishes”)

December 1, 2011

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DVerse Poets Pub has a prompt today by Gay Reiser Cannnon asking for poems that trade in image, simile, metaphor, allegory, figure.  The poem below was based on an exercise that tended to force one into metaphor (though frankly almost any poem has some basis in these elements.)  The picture, done on my iPad 2, was “filtered” on the Photogene App above.  (Below is the unfiltered image.)

Family Finishes

I.

The perfectionist sands her offspring to her image, or
an image, filing away the
unsightly, the angry, the unspeakable.
Drills a face fit for a pageant, as
smooth as balsam, as modeled as
a keel; then (the child carved
to measure), she steps
down into that keel, careful
of any unseamed tar.

II.

A family levels itself to just folks with enough distance;
an occasional pageant – picnic or funeral – joins the blood,
a biennial application of glue,
occasions muddled with the stickiness of blood;
mother hammering the grandmother, son
nailing father, the family portrait gathering a rich patina.

III.

Steeped in the traditions of the portrait hall,
the young mother thought
to measure out love in spoonfuls,
smoothing away excess, screwing it into a tied-up sock.
Blasphemy to mount to ecstasy over your child.  No.
Passion fit the furniture
like a bowl of tulips or tea set, shaped to
its interval.  But the small white fist that gripped her finger
leveled training,
proper restraint transmuting aged wine to deep wellspring,
casks burst to loose a flow of sparkling clarity. 

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Categories: iPad art, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 8 Comments

What’s Best Not To Be Caught Doing In the Stairwell (Middle-Aged Version)

November 29, 2011

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Here’s an older poem for dVerse Poets Pub Open Link night and Thursday4Poets Rally, apologies to those who’ve seen it before.  (The drawing at least is new.)

In the Stairwell

Descending the building’s stairs, she tests her breast,
fumbling beneath her bra to get to skin,
palpating (as they say) but in a mess
of here and there and not all within
the confines of an organized exam.
Silly to do it here, not time or place,
someone else might come, have to move her hand,
and yet fear seems to justify the race,
as if by checking each time it crosses mind,
especially checking fast, she can avoid
ever finding anything of the kind
that should not be found.  And so, devoid
of caution, but full of care nonetheless,
she steps slowly down the stairs, feeling her breast.
PS – A version of this and other poems can be found in my poetry book on Amazon called “Going on Somewhere.”  But, for real fun, check out my new teen novel, NOSE DIVE (written by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by the wonderful Jonathan Segal.)

Categories: iPad art, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 31 Comments

Magpie Tales (89) (“These Words Are No Nest”)

October 30, 2011

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This is a post (1001th – an apology to those who subscribe) made for Tess Kincaid’s Magpie Tales. Each week Tess posts an interesting photograph as a prompt. The above is my personal take on the photo–I’ve revised it a bit to fit in with the poem below, a sonnet of sorts.

No Nest

These words are no nest.  They won’t warm you
when I’m gone.  You won’t be able to tuck
your head under a t, though it starts true,
slip fingers down n‘s curve, deftly pluck
replies from even the unsilent e‘s.
They won’t warm me either–no echoes
in ashen brains, though spread upon a breeze.
As twigs and hair and grass and dust close in,
words will be somewhere else; just as what peeps
behind these eyes, this voice, this flickering
insistent maw of self, will, at best, sleep
long.  But for now, I’m here, a bickering
steadfast word monger, building a place
of syllabic lingering, would-be embrace.

 

(I am also linking this poem to The Poetry Palace weekly poets’ rally.)

Categories: iPad art, poetry
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Comments: 39 Comments

Young Palm – Adult Child

October 11, 2011

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I am posting the new poem below for the dVerse Poets Pub “Open Link” night and also for Gooseberry Garden’s poetry picnic.

Adult Child

It seemed to her walking on a beachside street
near the home of aging parents
that she saw in the five feet
of a young palm, the slightly goofy grace
of a fawn or baby giraffe:
in the ridges of green trunk–
knock-knees; in the froth of
lime green frond–the soft bristle of
first-sprout hair; overall a sense of oversized
hooves, paws, the floppy underfooting of
fledgling wonder.

Yet even as she held the young palm
in the back of her mind, another childishness
crept to the forefront–a child’s
fear of death–not fear of the unknown, or
even loss, but of moist brown earth,
clods of non-human
clay, the closing-in of lonely terrible cold; a fear of death that does not
truly believe in death but does know darkness.

It clung to her through the visit
until, at the shore itself, after they had tossed in
a rough sea, which, in the power of that fear, was
almost intolerable to her, and her husband passed
a towel over the brilliance beading their skin,
she could not stop herself from reaching back to him
and whispering, oh please
don’t let me be buried, and he, confused,
wrapped strong limbs (a Northern person, he is so unlike a palm) around
her trunk, softly kissing and trying jokes, till she said again, please and
promise, and he did.

Then, determined to cast off the still-stalking fear, she darted awkwardly
to the surf and willed herself into a cartwheel
at the edge of the ocean-firmed sand, and when that one worked, another, and
another again, knowing that one cannot will ebullience, but also
that there is nothing
like turning upside down for clearing a head, and
another one, until blinking in the shine, they marveled, before
the next wave, at
the clarity of the palm prints, there, in the wedge of sand and sea,
spread wide, five-fingered.

As always, all rights reserved.

Categories: iPad art, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 25 Comments

Wonder-Fatigue-Mothers-Grandmothers-Jello-Poem

October 3, 2011

I’ve had a very busy few days visiting aged/aging parents.  This is always both wonderful and a bit exhausting, and because of both of these aspects, I am posting an older poem today.  It’s about a similar visit, made with my mother to visit my grandmother.

Wondrous

We flew out there, then drove.
My mother, who despised gum chewers,
snapped hers loudly, pushing herself up
to the wheel as if it were the chin rest
at an eye exam.

Though my grandmother lived in Minnesota, the hospital
was in Iowa.  When the rental car crossed state lines—
another source of amazement—
my mother, who only drove set routes, had rented a car—
the road narrowed and curved and my mother
cursed all Republicans.

She took the thin gravelly shoulder as
a personal affront; the lip the tires
skidded against was even worse,
an insult to FDR.

At the hospital, my grandmother’s hair cast
about her face like a bridal veil blown back.
She was better already, she said, just
at the sight of us  (but we sure shouldn’t have come;
it was too darn hard).
Then pointed to a cup of jello,
which was as crimson, faceted, as a ruby,
and, at first, resisted my spoon.

“Mama,” my mother said.

Categories: poetry
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An Egg is Still Not a Lightbulb (Crafting Poetry)

September 29, 2011

I have lately been following a terrific poet-inspiring blog called dVerse Poets Pub;  I’m a bit new to the pub, and in anticipation or what, last week,was a day to post “works-in-progress”, I posted, this morning, a draft poem  (Dolphin Dream).  But instead dVerse Poets Pub has requested poets to think  today about the craft of poetry!

The craft of poetry!  Thinking!  I don’t know which is more difficult for me.   Both take some measure of disciplined focus and wild abandon.  I do a lot of revision when I write;  at the same time, I rely a huge amount on unconscious leaps.   Increasingly, these leaps probably arise from synaptic gaps (or gaffes), as much as from inspiration.    I try to use these gaps as starting out places, and then, ideally, I go over and over them to iron out the rough edges.  Good to leave some rough edges though.  And, of course, to add music.

A form can help as it can supply some of the discipline and focus.  (As well as the music.)

And now, here’s a poem about it.

Villanelle to Wandering Brain

Sometimes my mind feels like it’s lost its way
and must make do with words that are in reach
as pink as dusk (not dawn), the half-light of the day,

when what it craves is crimson, noon in May,
the unscathed verb or complex forms of speech.
But sometimes my mind feels like it’s lost its way

and calls the egg a lightbulb, a plan a tray,
and no matter how I search or how beseech,
is pink as dusk (not dawn), the half-light of the day.

I try to make a joke of my decay
or say that busy-ness acts as the leech
that makes my mind feel like it’s lost its way,

but whole years seem as spent as last month’s pay,
plundered in unmet dares to eat a peach
as pink as dusk (not dawn), the half-light of the day.

There is so much I think I still should say,
so press poor words like linens to heart’s breach,
but find my mind has somehow lost its way
as pink as dusk (not dawn), the half-light of the day.

(Sorry to those who have read the poem before, a reposting.  It’s also in my book, Going on Somewhere, by Karin Gustafson, available on Amazon.)

Categories: poetry
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Comments: 18 Comments

Revising a “Dolphin Dream” (Slivers of silver, gradients gray.)

September 29, 2011

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The poem below, Dolphin Dream,  is a revised version of a draft poem I wrote this past April as part of my effort to celebrate National Poetry Month.  (I try to post a new draft poem every day.)   I was planning on linking this revised version last week for the dVerse Poets Pub, “Meet the Bar”, event in which participants give each other helpful commentary to improve their poems, but because that event focused (in a very interesting way) on the subject of poetic craft, and this poem is not really very “crafty”, I did not highlight it.  At any rate, here it is for the dVerse Poets “Open Link” night.   I am very happy to get commentary from both dVerse poets and non-dVerse poets.  (Thanks much.)

Dolphin Dream

The hospital warned I’d have to cart
the scanner needed to test my heart,
my torso too, and abdomen,
the places growths had lodged within.

I carried the scanner in a bag;
still those who saw it guessed the sag
that weighed my spirit, slowed my walk,
and, only human, began to talk.

Upset, I left, broke for the sea,
though the waves that day were high for me.
To escape what seemed a crushing blow,
I took a dive far far below. 

The drop was so precipitate,
five fathoms deep I had to wait,
and watch above the wash of bubbles–
warning signs of deadly troubles,

’till, as my lungs used up my breath,
I saw a sight beyond the rest,
from my cerulean deep sea bed,
a paisley pattern over head.

Slivers of silver, gradients grey,
muscled curves as clear as day,
Sharks? No, dolphins. My heart took flight,
awe subsuming background fright.

Their ease, their grace, was palpable;
to wish them gone felt culpable;
though soon my lungs were so compressed,
wonder turned to harsh distress.

The need for change brought exhalation,
despite the lack of further ration–
no air down there–and so far down,
I felt that I must surely drown.

I woke up treading toward the light,
gasping, panting, in the night,
afraid to settle back to sleep,
though longing to re-spy that deep.

That I could watch those dolphins twist
without a clutch inside my chest!
That I could sink into that dream,
without a thought of scan machine,

or hospital, or sense of tumor,
hush of the half-murmured rumor.
But how could I return with ease
to a place I could not breathe,

where ocean salt still left its trace
inside my heart and on my face,
and dolphins swam as far above
as anything I’ve ever loved.

One query for commenters is whether the last line should read “as everything I’ve ever loved” rather than anything.  

P.S.  I’m reposting an old picture.  (Sorry!)   I don’t like to do this, but it was one of the first I did on iPad 2 so I’ve always had a soft spot for it.

Categories: iPad art, poetry
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Comments: 10 Comments

Another Sestina? Yes! “Seeking”

September 27, 2011

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I have been thinking a lot about poetry lately. This is partly because I’m supposed to be working on a novel! But also because I’ve been in contact with a couple of very supportive websites for online poets. This poem is written for the “open link” night of dVerse Poets Pub, which also inspired the form.

The sestina, for those who don’t know it, is a form consisting of six six-line stanzas whose lines end with the same six words, repeated in a somewhat confusing cycle. The last three-line stanza, called the envoie, also uses all six words.

Seeking

It was heat so hot it cut the air
into panels of swaying bend and warp,
her gaze into off-set swathes of view;
heat so hot that it blotted out the sun,
passing off white noise as summer sky;
heat as hot as any she’d not felt,

for the weather did not burn but lined with felt
her day, her lungs, her movements through the air,
enclothing its tight fist around the sky.
So very hard to breathe a weave and warp
that were weighted not with light but sun,
which, even as it seemed to hide from view–

only a smear in the red-orange view
of dusk, the pink of dawn–made itself felt
as a chemical ball of flame, a sun
of some far planet that in time/space warp
had circumvented the Earth’s true sky.

Oh where, oh where, she wondered, was the sky?
Its hue, its blue, the newness of each view,
the healing that could ease the twist and warp
that tugged at all she thought, at all she felt.
Oh where, oh where, she wondered in dull air,
was he who once was called her only son?

In truth, of course, he still was called her son.
The names of things not found under the sky
remain their names, like lyrics to an air
whose tune is lost, like paintings of a view
long since blocked out (by trees, let’s say, who felt
their limbs took precedence). In the warp

of her wandering mind, even the warp
of branches that curved and craned for sun
was conduct consciously planned and felt–
for all was sentient, live, under the sky,
while also dead. This special point of view
appears to the human for whom to err

has been divine, who’s felt the loss of sky
that held a son, a point of view
so sharp, it limned the warp of missing air.

P.S. For those interested in process–I did not have a clue of what I was going to write when I started only that I wanted to try another sestina. So I focused on a few good repeating words, and started out with a line (more or less) from the novel I am supposed to be working on (which does not have a story anything like this.) Oddly, I did not think about “err” as a homonym till the second or third draft.

(As always, all rights reserved.)

Categories: iPad art, poetry
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Comments: 17 Comments

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