OASIS Journal 2005 (IMAGO Press) in Tucson, Arizon has accepted "Half a Hundred" for publication. The journal will be out in October.
I had to scrunch some lines together to fit their one-page-per-poem requirements, but the words are the same and the changes are minor to me.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Notes for Ariel
Ariel - I’m sure I’ll see some of these again to critique in more detail, so for now I’ll just give you my fave poems, lines and details – plenty to select!
Fave poems:
The Humboldt Squid
The ninth day of May [is this about your uncle?]
The twelfth day of May - (part 1)
The Writers’ Retreat: Arnes, MB. - fantastic details
Assiniboine Forest, May 15, 2005. - whole thing great but why last 2 lines?
The eighteenth day of May - Still one of my favourites not just of MayDay but of All (Ariel) Time
The twenty-first day of May - This is powerful – don’t remember reading it in May
The twentieth day of May
Renovation poem #3: uncareful graves - Creepy domisticity!
The twenty-fifth day of May - Heh – would like to see this expanded.
The thirtieth poem
------------
Other great moments:
The first day of May
In Don's Deli the midafternoon light settles
over the stack of crockery plates with crumbs
and blots of butter platters with fork-scarred films of yolk
mugs empty grating against saucers against the gulp-swallow
of the coffeemaker in the corner the percolating of coffee
already burnt
the slow coast of a police car under the careening snowflakes
It is a day of small protests
Saturday night disappointments
as we return to breakfasts refills and the injustice of snow
--------------
The third day in May
if we represent a threat and the bunny has been bronzed
by its caution but the girls are free to recline on their marble
pedestals in their pigtails and perky tits: an old man’s fantasy
as much as the busts of men in power only their heads and shoulders
only their heads and shoulders are an old man’s fantasy
and we walkers could touch the old men the girls in ways they never
would have permitted in life
the same way we know the people in the idling van
in the parking lot pumping exhaust into the air as the trees
pump oxygen will come no further
--------------
The fourth day of May
Fishing for the tail-end of a beautiful fall afternoon
Gudmund had his trusty rod in one hand and his sweating
beer in the other was thinking butter dill the crackle of the fry pan
when he got another bite and felt the arc of protest in his rod
against the heavy thing that lurked below
Fishing for compliments for just the right line
Gudy panicked; he’d be the first to admit that she was dainty
only four-foot-four but despite her corkscrewing suckers
each with its own row of pearly teeth her three hearts of gold
and her big eyes he’d thought it through
he wasn’t ready for this kind of commitment, see?
and there’s always other fish in the sea
And maybe it was because he was better with a nailgun
than a rod better with power tools than power politics
that he got a faceful of ink enough to fill any poet's poison pen
but he didn’t need anyone to tell him that he should fling
his doomed darling to the deck open the hatch
and kick her breathless wide-eyed
into the hold
--------------
The fifth day of May
upper right central upper right lateral
upper left central upper left lateral
gold-leafing the morning
timed by the swerving cars only a few feet away
none of them none of us
ever sure where to turn
--------------
Renovation poem #1: after spring thaw
Eggshell & bricky bits
in the tarry
shingle grit,
glass,
& set
grey curls
of pigeon shit
between my house & his
--------------
Renovation poem #2: the ground floor
See how the line is overlaid
by outstretched wings hinged
to a spine laid bare follow the line
of leg up into spine the fine fletching
of wing see how the long feathers
are still intact
black
and how little that matters now
On top of the bones there are butts
smoked down so that all that is left
is tar resin and reason
and the threads of a broken jar
some domestic thing
to be opened and put away
Lie down
Feel the long muscles
in your legs relax your spine
sag as the small of your back
touches down to the ground
see how the long beamsof the building
the lines of shadow
are intact
black
and how little this matters now
--------------
The fourteenth day of May
its soupy sidewalks
cracking under the repeated
demands: freeze!
thaw!
mixed-up lilies
who should be dug up: divide!
conquer!
--------------
Assiniboine Forest, May 16, 2005.
but it seems
I must satisfy myself
with what there is
--------------
Assiniboine Park Zoo, Enclosure #41
In the dark the white-tailed deer
tuck their tails under the long lines
of haunch and hip of shadow
and roadside sound
and settle out in the open
while the American bison as boxy as bales
of straw intact bales of hay broken
sleep at the edge of the chain-link
barbed-wire enclosure
the curving line of dark
--------------
The Writers Retreat: Arnes, MB (part the second)
curves of swarming fish
and the sinuous surprise of them is wide
and delicate
as what was shadow now shows
fin ripple
and muscle
through sun-shot water
as I stand ankle-deep
twenty paces out
from the rock-pickers after the perfect
piece of clear quartz
and the purple moth that has
settled
on the cocooned balls
the larval curves
of my shed socks
--------------
Renovation poem #4: foundation
Walking home there are the teenage girls
in hajibs trying to persuade
each other
to swing
the sandbox grit
in the air their heels
grinding on the leaf-littered
ground
but each of them
thinking of being airborne
of pointing their heels
up
Fave poems:
The Humboldt Squid
The ninth day of May [is this about your uncle?]
The twelfth day of May - (part 1)
The Writers’ Retreat: Arnes, MB. - fantastic details
Assiniboine Forest, May 15, 2005. - whole thing great but why last 2 lines?
The eighteenth day of May - Still one of my favourites not just of MayDay but of All (Ariel) Time
The twenty-first day of May - This is powerful – don’t remember reading it in May
The twentieth day of May
Renovation poem #3: uncareful graves - Creepy domisticity!
The twenty-fifth day of May - Heh – would like to see this expanded.
The thirtieth poem
------------
Other great moments:
The first day of May
In Don's Deli the midafternoon light settles
over the stack of crockery plates with crumbs
and blots of butter platters with fork-scarred films of yolk
mugs empty grating against saucers against the gulp-swallow
of the coffeemaker in the corner the percolating of coffee
already burnt
the slow coast of a police car under the careening snowflakes
It is a day of small protests
Saturday night disappointments
as we return to breakfasts refills and the injustice of snow
--------------
The third day in May
if we represent a threat and the bunny has been bronzed
by its caution but the girls are free to recline on their marble
pedestals in their pigtails and perky tits: an old man’s fantasy
as much as the busts of men in power only their heads and shoulders
only their heads and shoulders are an old man’s fantasy
and we walkers could touch the old men the girls in ways they never
would have permitted in life
the same way we know the people in the idling van
in the parking lot pumping exhaust into the air as the trees
pump oxygen will come no further
--------------
The fourth day of May
Fishing for the tail-end of a beautiful fall afternoon
Gudmund had his trusty rod in one hand and his sweating
beer in the other was thinking butter dill the crackle of the fry pan
when he got another bite and felt the arc of protest in his rod
against the heavy thing that lurked below
Fishing for compliments for just the right line
Gudy panicked; he’d be the first to admit that she was dainty
only four-foot-four but despite her corkscrewing suckers
each with its own row of pearly teeth her three hearts of gold
and her big eyes he’d thought it through
he wasn’t ready for this kind of commitment, see?
and there’s always other fish in the sea
And maybe it was because he was better with a nailgun
than a rod better with power tools than power politics
that he got a faceful of ink enough to fill any poet's poison pen
but he didn’t need anyone to tell him that he should fling
his doomed darling to the deck open the hatch
and kick her breathless wide-eyed
into the hold
--------------
The fifth day of May
upper right central upper right lateral
upper left central upper left lateral
gold-leafing the morning
timed by the swerving cars only a few feet away
none of them none of us
ever sure where to turn
--------------
Renovation poem #1: after spring thaw
Eggshell & bricky bits
in the tarry
shingle grit,
glass,
& set
grey curls
of pigeon shit
between my house & his
--------------
Renovation poem #2: the ground floor
See how the line is overlaid
by outstretched wings hinged
to a spine laid bare follow the line
of leg up into spine the fine fletching
of wing see how the long feathers
are still intact
black
and how little that matters now
On top of the bones there are butts
smoked down so that all that is left
is tar resin and reason
and the threads of a broken jar
some domestic thing
to be opened and put away
Lie down
Feel the long muscles
in your legs relax your spine
sag as the small of your back
touches down to the ground
see how the long beamsof the building
the lines of shadow
are intact
black
and how little this matters now
--------------
The fourteenth day of May
its soupy sidewalks
cracking under the repeated
demands: freeze!
thaw!
mixed-up lilies
who should be dug up: divide!
conquer!
--------------
Assiniboine Forest, May 16, 2005.
but it seems
I must satisfy myself
with what there is
--------------
Assiniboine Park Zoo, Enclosure #41
In the dark the white-tailed deer
tuck their tails under the long lines
of haunch and hip of shadow
and roadside sound
and settle out in the open
while the American bison as boxy as bales
of straw intact bales of hay broken
sleep at the edge of the chain-link
barbed-wire enclosure
the curving line of dark
--------------
The Writers Retreat: Arnes, MB (part the second)
curves of swarming fish
and the sinuous surprise of them is wide
and delicate
as what was shadow now shows
fin ripple
and muscle
through sun-shot water
as I stand ankle-deep
twenty paces out
from the rock-pickers after the perfect
piece of clear quartz
and the purple moth that has
settled
on the cocooned balls
the larval curves
of my shed socks
--------------
Renovation poem #4: foundation
Walking home there are the teenage girls
in hajibs trying to persuade
each other
to swing
the sandbox grit
in the air their heels
grinding on the leaf-littered
ground
but each of them
thinking of being airborne
of pointing their heels
up
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Notes for Paul
Two favourites:
within range, montenant
si))(((lens...
And favourite lines:
Re:Setting
i've plumbed my place with them before
as the die is cast
sixsidedly
in lines of long-
and latitude
to fall in with
risk-taking throws
at poetic justice
and global domination
-----
titular indeterminayacy
the mayans had calendars
by my-oh-my if "maya"
isn't just a foundation
for illusion to build pyramids to
(even the stars are blood-spattered)
but
back to my maya
my mayday
the beast with two backlashes:
even my maieutics
are having a midwife crisis
& menno? please!
blistered are the pleasemakers'
lips
no more pleading
wow
i said waking up with
a severe case of enlightenment.
-----
& i've only ever seen a possum once
but i'm completely inept
at giving up completely
because i LOVE
playing in traffic your eyes
deeper than halogen
and your grille
an open invitation
to attempting hot passionate
fusion with your radiator
don't get me started on your bumper
(i look too good
in chrome agony)
there i go
objectifying you again
by just lying there on the road
to keep the asphalt from telling its side
can i be your hood ornament?
-----
schade is too bad in german
my son & i
(this one, not that one)
watch his finals
the personal is political
i tell myself
& yeah
i do vote for me
how's that for happy endings
or edges,
not losing my nerve
just because my skin is raw
& the ball is up in the air
-----
seen from this side of the glass, poker tastes like gin
inverte-berating me
then again we were playing big blind little blind
which goes a long way towards
describing my ability to read people
never mind books
which i do so slowly
i read them in reverse
-----
just lying, there
life is a tupperware casket of donuts
looks like truth
tastes like chickenshit
& its brain,
only big enough to believe in
two-sided theories
massacred all the others
lest it lose its deathgrip
to something more
personal
like love,
or lovelike
-----
<{[(:+:)]}>
[Still like this title!]
within range, montenant
si))(((lens...
And favourite lines:
Re:Setting
i've plumbed my place with them before
as the die is cast
sixsidedly
in lines of long-
and latitude
to fall in with
risk-taking throws
at poetic justice
and global domination
-----
titular indeterminayacy
the mayans had calendars
by my-oh-my if "maya"
isn't just a foundation
for illusion to build pyramids to
(even the stars are blood-spattered)
but
back to my maya
my mayday
the beast with two backlashes:
even my maieutics
are having a midwife crisis
& menno? please!
blistered are the pleasemakers'
lips
no more pleading
wow
i said waking up with
a severe case of enlightenment.
-----
& i've only ever seen a possum once
but i'm completely inept
at giving up completely
because i LOVE
playing in traffic your eyes
deeper than halogen
and your grille
an open invitation
to attempting hot passionate
fusion with your radiator
don't get me started on your bumper
(i look too good
in chrome agony)
there i go
objectifying you again
by just lying there on the road
to keep the asphalt from telling its side
can i be your hood ornament?
-----
schade is too bad in german
my son & i
(this one, not that one)
watch his finals
the personal is political
i tell myself
& yeah
i do vote for me
how's that for happy endings
or edges,
not losing my nerve
just because my skin is raw
& the ball is up in the air
-----
seen from this side of the glass, poker tastes like gin
inverte-berating me
then again we were playing big blind little blind
which goes a long way towards
describing my ability to read people
never mind books
which i do so slowly
i read them in reverse
-----
just lying, there
life is a tupperware casket of donuts
looks like truth
tastes like chickenshit
& its brain,
only big enough to believe in
two-sided theories
massacred all the others
lest it lose its deathgrip
to something more
personal
like love,
or lovelike
-----
<{[(:+:)]}>
[Still like this title!]
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Comments for Jonathan
Jonathan -
My favorites:
Wolves
The Poets
Growing Poets
My friends are beginning to die
to dance
[though don’t need last stanza maybe – perhaps combine with “A Poem for Mandy”]
Planning the Shot
film haiku
Take me to America
Apples
[like the unexpected way it unravels!]
------------
Fave lines from others:
The Toads of Hamburg
If you were to ask one of the toads
it would simply swell up, affronted by the question,
and burst. This line of inquiry
will get us nowhere.
We must trust in science.
We must trust in our leaders.
We must trust in the government.
We must trust that, one day,
things will return to normal.
Until then,
the crows feast.
------------
my bones so
but the thought of
my bones
moving under
my skin
breaking
breaks me
inside
------------
Cooley in Germany
scoffing at the wind (this is nothing
on the prairies the wind will
well the wind will blowhard
knock you over it will
the wind if the winds will it
if it’s the wind’s will)
but they just smile
not understanding
these poets—such exaggerators
they say
------------
Cold
There are words. Carved in the walls.
Listen. Lie still. Lie down.
To a colder place. I will take you. Then. If you are. Cold.
------------
Among Roses
We will bleed from you such small amounts
And so quiet, the softest of pain
----------
Tired
Take the penny.
From my mouth.
Hold me.
Close.
My eyes.
----------
Best of luck with all your Projects and going back to Skool!
My favorites:
Wolves
The Poets
Growing Poets
My friends are beginning to die
to dance
[though don’t need last stanza maybe – perhaps combine with “A Poem for Mandy”]
Planning the Shot
film haiku
Take me to America
Apples
[like the unexpected way it unravels!]
------------
Fave lines from others:
The Toads of Hamburg
If you were to ask one of the toads
it would simply swell up, affronted by the question,
and burst. This line of inquiry
will get us nowhere.
We must trust in science.
We must trust in our leaders.
We must trust in the government.
We must trust that, one day,
things will return to normal.
Until then,
the crows feast.
------------
my bones so
but the thought of
my bones
moving under
my skin
breaking
breaks me
inside
------------
Cooley in Germany
scoffing at the wind (this is nothing
on the prairies the wind will
well the wind will blowhard
knock you over it will
the wind if the winds will it
if it’s the wind’s will)
but they just smile
not understanding
these poets—such exaggerators
they say
------------
Cold
There are words. Carved in the walls.
Listen. Lie still. Lie down.
To a colder place. I will take you. Then. If you are. Cold.
------------
Among Roses
We will bleed from you such small amounts
And so quiet, the softest of pain
----------
Tired
Take the penny.
From my mouth.
Hold me.
Close.
My eyes.
----------
Best of luck with all your Projects and going back to Skool!
Comments for Myra
Myra -
I've listed my absolute faves first. If I just have the title, that means I liked the whole thing - I've also listed some favourite lines from some that jumped out at me.
-------------
Water Falling Lavendar
Away With Leave
Good News From Duckie
So It Is [with editing, this will be even stronger]
Reading The Names
------------
Planting time
How can the spring drunk hand
not touch,
not push
the roaming root to it’s new
warm place?
Guide the root to reach
for the juice that will spread and rise
through the already up reaching
already eager signal
green text message flashing in each
flowing vein.
------------
A Little Help
The plants are in and watered,
little deposits of dirt and roots
promising to be more if tended.
It took a friend to help me step down
to the place where the bare soil waited,
fertility confused by it’s unbroken surface
when all I needed was the helping hand
of a younger body’s frame
my helper some of another harvest
did I have enough guts to venture out
into the small garden space awaiting my touch
listening for the sound of the hand hoe
hitting against the wood edge of the barrel
the root bursting herbs erupting
in my hands like rumbling
volcanoes of stems and leaves
no longer content to shelter beneath
the surface. Tomorrow will find
the living leaf rivers flowing from the beds,
---------
Half a Hundred
The party
seems to have lasted
so much longer
for us all
than the invitation
indicated.
------------
Fave lines from others:
Jumping the Gun
I feel wrapped in their
city love, the nesting pair
of love birds who call
me Mom. I am a giant
Chimichanga of love.
------------
Meeting On The Road
[Just went to Tulsa for the first time last month – was fascinated by it]
The city passes barely noticed
Like another attendee at a conference,
“My name is Tulsa,”
when only movement matters—
------------
Pondering Sorrell
Good cooks require courage.
And abundance
------------
Picnic Effervescence
their fragile wishes
out into the fully leafed treetops
delicate and sharp edged
trusting the grown-ups
to make bubbles possible
for awhile longer.
--------
What We Eat
or have we turned more meekly
into the flock of mindless sheep
I once recalled,
all lining up for the
humming of the shears?
------------
Enough For Me
Water like liquid diamonds
falls from so many taps—
gratitude and astonishment
continuing.
I know I have the only
Blessings I need.
------------
Dusk Ablaze
When day has slipped its foot
into the bath of night
and stars call down
to whatever bits of light are left
pooling at the edge,
then the ground shimmers
and yellow rises flashing
as if each
petal of the dandelions
has taken wing,
the blinking
lights rise bright
against the darkness
dancing a quest for life.
Some stay moored to the earth,
blinking back, twinkling
like tiny candles
showing the direction home.
------------
Drops of Day
[like how this one relates back to “Enough for Me” and “Dusk Ablaze”
----------
Circuit
Speaking only made my voice
carry old truths
back to the women who had
always known them
guarded them
and merely needed to be
reminded of their own gardens.
------------
Before Paper Cranes
Is this island of a body calling
back waves from that day
before my birth
broadcasted eternally
received in our bones?
Wonderful dying flash
fluttering last light
turning all to ash as
blood cloud umbrella closes
over a charred city
folding surprised citizens
into burnt creases.
===============
Hope this helps! Good luck with venturing out into publishing!
I've listed my absolute faves first. If I just have the title, that means I liked the whole thing - I've also listed some favourite lines from some that jumped out at me.
-------------
Water Falling Lavendar
Away With Leave
Good News From Duckie
So It Is [with editing, this will be even stronger]
Reading The Names
------------
Planting time
How can the spring drunk hand
not touch,
not push
the roaming root to it’s new
warm place?
Guide the root to reach
for the juice that will spread and rise
through the already up reaching
already eager signal
green text message flashing in each
flowing vein.
------------
A Little Help
The plants are in and watered,
little deposits of dirt and roots
promising to be more if tended.
It took a friend to help me step down
to the place where the bare soil waited,
fertility confused by it’s unbroken surface
when all I needed was the helping hand
of a younger body’s frame
my helper some of another harvest
did I have enough guts to venture out
into the small garden space awaiting my touch
listening for the sound of the hand hoe
hitting against the wood edge of the barrel
the root bursting herbs erupting
in my hands like rumbling
volcanoes of stems and leaves
no longer content to shelter beneath
the surface. Tomorrow will find
the living leaf rivers flowing from the beds,
---------
Half a Hundred
The party
seems to have lasted
so much longer
for us all
than the invitation
indicated.
------------
Fave lines from others:
Jumping the Gun
I feel wrapped in their
city love, the nesting pair
of love birds who call
me Mom. I am a giant
Chimichanga of love.
------------
Meeting On The Road
[Just went to Tulsa for the first time last month – was fascinated by it]
The city passes barely noticed
Like another attendee at a conference,
“My name is Tulsa,”
when only movement matters—
------------
Pondering Sorrell
Good cooks require courage.
And abundance
------------
Picnic Effervescence
their fragile wishes
out into the fully leafed treetops
delicate and sharp edged
trusting the grown-ups
to make bubbles possible
for awhile longer.
--------
What We Eat
or have we turned more meekly
into the flock of mindless sheep
I once recalled,
all lining up for the
humming of the shears?
------------
Enough For Me
Water like liquid diamonds
falls from so many taps—
gratitude and astonishment
continuing.
I know I have the only
Blessings I need.
------------
Dusk Ablaze
When day has slipped its foot
into the bath of night
and stars call down
to whatever bits of light are left
pooling at the edge,
then the ground shimmers
and yellow rises flashing
as if each
petal of the dandelions
has taken wing,
the blinking
lights rise bright
against the darkness
dancing a quest for life.
Some stay moored to the earth,
blinking back, twinkling
like tiny candles
showing the direction home.
------------
Drops of Day
[like how this one relates back to “Enough for Me” and “Dusk Ablaze”
----------
Circuit
Speaking only made my voice
carry old truths
back to the women who had
always known them
guarded them
and merely needed to be
reminded of their own gardens.
------------
Before Paper Cranes
Is this island of a body calling
back waves from that day
before my birth
broadcasted eternally
received in our bones?
Wonderful dying flash
fluttering last light
turning all to ash as
blood cloud umbrella closes
over a charred city
folding surprised citizens
into burnt creases.
===============
Hope this helps! Good luck with venturing out into publishing!
As we edge out ever farther from May...
I've got comments for Myra and Jonathan, which I will post now. And I'm working on Paul and Ariel (though I know Ariel's already culled and started editing!)
Also, I fixed the setting on comments so we know WHEN people commented!
I would welcome even just a list of a few favourites from mine, as I'm culling and editing, and am curious to know which poems people felt were most worthy of pursuing and putting more work into...
Hope all is well with everyone and you're getting out to enjoy summer!
Also, I fixed the setting on comments so we know WHEN people commented!
I would welcome even just a list of a few favourites from mine, as I'm culling and editing, and am curious to know which poems people felt were most worthy of pursuing and putting more work into...
Hope all is well with everyone and you're getting out to enjoy summer!
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Processing
I've copied everyone poems, including mine into a word doc, and separated them by poet. If anyone wants a copy, just leave me a note here or email me and I'll send it off to you.
Hope everyone is doing well. Just got back from a very fun 12 days with family and friends in the U.S.
I should have notes for potes in the next few days...
Hope everyone is doing well. Just got back from a very fun 12 days with family and friends in the U.S.
I should have notes for potes in the next few days...
Sunday, June 12, 2005
forget that deadline
it seems that nobody (including myself) has been able to stick to my arbitrary deadline. so let's just say that we'll all try to provide said feedback by the end of the month.
myra had wanted more info on my publishing imprint ... well, it's just a small chapbook press, newly starting up. there seems to be a fair amount of interest though. i have put out two small books and two more are in progress. a little more info at www.martianpress.blogspot.com.
the 3rd book is by calgary poet derek beaulieu and the 4th book will be by ottawa poet rob mclennan. the may day poems would in theory be the 5th book. to be published late fall/early winter. if not everybody's interested maybe we'll just do a selection of the interested poets.
jonathan
myra had wanted more info on my publishing imprint ... well, it's just a small chapbook press, newly starting up. there seems to be a fair amount of interest though. i have put out two small books and two more are in progress. a little more info at www.martianpress.blogspot.com.
the 3rd book is by calgary poet derek beaulieu and the 4th book will be by ottawa poet rob mclennan. the may day poems would in theory be the 5th book. to be published late fall/early winter. if not everybody's interested maybe we'll just do a selection of the interested poets.
jonathan
Thursday, June 02, 2005
a new deadline
i am going to arbitrarily name June 10 as the day that we will post our favourite 3-5 poems from each poet, as written during this project. that's gives us time to relax and think.
also, let me know if you are still interested in putting together a chapbook from the site/project. i'm game.
also, let me know if you are still interested in putting together a chapbook from the site/project. i'm game.
The first day of June
Around 11 pm tonight, my brain started churning. The usual oh-shit-I've-got-to- post- before-midnight anxiety...but also the usual oh-shit-I've-got-to-post-before-midnight pleasure.
Apparently, after thirty-one days of this chemical slurry, this lazy adrenalin rush, my brain had geared up for another grasping-at-straws outing.
Though, sadly, I refrained from writing the poem, on this First Day of June I wanted to note that I am already missing (and mourning the end of) May Day.
I'm missing having somewhere to post my terrible first drafts, my tits and goddamns and frogsong.
I'm missing the after-midnight browse (coming down coming down) of your poems.
Anyways, thanks.
Apparently, after thirty-one days of this chemical slurry, this lazy adrenalin rush, my brain had geared up for another grasping-at-straws outing.
Though, sadly, I refrained from writing the poem, on this First Day of June I wanted to note that I am already missing (and mourning the end of) May Day.
I'm missing having somewhere to post my terrible first drafts, my tits and goddamns and frogsong.
I'm missing the after-midnight browse (coming down coming down) of your poems.
Anyways, thanks.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
The thirtieth poem
And always that one tree
at the end of the paved path
through the forest
glows
tungsten bright
shallow-rooted dry on the median
the thin divide
between tarred roads and ditches full
drowning the thicker belts
and bottoms of boreal
And always that one deer
at the edge of the paved path
through the forest
glows
tapetum bright
thin-lipped shy at the treeline
the long stride
between dried grasses and gardens full
crowning the thicker stems
and sepals of suburbia
* * *
That's it. It's eleven-fifty-something pm and I'm still short a poem.
Can I possibly be content with only thirty poems when there are thirty one days in May?
Only time will tell.
A.
The Poem to End all Poems
Winter Cinquain
cold feet
sockless pathos
reaching sneaking seeking
yearn for a warm place of comfort
your legs
cold feet
sockless pathos
reaching sneaking seeking
yearn for a warm place of comfort
your legs
The thirty-first day of May
First signs of spring: a West Nile screed
Bare-legged women clean the muck
of still-sodden parkland
off their first-hot-day sandals
in the puddle that mirrors the tree-line
the mowed lines of the canopy
the first base line beyond
muddling the reflection
the soft light
of evening
the water sloshes
is still
by the time the women slide
into their cars
scratching at the backs of winter-white knees
the water is still
except for the twilight stipple
of mosquitoes laying
the plumb line
the vertical between the sky
and the soil
as the soft blue carcasses
of crows
magpies
ravens
fall
from the trees
right smack
into the morning paper
Standing by
Waiting waiting
waiting
put on hold
can't get what I want
when I want it
don't know what I need
until I need it
Through the empty room
a few words whistle by
the Universe is standing by -
call now!
waiting
put on hold
can't get what I want
when I want it
don't know what I need
until I need it
Through the empty room
a few words whistle by
the Universe is standing by -
call now!
Love Poem - to be Continued...
I woke this morning
to a curious sound
at first I could not place
then realized
he laughs in his sleep
Yet another trait
to add to the list
of what makes him
different from anyone
I've ever known
He keeps me warm
in winter
drives anger
to laughter
makes up words
to songs
He lets me be weak
so I can be strong
the rest of the time
Out There
to a curious sound
at first I could not place
then realized
he laughs in his sleep
Yet another trait
to add to the list
of what makes him
different from anyone
I've ever known
He keeps me warm
in winter
drives anger
to laughter
makes up words
to songs
He lets me be weak
so I can be strong
the rest of the time
Out There
Half a Hundred
So easily we imagined
ourselves decrepit at this age
so nearly bent
in two
with aches and lack of hope—
no drives
to push us out of bed
or into the arms of lovers
or faraway cities
No lust for the sight of another
shore or taste of a grape brought
in a bottle from a year and region
we missed
in our aging. But
we were wrong and see
the dawn as another
opening of
a day
with more light than we
Imagined with more sun
than was predicted,
full of people who know
our names and love
the sound of them being
called. It strikes us with
no surprise but sheer
Anticipation that reservations
have been made for celebrations—
innumerable days and dinners,
cake all round for everyone
and more sweet ice cream than
we thought capable of
ever making. Candy and
gifts fall
from the sky in shapes
we never imagined would
Hold value or even exist
when we were a fraction
of these present years
Thinking we were as
wise as one ever gets. And
now we know ourselves to be
The sloppy puppies
and kittens
still chasing our tails
in search of whatever is there
when we catch up with
Ourselves. The glee in the
eyes of our elders hints at
birthdays still capable of
blowing out
all the candles
we could ever think of
Lighting. The party
seems to have lasted
so much longer
for us all
than the invitation
indicated.
5-31-05
ourselves decrepit at this age
so nearly bent
in two
with aches and lack of hope—
no drives
to push us out of bed
or into the arms of lovers
or faraway cities
No lust for the sight of another
shore or taste of a grape brought
in a bottle from a year and region
we missed
in our aging. But
we were wrong and see
the dawn as another
opening of
a day
with more light than we
Imagined with more sun
than was predicted,
full of people who know
our names and love
the sound of them being
called. It strikes us with
no surprise but sheer
Anticipation that reservations
have been made for celebrations—
innumerable days and dinners,
cake all round for everyone
and more sweet ice cream than
we thought capable of
ever making. Candy and
gifts fall
from the sky in shapes
we never imagined would
Hold value or even exist
when we were a fraction
of these present years
Thinking we were as
wise as one ever gets. And
now we know ourselves to be
The sloppy puppies
and kittens
still chasing our tails
in search of whatever is there
when we catch up with
Ourselves. The glee in the
eyes of our elders hints at
birthdays still capable of
blowing out
all the candles
we could ever think of
Lighting. The party
seems to have lasted
so much longer
for us all
than the invitation
indicated.
5-31-05
Simple Play
Two girls attempt to draw
in chalks the boxes
holding numbers
they will use to jump and
hop a game.
Their play
Is at least half
in the chalking
as much as the hopping
but some grown person
knowing better
in their set cement mind
Must take the chalk—
make the numbers darker
the lines straighter—
So the game is turned
to work and insistent perfection.
The small gleaming children
Watch in baffled amusement
as the adult tries
to wash the play
out of the game
as rain may wash
the chalk away
But wait until
the one obsessed
finally walks away
so they can resume
their simple sport—
small feet hopping
On the imperfect numbers
hidden underneath
the rigid corrections.
5-30-05
in chalks the boxes
holding numbers
they will use to jump and
hop a game.
Their play
Is at least half
in the chalking
as much as the hopping
but some grown person
knowing better
in their set cement mind
Must take the chalk—
make the numbers darker
the lines straighter—
So the game is turned
to work and insistent perfection.
The small gleaming children
Watch in baffled amusement
as the adult tries
to wash the play
out of the game
as rain may wash
the chalk away
But wait until
the one obsessed
finally walks away
so they can resume
their simple sport—
small feet hopping
On the imperfect numbers
hidden underneath
the rigid corrections.
5-30-05
Honey Flight
It seems the bees flee
their comb-filled hive
in route to a place
known only to them
in their flurry
humming all the way
to a dark hollow tree
or gray timbered
shaky leaning
abandoned place
where there is
room to build
a sweet life again
no more aware of the drive
that lifts
the honey center of their lives
that relocates the chambers
they will as one mind build
in symmetrical designs
all linked by wax walls
unable to withstand
the unsheltered
heat of a bright day,
how do they settle
in to calm at the noise
of their own homecoming
that sound the black and gold
swarm makes striping
the morning air
when greeting itself
after the panic of leaving.
5-29-05
their comb-filled hive
in route to a place
known only to them
in their flurry
humming all the way
to a dark hollow tree
or gray timbered
shaky leaning
abandoned place
where there is
room to build
a sweet life again
no more aware of the drive
that lifts
the honey center of their lives
that relocates the chambers
they will as one mind build
in symmetrical designs
all linked by wax walls
unable to withstand
the unsheltered
heat of a bright day,
how do they settle
in to calm at the noise
of their own homecoming
that sound the black and gold
swarm makes striping
the morning air
when greeting itself
after the panic of leaving.
5-29-05
Th-th-th-that's all folks!
Well, I just put up my last poem. I've enjoyed this a lot. It is interesting to see what you come up with when you are forced to create a new work every day. I will have to take a few days off before I can come back and pick out poems by other people that I liked best but rest assured I will do so once things settle down a little, maybe early next week or this weekend.
Final Day!
It's been awesome!
A few thoughts:
For today's poem(s), we can go back and find our favorite theme and re-use it!
As previously posted, once we've all posted our final contributions, it would be terrific if we could each go through and select 3-5 poems from each poet and let them know these are our favorites, and maybe add why or other comments if you have time. I find it tough to go back and find comments on older posts, so I suggest we post those comments here in the present.
I've got a few more poems to post today.
Congratulations all on taking on this challenge! I'll be interested to hear people's thoughts on the process.
A few thoughts:
For today's poem(s), we can go back and find our favorite theme and re-use it!
As previously posted, once we've all posted our final contributions, it would be terrific if we could each go through and select 3-5 poems from each poet and let them know these are our favorites, and maybe add why or other comments if you have time. I find it tough to go back and find comments on older posts, so I suggest we post those comments here in the present.
I've got a few more poems to post today.
Congratulations all on taking on this challenge! I'll be interested to hear people's thoughts on the process.
Half - Ballade
Wrote May 21 for a friend's wedding - complete ballade still under construction:
---
On your wedding day
Our aim is to please
with words we say
some praise, some tease
some bring you to your knees
But one truth I bring in song
on this special day in May
to fill your married life with ease
D & B on this sacred day
In sum I offer these
6 words to keep a marriage strong:
"You were right and I was wrong"
---
On your wedding day
Our aim is to please
with words we say
some praise, some tease
some bring you to your knees
But one truth I bring in song
on this special day in May
to fill your married life with ease
D & B on this sacred day
In sum I offer these
6 words to keep a marriage strong:
"You were right and I was wrong"
May Day: the forest for the trees
Hey all, this is a visual representation of May Day, courtesy of texone.org.
According to the website: texone.org is "a fun Processing applet that takes a URL and converts the site, including links and content, into a tree, with external links creating other trees."
I just wanted to say, a day early and three poems owing, how much I've enjoyed working in this particular thicket.
And, lest I be accused of not seeing the forest for the trees, I'd like to thank Polly, Jonathan, Paul and Myra for everygoddamn thing.
Thanks too to everyone that commented, lurked, or backchanneled.
(...do I really have to post three more poems by end of day tomorrow? crap...)
A.
According to the website: texone.org is "a fun Processing applet that takes a URL and converts the site, including links and content, into a tree, with external links creating other trees."
I just wanted to say, a day early and three poems owing, how much I've enjoyed working in this particular thicket.
And, lest I be accused of not seeing the forest for the trees, I'd like to thank Polly, Jonathan, Paul and Myra for everygoddamn thing.
Thanks too to everyone that commented, lurked, or backchanneled.
(...do I really have to post three more poems by end of day tomorrow? crap...)
A.
Monday, May 30, 2005
The thirtieth day of May
Bugs beat against the tall pillars
of puffed out dandelions
clock the yellow sawteeth
as they go to seed
then follow
suspicious
to the soft pointillism
the breezy fluorescence
of summer screens
of open air
evenings
And the lightbulb inside the bulge
of light is the most swollen
moon they’ve ever seen
the hazy head of the dandelion
its delicate
globe
is nothing to this hot
hot heat
and once in
bugs buzz bright spirals figure
eights ovals
crawl the walls
swarm
and
burn
In the morning
bugs will drown in bedside glasses of water
down the sides of cooling cups of tea
wings flattened floating
others will beat at the screen
wanting out
while the dandelion
with its deep
tap root
its thousand thousand fruit
is content to flower and float
and flower
* * *
This is, I guess, a response to Polly's dandelion poem of a few days ago (though I only just realized it to be so as I wrote the last stanza).
It also harkens back to the Writers Retreat in Arnes last summer, when the (screened) windows let in so many swarms I had to block the space under my bedroom door with a towel - as though there was a fire in the next room, as though the bugs were a kind of smoke, could choke me.
Political Poem - As If
As if
it matters
anymore
what gets done
what doesn't
peak oil
is coming
or it isn't
the sky is falling
or just falling apart
the hole is getting wider
the whole is shrinking
I don't care
not one whit
do I?
the animals are disappearing
or maybe just hiding
i don't blame them one bit
do you?
war is over
if you want it
Lennon had it right
but we don't want it
do we?
it matters
anymore
what gets done
what doesn't
peak oil
is coming
or it isn't
the sky is falling
or just falling apart
the hole is getting wider
the whole is shrinking
I don't care
not one whit
do I?
the animals are disappearing
or maybe just hiding
i don't blame them one bit
do you?
war is over
if you want it
Lennon had it right
but we don't want it
do we?
Ode to Z
You're writing me a note
sitting in the train station
in my new city
You're inviting me to come visit
your new school
on spring break
We're going for blizzards at Dairy Queen
turning them upside down
You're driving with me
in my yet-to-be country
we're reading aloud
from C.S. Lewis
with my supposedly
a-literate boyfriend
You're competing
in my temporary city
We're playing boggle
to calm you down
It's not working but
you're winning anyway
thanks to your amazingness
and the extra-special
good luck monster woman
I loaned you just for the occasion
You're assuring me
that you will remind me
not to get married
You're showing up
at my wedding
to play anyway
You're practising
the same three bars
over and over
while I drift to sleep
in the city I'm arriving in
and you're departing from
You're playing beautiful notes
in a long flowing dress
that shows off your arm muscles
and your passion for musical flow
You're showing me your city
across the ocean
your girlfriend with a motorbike
You're feeding me waffles
showing me how to eat M&Ms
with chopsticks
You're taking me on a bus trip
while I've got the worst case
of jetlag ever
You're walking me to the shore
giving me a little push
out toward the waves
recording the moment
for posterity
sitting in the train station
in my new city
You're inviting me to come visit
your new school
on spring break
We're going for blizzards at Dairy Queen
turning them upside down
You're driving with me
in my yet-to-be country
we're reading aloud
from C.S. Lewis
with my supposedly
a-literate boyfriend
You're competing
in my temporary city
We're playing boggle
to calm you down
It's not working but
you're winning anyway
thanks to your amazingness
and the extra-special
good luck monster woman
I loaned you just for the occasion
You're assuring me
that you will remind me
not to get married
You're showing up
at my wedding
to play anyway
You're practising
the same three bars
over and over
while I drift to sleep
in the city I'm arriving in
and you're departing from
You're playing beautiful notes
in a long flowing dress
that shows off your arm muscles
and your passion for musical flow
You're showing me your city
across the ocean
your girlfriend with a motorbike
You're feeding me waffles
showing me how to eat M&Ms
with chopsticks
You're taking me on a bus trip
while I've got the worst case
of jetlag ever
You're walking me to the shore
giving me a little push
out toward the waves
recording the moment
for posterity
Returned
I am back with my poems for today and during filming. I decided I would actually DO the exercises this time. One poem/day left!! This has been a great experience.
Tired (May 30)
The days are long.
They make me.
Tired.
The sun is.
Too bright.
Welcome me.
Into your bed.
Take the penny.
From my mouth.
Hold me.
Close.
My eyes.
They make me.
Tired.
The sun is.
Too bright.
Welcome me.
Into your bed.
Take the penny.
From my mouth.
Hold me.
Close.
My eyes.
Ode to Film (May 29 – Ode)
Jacob wrestles with the Angel.
We film it at 6 frames per second.
Black & white. The light
screams. It moves with intention.
With fury.
We film it at 6 frames per second.
Black & white. The light
screams. It moves with intention.
With fury.
Into Fire (May 28 – Political Poem)
Give me your tired,
your poor,
your huddled masses
yearning
to breathe free,
the wretched
refuse
of your teeming
shore. Send these,
the homeless,
tempest-tossed
to me.
I like the way they taste.
your poor,
your huddled masses
yearning
to breathe free,
the wretched
refuse
of your teeming
shore. Send these,
the homeless,
tempest-tossed
to me.
I like the way they taste.
Apples (May 27 – Food Poem)
There are apples
on the floor.
They are bruised. There is
a woman lying near them.
The table is broken.
The light comes
through the shades.
Everything
is red.
on the floor.
They are bruised. There is
a woman lying near them.
The table is broken.
The light comes
through the shades.
Everything
is red.
Rain (May 26 – City Poem)
The rain comes
when it wants, not
when you want it to.
The sky does not care.
Neither does this city. You should
pull up your hood. It is coming
down upon you.
when it wants, not
when you want it to.
The sky does not care.
Neither does this city. You should
pull up your hood. It is coming
down upon you.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
The twenty-ninth day of May
The snail's slide stride
makes the sidewalk mica strike
moonlight makes each shell
a stone a bead
a breast with its turned nipple
each snail a tongue curled
around it
feelers out feelers out
while worms rubber band rappel
from one edge to another
glisten
as they thin out thicken
listen: a passing car toots
its horn but doesn't slow
down
heads turned to see
if we startled waved our tails
and rocking horsed
into the woods
makes the sidewalk mica strike
moonlight makes each shell
a stone a bead
a breast with its turned nipple
each snail a tongue curled
around it
feelers out feelers out
while worms rubber band rappel
from one edge to another
glisten
as they thin out thicken
listen: a passing car toots
its horn but doesn't slow
down
heads turned to see
if we startled waved our tails
and rocking horsed
into the woods
The Gift
She opens the box
lifts up the tissue
she thought he'd forgotten
until now it had been
just an ordinary day
and though she's enjoyed it
she's been growing a tiny
cloud of disappointment
Until now
white box red bow
saving grace
She holds up the dress
one thing remembered
another forgotten
he's bought her
the wrong size
again
she chooses to laugh
lets the small storm
blow over
she knows too well
how easy it is
to walk away
from contentment
as if something better
existed a short ways
down the road
---
From today's Utne contest. The words were:
bought size laugh ordinary walk contentment easy
enjoyed over exist
I've got to write a few more poems today and tomorrow to make the 31 mark!
lifts up the tissue
she thought he'd forgotten
until now it had been
just an ordinary day
and though she's enjoyed it
she's been growing a tiny
cloud of disappointment
Until now
white box red bow
saving grace
She holds up the dress
one thing remembered
another forgotten
he's bought her
the wrong size
again
she chooses to laugh
lets the small storm
blow over
she knows too well
how easy it is
to walk away
from contentment
as if something better
existed a short ways
down the road
---
From today's Utne contest. The words were:
bought size laugh ordinary walk contentment easy
enjoyed over exist
I've got to write a few more poems today and tomorrow to make the 31 mark!
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Makeover For World Girls
Unescorted women can’t cross
streets in Saudi Arabia
even fully veiled
without breaking the
law today,
Yet some will remain
locked in breeding behind
burkas with no
faith in redemption
when even the imperialists
Promising ideals
have only fourteen – a cute age
fit for breeding – percent
of the comfy seats in their vaulted
legislative chambers filled by
Women. Who can say
who is oppressive
when law tools cut down
women with merely different
shaped blades? How can the
Promise of education of
girls for any purpose past breeding
be taken seriously when testicles—
the common good –
hide just as easily behind suits
As robes and the good ol’ boys
smell the familiar scent of crude oil
on each other’s crude breath?
As incendiary
as a sabotaged well
The flames burst horrific
from the very suggestion of
women taking part in
the crossing of
the building of
the laying down of
streets. The paths are
strewn with shriveled hopes
headscarves of defiance
lying where they dropped
Proving the rumors of
bareheaded
women on their way to
making roadmaps
all are allowed to follow.
5-27-05
streets in Saudi Arabia
even fully veiled
without breaking the
law today,
Yet some will remain
locked in breeding behind
burkas with no
faith in redemption
when even the imperialists
Promising ideals
have only fourteen – a cute age
fit for breeding – percent
of the comfy seats in their vaulted
legislative chambers filled by
Women. Who can say
who is oppressive
when law tools cut down
women with merely different
shaped blades? How can the
Promise of education of
girls for any purpose past breeding
be taken seriously when testicles—
the common good –
hide just as easily behind suits
As robes and the good ol’ boys
smell the familiar scent of crude oil
on each other’s crude breath?
As incendiary
as a sabotaged well
The flames burst horrific
from the very suggestion of
women taking part in
the crossing of
the building of
the laying down of
streets. The paths are
strewn with shriveled hopes
headscarves of defiance
lying where they dropped
Proving the rumors of
bareheaded
women on their way to
making roadmaps
all are allowed to follow.
5-27-05
Before Paper Cranes
When the hot white cloud
in my chest opens
like a bloody umbrella
spreading excessive warmth
beneath my left breast
I wonder, “Will this be
the last flaming
mushroom rising?”
This dull cap of expanding
warmth surprises me
With it’s intensity. Is it
alerting me to some personal
internal bomb? Or spreading
spores of the last
flaming mushroom rising?
Is this island of a body calling
back waves from that day
before my birth
broadcasted eternally
received in our bones?
Wonderful dying flash
fluttering last light
turning all to ash as
blood cloud umbrella closes
over a charred city
folding surprised citizens
into burnt creases.
5-26-05
in my chest opens
like a bloody umbrella
spreading excessive warmth
beneath my left breast
I wonder, “Will this be
the last flaming
mushroom rising?”
This dull cap of expanding
warmth surprises me
With it’s intensity. Is it
alerting me to some personal
internal bomb? Or spreading
spores of the last
flaming mushroom rising?
Is this island of a body calling
back waves from that day
before my birth
broadcasted eternally
received in our bones?
Wonderful dying flash
fluttering last light
turning all to ash as
blood cloud umbrella closes
over a charred city
folding surprised citizens
into burnt creases.
5-26-05
Reading The Names
I saw the name Moreno on the list of names
of those whose died in Iraq since last April
an update giving more than statistical sterility
to the soldiers dead for the arrogance and
mongering of a Texas playboy and his pals.
I saw the name Moreno and remembered
the smiling couple who met me on my first
week at Fort Lewis, while still cramped into
the guest quarters awaiting base housing
only because of the child growing inside me.
The wife was named Virginia. She had dark hair
and a round face filled with the smile of one who
travels at the army’s whim. Her kind husband was
some kind of sergeant. The ranks confused me
with their layers of numbers and classes. I knew
We were at the bottom of whatever ranking
the military handed out, already busted for
the larking on the coast when faced with a third tour
back in the steaming fetid country that was the current
exercise in imperial obliviousness. The Morenos
Took us into their home and she gave me all
her maternity clothes and newborn baby clothes, blue
terry cloth sleepers and chamois soft cloth diapers
all ready to cradle my new child as her toddler
orbited around us laughing. I saw the name Moreno
On her husband’s jungle green uniforms, on the nametapes
sewn to his chest. His first name was Clarence. Strangers
named Moreno gave me comfort in the far northwest
as we made the transition into the Third Armored Calvary,
stalling till our baby could be born in the hospital shared by
Both army and air force, built so long ago it was
all sprawled out on one floor like a mutant spider
sprouting in every direction just in case the enemy planes
reached across the Pacific and bombed the place
all would not be lost, just a branch or two, an arm
Or leg. Keep the losses to a minimum, that’s the way
they do it then and now. The Morenos were there for me three
decades past and now come popping back into my head
as I read the too long list of names dead in the desert,
reminding me of when the Third Cav was relocated to the base
In Texas and all the camouflage was changed to desert beige
and brown indicating a change in fashion for projected targets
and geographic future arenas of engagement. Morenos – just
one more name from my past projecting itself into the present
giving me pause as I try to remember the names of their
Children, hoping this solider was not their child,
as if
that would make the loss any less tearful
any less
the loss that tore some mother’s heart out.
5-28-05
of those whose died in Iraq since last April
an update giving more than statistical sterility
to the soldiers dead for the arrogance and
mongering of a Texas playboy and his pals.
I saw the name Moreno and remembered
the smiling couple who met me on my first
week at Fort Lewis, while still cramped into
the guest quarters awaiting base housing
only because of the child growing inside me.
The wife was named Virginia. She had dark hair
and a round face filled with the smile of one who
travels at the army’s whim. Her kind husband was
some kind of sergeant. The ranks confused me
with their layers of numbers and classes. I knew
We were at the bottom of whatever ranking
the military handed out, already busted for
the larking on the coast when faced with a third tour
back in the steaming fetid country that was the current
exercise in imperial obliviousness. The Morenos
Took us into their home and she gave me all
her maternity clothes and newborn baby clothes, blue
terry cloth sleepers and chamois soft cloth diapers
all ready to cradle my new child as her toddler
orbited around us laughing. I saw the name Moreno
On her husband’s jungle green uniforms, on the nametapes
sewn to his chest. His first name was Clarence. Strangers
named Moreno gave me comfort in the far northwest
as we made the transition into the Third Armored Calvary,
stalling till our baby could be born in the hospital shared by
Both army and air force, built so long ago it was
all sprawled out on one floor like a mutant spider
sprouting in every direction just in case the enemy planes
reached across the Pacific and bombed the place
all would not be lost, just a branch or two, an arm
Or leg. Keep the losses to a minimum, that’s the way
they do it then and now. The Morenos were there for me three
decades past and now come popping back into my head
as I read the too long list of names dead in the desert,
reminding me of when the Third Cav was relocated to the base
In Texas and all the camouflage was changed to desert beige
and brown indicating a change in fashion for projected targets
and geographic future arenas of engagement. Morenos – just
one more name from my past projecting itself into the present
giving me pause as I try to remember the names of their
Children, hoping this solider was not their child,
as if
that would make the loss any less tearful
any less
the loss that tore some mother’s heart out.
5-28-05
The twenty-eighth day of May
Renovation poem #5: the elements
Objects age
as people do thin-skinned
prone to breakdowns
hinges encumbered
by greasy particles
of use
until it is all dun
until all you can see
is the gummed mouth
of time
its marks all along
its length
like the dint where
you came around
the corner
too fast
but let an object
spend a season
drifting
in the wet places
or the sucking pull
of earth
and they are fey
become things
that crumble
and burp
Friday, May 27, 2005
Brussel Sprouts
I eat brussel sprouts
for breakfast
This may be the one thing
that sets me apart
from every other creature
on the planet.
If there is by chance
someone else
who likes petite cabbage
at all much less
in the morning,
I defy you to find
someone who calls it a
great way to start the day.
If you find such a person
let me know --
I want to meet
my soul mate.
for breakfast
This may be the one thing
that sets me apart
from every other creature
on the planet.
If there is by chance
someone else
who likes petite cabbage
at all much less
in the morning,
I defy you to find
someone who calls it a
great way to start the day.
If you find such a person
let me know --
I want to meet
my soul mate.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
City Poem
Between the cracks
grows weeds
small pretty purple and yellow
flowers
the beginnings of trees
ever optimistic
that they'll be allowed
to live and let live
that where they fall
is where they can stay
the cracks
get quite wide
in this city of cycles
ice and river
freeze and thaw
like pop cans
left in the freezer
like hard green buds
left on branches
the sidewalks explode
in spring
between the cracks
is where I grow
a little here and there
try to squeeze in
burrow deep into tough soil
hibernate with the ants
survive the freaking winter
learn to get strong
push up concrete
with my shoulders
explode in the spring
grows weeds
small pretty purple and yellow
flowers
the beginnings of trees
ever optimistic
that they'll be allowed
to live and let live
that where they fall
is where they can stay
the cracks
get quite wide
in this city of cycles
ice and river
freeze and thaw
like pop cans
left in the freezer
like hard green buds
left on branches
the sidewalks explode
in spring
between the cracks
is where I grow
a little here and there
try to squeeze in
burrow deep into tough soil
hibernate with the ants
survive the freaking winter
learn to get strong
push up concrete
with my shoulders
explode in the spring
The twenty-sixth of May (one poem still owing)
Renovation poem #4: foundation
Walking home there is the wet excavation
the machine just at the top
of the pipe-wreathed hole
on the wet meat sliced clean
of deep down mud
I looked along all the edges
attempted grids diagrams
graduations
but all there was
was the ground
up
soil crumbling dry
toppling
in the sunshine
Walking home there are the teenage girls
in hajibs trying to persuade
each other
to swing
the sandbox grit
in the air their heels
grinding on the leaf-littered
ground
but each of them
thinking of being airborne
of pointing their heels
up
The twenty-fifth day of May (one day late)
Spring. We’ve gotten to the end
of a twelve-pack
of toilet paper
and also our winter colds
the long days
of manufacturing
mucous
the nights
where we heaped ourselves
into bed
where it is not a question
of who snores
and who doesn’t
but who falls asleep
first
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Nature Poem
Today we look to the sky
beg for something akin to sun
rays of any colour on the spectrum
it doesn't have to be orange
we'll settle for purple or pink
or blue
We'll rejoice in the
new extremes our skin tones
and car chrome and bird feathers
take on
We'll open our mouths and gulp
giant mouthfuls of air
see if light pours through our cheeks
fills our lungs
shines through our thin tshirts
back into the atmosphere
a subtle glow
drawing us one to the other
my blue to yours
sharing air
maybe breathing out
carbon dioxide in
pale green dusk
beg for something akin to sun
rays of any colour on the spectrum
it doesn't have to be orange
we'll settle for purple or pink
or blue
We'll rejoice in the
new extremes our skin tones
and car chrome and bird feathers
take on
We'll open our mouths and gulp
giant mouthfuls of air
see if light pours through our cheeks
fills our lungs
shines through our thin tshirts
back into the atmosphere
a subtle glow
drawing us one to the other
my blue to yours
sharing air
maybe breathing out
carbon dioxide in
pale green dusk
Dinner For Two
When I want to be
alone
with you
as if we were
far away
and nobody could find us
make demands of us
or intrude
into our still
contentment
I get defensive.
I want you all
to myself
not willing to share
my delicious treasure
the meal of devotion
we share
quietly
on special occasions
and I want you
to defend us
from all comers
all intruders
no matter
how
they are related
or why they come.
I want us to be enough
and not afraid
to own
the feast we have laid
in the secret alcove
with only two chairs
two place settings.
Sometimes
there really is
no more room
and no need
to apologize.
alone
with you
as if we were
far away
and nobody could find us
make demands of us
or intrude
into our still
contentment
I get defensive.
I want you all
to myself
not willing to share
my delicious treasure
the meal of devotion
we share
quietly
on special occasions
and I want you
to defend us
from all comers
all intruders
no matter
how
they are related
or why they come.
I want us to be enough
and not afraid
to own
the feast we have laid
in the secret alcove
with only two chairs
two place settings.
Sometimes
there really is
no more room
and no need
to apologize.
Take me to America
Take me to America. I want
a place where I can kneel
take the earth into my hands
close them & say
We are watched
over
We are looked
upon
We are surrounded
on all sides
a place where I can kneel
take the earth into my hands
close them & say
We are watched
over
We are looked
upon
We are surrounded
on all sides
A Little Help
The plants are in and watered,
little deposits of dirt and roots
promising to be more if tended.
It took a friend to help me step down
to the place where the bare soil waited,
fertility confused by it’s unbroken surface
when all I needed was the helping hand
of a younger body’s frame
a kind eye and steady arm
not afraid to go
searching in the dark for the lost
end of the meandering hose
and the joy found in handing me
varied treasures waiting to be
buried in the dark dirt.
Only after feeding
my helper some of another harvest
did I have enough guts to venture out
into the small garden space awaiting my touch
listening for the sound of the hand hoe
hitting against the wood edge of the barrel
the root bursting herbs erupting
in my hands like rumbling
volcanoes of stems and leaves
no longer content to shelter beneath
the surface. Tomorrow will find
the living leaf rivers flowing from the beds,
gold orgegano falling in cascades
fountains of tri-color sage
and lemon verbena erupting.
5-24-05
little deposits of dirt and roots
promising to be more if tended.
It took a friend to help me step down
to the place where the bare soil waited,
fertility confused by it’s unbroken surface
when all I needed was the helping hand
of a younger body’s frame
a kind eye and steady arm
not afraid to go
searching in the dark for the lost
end of the meandering hose
and the joy found in handing me
varied treasures waiting to be
buried in the dark dirt.
Only after feeding
my helper some of another harvest
did I have enough guts to venture out
into the small garden space awaiting my touch
listening for the sound of the hand hoe
hitting against the wood edge of the barrel
the root bursting herbs erupting
in my hands like rumbling
volcanoes of stems and leaves
no longer content to shelter beneath
the surface. Tomorrow will find
the living leaf rivers flowing from the beds,
gold orgegano falling in cascades
fountains of tri-color sage
and lemon verbena erupting.
5-24-05
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
The twenty-fourth day of May (one poem owing)
Renovation poem #3: uncareful graves
They are uncareful graves
or we are bad neighbours
moving soil from our yard to his
covering the dropped fangs
glassy transparent
of a machine
heel-broke smashed open
in the dirt
They are uncareful graves
enough for an entire family
the soil exposed and wet
black spade slices drying into a day
where the clouds have fallen
to roost in the branches
and we are bad neighbours
who had the decency to bury our dead
but not enough to keep out the robbers
though we have guarded
this corpse for long years now
as it slowly crumbled
We are bad neighbours
the kind that take running starts
at the property line with a wheelbarrow
hopping in time with the broken axle
hoping to get over the curb
that pan the dirt with dirt-rimmed fingers
for coins nails buttons cogs
seeing what the turn of the shovel
a quick eye can reveal
like the chunks of stone
the not quite concrete
ideas
that we cart over to the bin
not wanting to provide your
midday
with missiles
to launch at its remaining windows
4 poems
So, 4 days of poems for you, now that I have returned to the city. Enjoy.
I will be shooting a film Thursday-Monday & may miss a day or more due to the work schedule, but if I do then I will be sure to make up whatever missed poems on Tuesday, right at month's end.
I will be shooting a film Thursday-Monday & may miss a day or more due to the work schedule, but if I do then I will be sure to make up whatever missed poems on Tuesday, right at month's end.
Nothing (May 24)
I will tell you nothing. Talk,
I will listen. Tell me
what you want. I will listen.
I will tell you nothing. Poets,
they speak only of themselves.
Listen. What am I saying.
I will tell you nothing. Tell me.
Where is the poetry
in this.
I will listen. Tell me
what you want. I will listen.
I will tell you nothing. Poets,
they speak only of themselves.
Listen. What am I saying.
I will tell you nothing. Tell me.
Where is the poetry
in this.
Cold (May 23)
Cold. If you are. Then. I will take you. To a colder place.
Lie down. Lie still. Listen.
There are words carved in the walls.
Listen.
There are words. Carved in the walls.
Listen. Lie still. Lie down.
To a colder place. I will take you. Then. If you are. Cold.
Lie down. Lie still. Listen.
There are words carved in the walls.
Listen.
There are words. Carved in the walls.
Listen. Lie still. Lie down.
To a colder place. I will take you. Then. If you are. Cold.
Still (May 22)
In the quietest night
after days
grown dreary with dust
in this age of the aged
hollow bus shelters
brittle bones
& old stories
I am the one
still
walking. These streets.
after days
grown dreary with dust
in this age of the aged
hollow bus shelters
brittle bones
& old stories
I am the one
still
walking. These streets.
Among Roses (May 21)
Come to us, reach out your hand
Give it to us, let us draw blood
O we are the kindest of needles
Such small things, so barely worth fearing
We will bleed from you such small amounts
And so quiet, the softest of pain
O we are the sharpest of thorns
Made so pretty by our packaging
Give it to us, let us draw blood
O we are the kindest of needles
Such small things, so barely worth fearing
We will bleed from you such small amounts
And so quiet, the softest of pain
O we are the sharpest of thorns
Made so pretty by our packaging
spring thwarted
a swarm of dandelion seeds
press up urgently
against the window screen
dying to get in
I don't have the heart
to tell them
they can't grow
on my green carpet
press up urgently
against the window screen
dying to get in
I don't have the heart
to tell them
they can't grow
on my green carpet
Monday, May 23, 2005
Remembering Irma Bañales
from San Miguel de Allende
On Sundays we would buy
with pastel pesos
the sweet brown pastries
a big bulging white bag of them
and you would present them
to the spidery beggar women’s hands
greet their dark clay eyes
in front of the big pointy church
along the cobbled streets
on nearly invisible corners
in stone shaded doorways
beneath curtains of bougainvillea
handing each hand a pastel paper napkin
and smiling as you blessed each one
with the bread and sugar.
¡Buenos dios, madre!
In the crystal afternoon
after siesta the time would
come to walk down
past the fancy hotel
named for its arching doors
where we would afford drinks
on rare occasion
where the clever stream
gurgled like happy babies
out of sight bouncing
beyond the lush fragrant foliage
the whole extravagance
sculpted into the side of the hill
high above a dry mud field
where children kicked a dusty ball
we walked, you led
beyond the walls of Los Positos
beyond the secluded orchids
frail as butterfly wings swaying—
¡Buenos tardes!
we stepped
a graceful dance
down to the heart of town
where we would wait on moss green
painted iron benches
for the blackbirds descent
a reclaiming cloud exactly
at six o’clock refilling
the sheared jacaranda trees
with their feathered lullabies.
When we stopped by the cart
to sniff the air like hungry dogs
then point to the fat chicken
roasting happily with the others
glad to come up the hill with us
to the street you said meant mud flats
it was my weak northern ankle
that began to fail
just past the open-doored laundry
the sign said Lavandería, like the herb
and you
ever gracious
waved your magic hand
and made a taxi appear.
The hill’s steep angle
strained the poor old cab
as we rested our feet for a few blocks
before the thin white smoke
seeped from under the hood
growing fatter with
the bitter smell of machinery failing
our cue to hit the streets again
leaving a distressed driver with full
fare and handsome tip
for his apologies. Only later
as we washed the day’s
dust from our feet and set about
the task of setting the table
did we find missing
the fragrant chicken
no doubt easing the tale of misfortune
the taxi driver must tell his worried wife.
We could barely eat
our fruit salad
for the mouthfuls of laughter
falling like the fountain
in the tiled courtyard.
Buenos noche, mi amiga.
5-21-05
with pastel pesos
the sweet brown pastries
a big bulging white bag of them
and you would present them
to the spidery beggar women’s hands
greet their dark clay eyes
in front of the big pointy church
along the cobbled streets
on nearly invisible corners
in stone shaded doorways
beneath curtains of bougainvillea
handing each hand a pastel paper napkin
and smiling as you blessed each one
with the bread and sugar.
¡Buenos dios, madre!
In the crystal afternoon
after siesta the time would
come to walk down
past the fancy hotel
named for its arching doors
where we would afford drinks
on rare occasion
where the clever stream
gurgled like happy babies
out of sight bouncing
beyond the lush fragrant foliage
the whole extravagance
sculpted into the side of the hill
high above a dry mud field
where children kicked a dusty ball
we walked, you led
beyond the walls of Los Positos
beyond the secluded orchids
frail as butterfly wings swaying—
¡Buenos tardes!
we stepped
a graceful dance
down to the heart of town
where we would wait on moss green
painted iron benches
for the blackbirds descent
a reclaiming cloud exactly
at six o’clock refilling
the sheared jacaranda trees
with their feathered lullabies.
When we stopped by the cart
to sniff the air like hungry dogs
then point to the fat chicken
roasting happily with the others
glad to come up the hill with us
to the street you said meant mud flats
it was my weak northern ankle
that began to fail
just past the open-doored laundry
the sign said Lavandería, like the herb
and you
ever gracious
waved your magic hand
and made a taxi appear.
The hill’s steep angle
strained the poor old cab
as we rested our feet for a few blocks
before the thin white smoke
seeped from under the hood
growing fatter with
the bitter smell of machinery failing
our cue to hit the streets again
leaving a distressed driver with full
fare and handsome tip
for his apologies. Only later
as we washed the day’s
dust from our feet and set about
the task of setting the table
did we find missing
the fragrant chicken
no doubt easing the tale of misfortune
the taxi driver must tell his worried wife.
We could barely eat
our fruit salad
for the mouthfuls of laughter
falling like the fountain
in the tiled courtyard.
Buenos noche, mi amiga.
5-21-05
The twenty-second day of May (one day late)
The Writers Retreat: Arnes, MB (part the second)
On the beach at Arnes
there are fish carcasses and a dalmation
that sniffs at me with the dry nose
of a diplomat
and the rock-polished beaks
of the seagulls and crows
and pelicans on the barely-there stones
of the sandbars
glint
as I wade out
to where it is so shallow
I can see the fins and following
curves of swarming fish
and the sinuous surprise of them is wide
and delicate
The carp come and go
in water only a few shades
lighter darker
than their scales
as what was shadow now shows
fin ripple
and muscle
through sun-shot water
as I stand ankle-deep
twenty paces out
from the rock-pickers after the perfect
piece of clear quartz
and the purple moth that has
settled
on the cocooned balls
the larval curves
of my shed socks
The twenty-first day of May (two days late)
He insisted on planting a tree
for his first grandchild
in his wife's garden
and heaving the root ball into the hole
alone his wife
watching from the living room
window his legs bowing around the weight
panting knew this was as close
as he'd ever got
to birth
The tree flourished
the way the tumour in the brain
of the over-the-fence neighbour
flourished
and when the leaves
that reached impertinent for his sunlight
all the unfurling fingers
pointing at him
the anger of trespass
the overlooking overhanging
made him wrench off
a branch the way you might
wrench off
an arm
The next week his wife tsked
on the bedroom phone
he's sick! as she reported on
the rough edges of the torn thing
tossed over the fence
into her yard
but you know how your father is
he won't say anything
then went quiet
as their son described a schoolyard
incident
the hard edges of his son’s cast
and the sudden
anger
of boys
laughing a little
the wan light of the emergency
room the chorus of grunting
sighing sick
a few days off now
The next year he came out to find it
stripped
the winter-sick lips of deer
shredding the limbs bare
all for the glazed shoots
the goddamn
tenderness of leaves
springing from bud
after a long drifting winter
after that it was blight
and apples worm-eaten even
on the highest branches
and there were more phone calls
strange bruises
shadows under the eyes
his son less buoyant
as he described how they always got
to the front of the line
at emergency
as soon as
they saw his son’s
face
By year five it was clear:
the tree hadn’t staked out a domain
wouldn’t branch out into this sky
these breezes: it's sick she noted
every day for a month
and when she finally sent him out with the axe
he stood under the spindly branches
of the tree
that cast shadows over his kin
like the hanging trees at crossroads
but even so he dreaded
the bleeding seep
of the cut
his dread
raw
all of him listening for
the tones
of the long-distance
ring
The twentieth day of May (three days late)
She was a mulch-digger that believed
in orderly beds
a woman that wore crisp
denim shirts on cool days
and kept her white hair in a bob
and this was her territory:
when a squirrel wouldn’t stay away
from her birdfeeder
she uprooted it
turned the page in the catalogue
and planted things that drew
butterflies
instead
he was a pruner
that otherwise stayed out
of the garden
a man that semi-annually
grasped the telescoping arms of his tool
looking for the clean edges
of cut
She was familiar with the orderly disruption
of pest life cycles
she had a notebook full of dilutions applications doses
all in her careful hand
but when she came upon
her husband still
watching
a raccoon fish in her koi pond
swiping at the water brushing aside
her special order plants for the fish
they carefully sifted into tanks in the fall
so they wouldn’t freeze
the fish swarming the murky light
of the basement
all winter
she watched him watch
then grabbed a rake
and took
a swipe
So It Is
I need to try the zoo again
the place I spent so many days holding
the hand of the strong little girl
they called Peanut, connected
like two ends of a necklace encircling
whatever adventure we discovered. The free zoo
still holds the snake paths winding though
oak shaded buildings holding reptiles,
apes and other species,
our friends to visit like the wounded
bald eagle so young his white
head feathers had yet to grow. He
looked like some other bird, not
the symbol of national sovereignty
laid upon his shoulders. Peanut
would bring small red cloth bags
of tobacco and leave them one
at time under the landscaping,
gifts to honor him. Good day,
brother, she would say softly.
See how his shoulder hangs,
just off enough to see he could
never soar as intended. The bars
of his giant outdoor cage were so
fine so obviously designed to give
the illusion that he’s merely visiting too
rather than being restrained.
The details always made us sad
so we kept up a respectful dialogue
when we came to call. The sun
is warm today and we see you have
fresh water. It is a good day. Aho.
One time we brought along
Peanut’s dancing shawl lilac satin
with purple fringe and she wrapped it
round her tiny shoulders and bent
her knees in time to the drum dance
we made with our whisper singing.
Eagle turned to face us and bent his head
to let us know he heard the song and gave
thanks for the modest dance of a young girl.
One day downwind a small brown feather
and a white fluff of down blew to
the edge of the twisted path and
we picked them up. Walking back
to return them we asked instead to carry
them as connections and a light share
of the sadness born by the captive bird.
He told us even when it’s for
your own good, and that’s in doubt,
time spent behind bars feels bad. So
we kept those barely there fragile
earth toned filaments probably illegal
bits of that bird’s covering, like threads
from his regalia ornaments fallen
in the powwow arena, sacred feathers
that must be restored before
the dance can continue. When I think
of going back to the zoo after these
uncounted years without the small
hand of Peanut in mine, without the solid
grounding of a four-year old in love with earth
who saw the eagle as her brother and
me as her grandmother I know I’ll find
the now brilliant headed bird
and share his sorrow,
not for the confines of the cage
which he has now grown to know,
but the missing voice of the little one
who followed her parents’ drift
and is no longer here
to bounce the songs
with her strong legs and
clear little voice keening
lamenting the loss of family
or carry off more
of the feathers’ burdens
away. Still we did dance
for Eagle. Aho.
5-22-05
the place I spent so many days holding
the hand of the strong little girl
they called Peanut, connected
like two ends of a necklace encircling
whatever adventure we discovered. The free zoo
still holds the snake paths winding though
oak shaded buildings holding reptiles,
apes and other species,
our friends to visit like the wounded
bald eagle so young his white
head feathers had yet to grow. He
looked like some other bird, not
the symbol of national sovereignty
laid upon his shoulders. Peanut
would bring small red cloth bags
of tobacco and leave them one
at time under the landscaping,
gifts to honor him. Good day,
brother, she would say softly.
See how his shoulder hangs,
just off enough to see he could
never soar as intended. The bars
of his giant outdoor cage were so
fine so obviously designed to give
the illusion that he’s merely visiting too
rather than being restrained.
The details always made us sad
so we kept up a respectful dialogue
when we came to call. The sun
is warm today and we see you have
fresh water. It is a good day. Aho.
One time we brought along
Peanut’s dancing shawl lilac satin
with purple fringe and she wrapped it
round her tiny shoulders and bent
her knees in time to the drum dance
we made with our whisper singing.
Eagle turned to face us and bent his head
to let us know he heard the song and gave
thanks for the modest dance of a young girl.
One day downwind a small brown feather
and a white fluff of down blew to
the edge of the twisted path and
we picked them up. Walking back
to return them we asked instead to carry
them as connections and a light share
of the sadness born by the captive bird.
He told us even when it’s for
your own good, and that’s in doubt,
time spent behind bars feels bad. So
we kept those barely there fragile
earth toned filaments probably illegal
bits of that bird’s covering, like threads
from his regalia ornaments fallen
in the powwow arena, sacred feathers
that must be restored before
the dance can continue. When I think
of going back to the zoo after these
uncounted years without the small
hand of Peanut in mine, without the solid
grounding of a four-year old in love with earth
who saw the eagle as her brother and
me as her grandmother I know I’ll find
the now brilliant headed bird
and share his sorrow,
not for the confines of the cage
which he has now grown to know,
but the missing voice of the little one
who followed her parents’ drift
and is no longer here
to bounce the songs
with her strong legs and
clear little voice keening
lamenting the loss of family
or carry off more
of the feathers’ burdens
away. Still we did dance
for Eagle. Aho.
5-22-05
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Small Top
Stapled to the edge of our seats
at the county fair's seedy circus
we chomp stale popcorn
discuss how drunk the clowns
have to get to come out
put on their sordid act
regard callously
the scarred lion tamer
reduced now to
taunting a 45-year old crocodile
the lame magician
performs his tricks
with no pride whatsoever
sighs with relief
when the dingy handkerchiefs
configure themselves as they're supposed to
though the main thing disappearing
is their once-bright colours
We critique the lack of subtlety
in the work of the sequin and latex-clad
stripper posing as a trapeze artist
there's no net
but I don't think she cares
falling would be a blessing
at this point
her eyes beg me to
shoot them all
every last one
degraded beast and human alike
put them out of their misery
On the way out, we inspect
closely the tattooed lady
bet on which one she's bedding
the gluttonous giant
or the parsimonious thin man
wonder silently to ourselves
what it takes for her
to remain in this life
If I were to complain to the hawker
fumbling for his smokes outside
He'd turn on me and shout
What the dickens did you expect
for three dollars?
----
(This is from this morning's Utne contest. The 10 words were:
seats glutton fair closely subtle whatsoever
dickens one inspect remain)
at the county fair's seedy circus
we chomp stale popcorn
discuss how drunk the clowns
have to get to come out
put on their sordid act
regard callously
the scarred lion tamer
reduced now to
taunting a 45-year old crocodile
the lame magician
performs his tricks
with no pride whatsoever
sighs with relief
when the dingy handkerchiefs
configure themselves as they're supposed to
though the main thing disappearing
is their once-bright colours
We critique the lack of subtlety
in the work of the sequin and latex-clad
stripper posing as a trapeze artist
there's no net
but I don't think she cares
falling would be a blessing
at this point
her eyes beg me to
shoot them all
every last one
degraded beast and human alike
put them out of their misery
On the way out, we inspect
closely the tattooed lady
bet on which one she's bedding
the gluttonous giant
or the parsimonious thin man
wonder silently to ourselves
what it takes for her
to remain in this life
If I were to complain to the hawker
fumbling for his smokes outside
He'd turn on me and shout
What the dickens did you expect
for three dollars?
----
(This is from this morning's Utne contest. The 10 words were:
seats glutton fair closely subtle whatsoever
dickens one inspect remain)
si))(((lens...
(...ringing in)
Hollow Form
even though love
has no rules
except
stop believing
only the possible
all i took today was
this vow of silence.....
.....................to see for
...................................myself
that view you've taken
(up to your eyeballs
rolling in their ashes)
that this world is all there is
for everything only
to be broken
like my mould,
for one,
or the world record for
persistent visions:
another
Hollow Form
even though love
has no rules
except
stop believing
only the possible
all i took today was
this vow of silence.....
.....................to see for
...................................myself
that view you've taken
(up to your eyeballs
rolling in their ashes)
that this world is all there is
for everything only
to be broken
like my mould,
for one,
or the world record for
persistent visions:
another
sorry
Hey all,
Sorry I've been absent without notice. I've been really busy the past two days but will be posting my missing poems soon.
A.
Sorry I've been absent without notice. I've been really busy the past two days but will be posting my missing poems soon.
A.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Good News From Duckie
Your tiny mother and tall
dark eyed aunt with laughter
long as her hair read the note
you left at the doctor’s office
the funny picture
you
drew with your wet dance
and pokey limbs
sans penis. You are unchanged
a girl from orgasmic start
to this long-distance calling day
funny zygote demanding
naps already in
the ocean of the woman who
grows you giving
dreams to small crowded rooms
where time passes with each
thump of your shared blood rivers
demanding every morsel of food
to turn into yourself
pushing against the confines of the
warm
pool swishing
while you dog-paddle your way
into being here.
5-20-05
dark eyed aunt with laughter
long as her hair read the note
you left at the doctor’s office
the funny picture
you
drew with your wet dance
and pokey limbs
sans penis. You are unchanged
a girl from orgasmic start
to this long-distance calling day
funny zygote demanding
naps already in
the ocean of the woman who
grows you giving
dreams to small crowded rooms
where time passes with each
thump of your shared blood rivers
demanding every morsel of food
to turn into yourself
pushing against the confines of the
warm
pool swishing
while you dog-paddle your way
into being here.
5-20-05
Circuit
When I was called
come speak
to women far away as the buffalo
on hip broad plains beyond my
squint-eyed comprehension even
with a well mapped plan
I went and spoke and saw
that I carried the plan
for their passion, the small
seeds I carried so
lightly between my full moon breasts
were just
the nourishment they would
need in the coming blizzard
of invasive control howling winds
blowing through their rust complexions
peach soft bodies piercing their very
seed dormant wombs
with false orders –
reproduce
beyond the needs of the planet
or the race, multiply in their
shades of pale resignation
supply workers consumers soldiers gravediggers.
Speaking only made my voice
carry old truths
back to the women who had
always known them
guarded them
and merely needed to be
reminded of their own gardens.
5-19-05
come speak
to women far away as the buffalo
on hip broad plains beyond my
squint-eyed comprehension even
with a well mapped plan
I went and spoke and saw
that I carried the plan
for their passion, the small
seeds I carried so
lightly between my full moon breasts
were just
the nourishment they would
need in the coming blizzard
of invasive control howling winds
blowing through their rust complexions
peach soft bodies piercing their very
seed dormant wombs
with false orders –
reproduce
beyond the needs of the planet
or the race, multiply in their
shades of pale resignation
supply workers consumers soldiers gravediggers.
Speaking only made my voice
carry old truths
back to the women who had
always known them
guarded them
and merely needed to be
reminded of their own gardens.
5-19-05
Notice
I will be away from computers until late Tuesday and will post the weekend's poems at that time.
In the Wake of the Locusts
it is as if
God Himself
took His hand
held it flat
passed it over
the land
& breathed
in
God Himself
took His hand
held it flat
passed it over
the land
& breathed
in
<{[(:+:)]}>
inside the pain he thinks
maybe wants
to believe there
may be a spark dying somewhere
to live in that
positively absolute
lonely dark
but his eyes starving
are just metaphors
amputating his body
from both hands
(those brutal mirrors of
empty gestures like
"each other"
cupping a two-faced kiss)...
...then he remembers when his mind
used to bleed smiles from wounds as wide
as the very thought of a brain
humorrhaging
maybe wants
to believe there
may be a spark dying somewhere
to live in that
positively absolute
lonely dark
but his eyes starving
are just metaphors
amputating his body
from both hands
(those brutal mirrors of
empty gestures like
"each other"
cupping a two-faced kiss)...
...then he remembers when his mind
used to bleed smiles from wounds as wide
as the very thought of a brain
humorrhaging
Thursday, May 19, 2005
The nineteenth day of May
The old men
one in each of the first two rows
finger full sets of keys
during the lecture
on the grand hotel
they worked on as young men
that was torn down
during their middle age
finger full sets of keys
as if they were harp strings
their metal song
reminding them
of all the things they own
one in each of the first two rows
finger full sets of keys
during the lecture
on the grand hotel
they worked on as young men
that was torn down
during their middle age
finger full sets of keys
as if they were harp strings
their metal song
reminding them
of all the things they own
Damp Sestina
Through the door frame comes the rain
Bounces in small pebbles on the grass
Which tries to remember how to grow
after the long winter where nothing flowed
except the ever-loving ever-moving sky
where clouds turn this way that way, fly
If only I could do that, fly
Run away from this brain rain
Soar up into the grey-white sky
Look down at the trees and the grass
Note how the ice pushes off, flows
How the river pushes and grows
Fear over my inner riverbank grows
As I cant seem to stop the way time flies
The way it darts and flees and flows
Instead of gathering in puddles like rain
Instead of rising up like verdant grass
Instead of stretching out like endless sky
Time shrinks instead of grows
Evades escapes finds a way to fly
While God from who all blessings flow
Sends us the pain the gain the rain
Sends us the beetles in the grass
Sends us secret messages in the sky
And through it all the spirit flows
Spirit of wonder of joy of sky
Through it all falls eternal rain
So the weeds and flowers grow
And soon come bees and baby flies
Soon come worms writhing in the grass
And when theres no room in the grass
To the river the worms will flow
And when theres no more room for flies
They will escape up to the sky
And when the clouds can no longer grow
Down they fall in endless rain
Now the flies gather on the grass
Now the rain in the river flows
Now the sky shows us how to grow
Bounces in small pebbles on the grass
Which tries to remember how to grow
after the long winter where nothing flowed
except the ever-loving ever-moving sky
where clouds turn this way that way, fly
If only I could do that, fly
Run away from this brain rain
Soar up into the grey-white sky
Look down at the trees and the grass
Note how the ice pushes off, flows
How the river pushes and grows
Fear over my inner riverbank grows
As I cant seem to stop the way time flies
The way it darts and flees and flows
Instead of gathering in puddles like rain
Instead of rising up like verdant grass
Instead of stretching out like endless sky
Time shrinks instead of grows
Evades escapes finds a way to fly
While God from who all blessings flow
Sends us the pain the gain the rain
Sends us the beetles in the grass
Sends us secret messages in the sky
And through it all the spirit flows
Spirit of wonder of joy of sky
Through it all falls eternal rain
So the weeds and flowers grow
And soon come bees and baby flies
Soon come worms writhing in the grass
And when theres no room in the grass
To the river the worms will flow
And when theres no more room for flies
They will escape up to the sky
And when the clouds can no longer grow
Down they fall in endless rain
Now the flies gather on the grass
Now the rain in the river flows
Now the sky shows us how to grow
just lying, there
life is a tupperware casket of donuts
looks like truth
tastes like chickenshit
you've urned your bed
now lie in your ashes
kill anything resembling
birds
or rising
bridges were made
so suicides could
reconsiderately
enjoy a productive life in arson
if it isn't dead
where is its ghost of a chance
crossing over
to end that perpetual
why did the poultrygeist
(do what it did to)
the road
because it could never remember
the side it just came from
& its brain,
only big enough to believe in
two-sided theories
massacred all the others
lest it lose its deathgrip
to something more
personal
like love,
or lovelike
looks like truth
tastes like chickenshit
you've urned your bed
now lie in your ashes
kill anything resembling
birds
or rising
bridges were made
so suicides could
reconsiderately
enjoy a productive life in arson
if it isn't dead
where is its ghost of a chance
crossing over
to end that perpetual
why did the poultrygeist
(do what it did to)
the road
because it could never remember
the side it just came from
& its brain,
only big enough to believe in
two-sided theories
massacred all the others
lest it lose its deathgrip
to something more
personal
like love,
or lovelike
Drops of Day
Awaiting midnight on
the cusp of Thursday
I hear the flow of water
rippled like a soft gargle
clearing it’s throat of faded crumpled
lists caught in the day’s
passing. I can’t imagine
how the flow goes on
in such dry air, where do
the heavy drops fall from—
where do they land? What time
will they wash over
the edge of twelve strikes
and produce a clean
new day with it’s own
throat song full of fresh lists
waiting to bring liquid melody to
another turning?
the cusp of Thursday
I hear the flow of water
rippled like a soft gargle
clearing it’s throat of faded crumpled
lists caught in the day’s
passing. I can’t imagine
how the flow goes on
in such dry air, where do
the heavy drops fall from—
where do they land? What time
will they wash over
the edge of twelve strikes
and produce a clean
new day with it’s own
throat song full of fresh lists
waiting to bring liquid melody to
another turning?
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
The eighteenth day of May
For G...
She made my mother
write handle with care
across her breast
with the thick black
tongue
of a permanent marker
when she came to drive her
to the operation
that morning
She told the doctor
staring at the exclamation
marks that spread down
between her breasts
one healthy
one suspect
that she was single again
that she needed her tits
just right
now
The doctor nodded
and sent the nurses to tell her
to take all her
clothes off
as if she was on
a suspect First Date
where the man you thought
was healthy
tells you what he wants
and assumes
that you
can
give it
to him
She’d stowed her clothes
her two intact breasts
still in the cups
of her bra
in a locker on the ward
but when she woke up
on a different stretcher
in a different room
they’d escaped
their bonds
and were heaped
next to her
as they would have been
on her bedroom
floor
if she’d been alone
It took her a long time
to paw through her clothes
her bandaged breast
beating
but her underwear
didn’t shake out
of the long creased legs
of her pants
and when she told them
all the legs in the hall
all the charts and chimes
and calls from different rooms
different stretchers
a nurse slowed down
long enough
to say
maybe you didn’t wear
underwear
today
as if a woman
facing
and a suspect
tit
might
go without
She stared the woman
down
it was brand new
hot pink underwear
she said
and sat back
as people scurried around the ward
saying
have you seen her
underwear
her underwear is missing
until an intern found them
puddled
on the bland floor
Later she says wanna
see my tit
and whips up her shirt
before I can say no
to show me a bandage
as big as a handkerchief loaned
out by a black and white man
to a crying woman
not knowing herself
how and where they cut
or if the doctor
took the time
to wash away
handle with care
before he set
the knife
to her
Planning the Shot
The light will be coming down here
It will fill the room bleed through the walls
Everything will be light a shroud will be over the camera
A white shroud and through it we will see only light
When the cloth lifts there will be a small child pale almost
a ghost
He will run from the camera
Run hiding behind others from figure to figure down the tunnel toward
the altar
The camera will come after him slow but sure of itself sure of
his eventual capture
And then when it reaches the boy
There will be light
Everything will be light again
It will fill the room bleed through the walls
Everything will be light a shroud will be over the camera
A white shroud and through it we will see only light
When the cloth lifts there will be a small child pale almost
a ghost
He will run from the camera
Run hiding behind others from figure to figure down the tunnel toward
the altar
The camera will come after him slow but sure of itself sure of
his eventual capture
And then when it reaches the boy
There will be light
Everything will be light again
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
The seventeenth day of May
tuck their tails under the long lines
of haunch and hip of shadow
and roadside sound
and settle out in the open
while the American bison as boxy as bales
of straw intact bales of hay broken
sleep at the edge of the chain-link
barbed-wire enclosure
but it is the charge
of the camera on the far post
and the headlights of a car coasting up
the service road that hurries us
to the other side
where wild white-tails kneel in grassy beds
between birch bur oak
and the bedside posts
hung with emblems
of leaping
deer
and cracks are filled in with tar
and the treads of suburban cars
where there is the passing thump
of stereos
and the whites of eyes
scanning the far distance
the curving line
of road
between the tilled land of the Tuxedo golf course
and the thin-trunked trees
of the forest
we are susceptible to the long thrill
of frog-song and star-light the sky
intact the sky broken open
but it is the sudden thrash
of limbs
in the dark
and the stuttering clutch of our throats
as a flock of roosting birds
startle out of sleep
into the wet ditch
and away
that makes us trade the return trip through the trees
for the lit edge of the forest
where the pulled curls
of nightcrawlers
on the smooth sidewalk
only
mimic
the curving line of dark
Never tried a Limberick before...
There once was a girl from Winnipegosis
Every where she ran people yelled "Whoa sis!"
She found they yelled lower
When she became a slow boat rower
That strange sweet girl from Winnipegosis.
---
Here lies a boy who loved Star Wars
He thought he could walk straight through bar doors
They took one look at his shirt
Man that pummeling musta hurt
For that poor poor boy who loved Star Wars
Every where she ran people yelled "Whoa sis!"
She found they yelled lower
When she became a slow boat rower
That strange sweet girl from Winnipegosis.
---
Here lies a boy who loved Star Wars
He thought he could walk straight through bar doors
They took one look at his shirt
Man that pummeling musta hurt
For that poor poor boy who loved Star Wars
Enough For Me
The simple soup warm glow—
belly not empty—
comes every time
I get to pay the house note
or the water bill,
Other utilities keep
continuing
sure as sunshine,
small bits of jewelry
for my peace of mind,
so lately well adorned.
Water like liquid diamonds
falls from so many taps—
gratitude and astonishment
continuing.
I know I have the only
Blessings I need.
5-12-05
-found unposted in Word-
belly not empty—
comes every time
I get to pay the house note
or the water bill,
Other utilities keep
continuing
sure as sunshine,
small bits of jewelry
for my peace of mind,
so lately well adorned.
Water like liquid diamonds
falls from so many taps—
gratitude and astonishment
continuing.
I know I have the only
Blessings I need.
5-12-05
-found unposted in Word-
Dusk Ablaze
When day has slipped its foot
into the bath of night
and stars call down
to whatever bits of light are left
pooling at the edge,
then the ground shimmers
and yellow rises flashing
as if each
petal of the dandelions
has taken wing,
the blinking
lights rise bright
against the darkness
dancing a quest for life.
Some stay moored to the earth,
blinking back, twinkling
like tiny candles
showing the direction home.
into the bath of night
and stars call down
to whatever bits of light are left
pooling at the edge,
then the ground shimmers
and yellow rises flashing
as if each
petal of the dandelions
has taken wing,
the blinking
lights rise bright
against the darkness
dancing a quest for life.
Some stay moored to the earth,
blinking back, twinkling
like tiny candles
showing the direction home.
The sixteenth day of May (a day late)
Assiniboine Forest, May 16, 2005.
Spring in
this year
means everything green below
mossy urns teetering on bright stalks
no thicker than the orange stubble
that picks
its way across your chin
and green above
deer-lipped shoots swaying on black branches
still brittle from the bud-freeze-thaw
and the drowned
roots the rot below
means both of us tying woolens
around our waists kicking up enough
mud to weigh down our cuffs
and colour
the days
to clutching your long cool fingers
as we walked through the balloon-rub chorus
of bull frogs from puddles and ditches
the heady amphibian lust
of last year
to crouching among the millions of mushrooms
both of us enveloped by the swell
of spores
on the fallen-log-sodden-mulch spawn
of the year before
but it seems
I must satisfy myself
with what there is
the glitter of everywhere wet
the pinpricks
of newly-hatched predators
humming the tune
of this year
Monday, May 16, 2005
Action Movie
there is a bomb
under your seat
a bomb
in your car
a bomb
in your bedroom
bombs
everywhere
dont move if you move
they will explode dont move
dont change nothing
can change dont change
you will be sorry will be sorry
that you crossed us will be sorry
you crossed us hung from a tree
crossed up on the cross hanging
not moving if you move
we will kill your wife kill
your children kill you
salvation is coming
one way or another
bombs everywhere
Back again
Back from working the National Confernce for Media Reform. Posting four poems handwritten during my absence. I'l be back with another later. Peace.
Picnic Effervescence
Between the tie-dyed garments
of dancing adults, I spy
the children
dipping their oversized bubble wands
into pans of liquid soap and glycerin,
trusting in the simple wind
to help pull luminous colors
from the wet membrane
trembling in their hands,
the bubble promise dance twirls
small feet and hands—
bubbles bigger than their heads
are pulled into the afternoon
sunlight and drift above
music, smoke trails,
sleeping babies and good dogs
tormented by the smell
of grilled brats and veggie burgers.
The band in it’s stone shelter
supplies an instrumental
jam of bubble-making music
for the children—
peace full and sending
their fragile wishes
out into the fully leafed treetops
delicate and sharp edged
trusting the grown-ups
to make bubbles possible
for awhile longer.
5-15-05
of dancing adults, I spy
the children
dipping their oversized bubble wands
into pans of liquid soap and glycerin,
trusting in the simple wind
to help pull luminous colors
from the wet membrane
trembling in their hands,
the bubble promise dance twirls
small feet and hands—
bubbles bigger than their heads
are pulled into the afternoon
sunlight and drift above
music, smoke trails,
sleeping babies and good dogs
tormented by the smell
of grilled brats and veggie burgers.
The band in it’s stone shelter
supplies an instrumental
jam of bubble-making music
for the children—
peace full and sending
their fragile wishes
out into the fully leafed treetops
delicate and sharp edged
trusting the grown-ups
to make bubbles possible
for awhile longer.
5-15-05
What We Eat
Even as technology spins
higher into possibility
I am ever more amazed at
how some lies are
spread in such old-fashioned ways,
manure spreaders of power
using whatever by-line
or rapid graphics the eye can catch
and believe
under the overextended
bass tones of a cereal
commercial voice talent.
Buy this line, it’s sweeter than the truth.
The voices roll over
the waves and it’s not even
a commercial break.
How can the message be sifted
from the news and placed
in that fourth stomach we have
for digesting news,
the place where our cud is kept ‘til
chewed to fully get it?
or have we turned more meekly
into the flock of mindless sheep
I once recalled,
all lining up for the
humming of the shears?
5-13-05
higher into possibility
I am ever more amazed at
how some lies are
spread in such old-fashioned ways,
manure spreaders of power
using whatever by-line
or rapid graphics the eye can catch
and believe
under the overextended
bass tones of a cereal
commercial voice talent.
Buy this line, it’s sweeter than the truth.
The voices roll over
the waves and it’s not even
a commercial break.
How can the message be sifted
from the news and placed
in that fourth stomach we have
for digesting news,
the place where our cud is kept ‘til
chewed to fully get it?
or have we turned more meekly
into the flock of mindless sheep
I once recalled,
all lining up for the
humming of the shears?
5-13-05
Current Momentum
The white water of humanity
tumbling past my post
excites me
even on the
bank of the flow
bouncing over one another
splashing—
every shade and shape
goes past, swift as
fallen aspen leaves,
voices moving in a foaming roar
all on the way
to some cascading caucus
or some stillwater ballroom
filling a pool of people
awaiting the canyon crowd
of closing plenary—
the rising roar of consensus.
5-14-05
tumbling past my post
excites me
even on the
bank of the flow
bouncing over one another
splashing—
every shade and shape
goes past, swift as
fallen aspen leaves,
voices moving in a foaming roar
all on the way
to some cascading caucus
or some stillwater ballroom
filling a pool of people
awaiting the canyon crowd
of closing plenary—
the rising roar of consensus.
5-14-05
Parking Bandit
Why do I believe every fool
who in his custard smooth voice
tells me he’s about to
do me a favor
grant some royal request
help me in a beehive frantic moment
find my way home
or park my car
in the lemon light of safety
on a scary street
just because he has some
phony reflective vest
and a walkie-talkie—
Or was that just an old cell phone?
and when I give up all I have
the precious currency taped
up under the dashboard
waiting for an unplanned
emergency
I create the very violation
I avoided,
my rapid trust
betrayed as I wait for my change.
The lot was free.
5-12-05
who in his custard smooth voice
tells me he’s about to
do me a favor
grant some royal request
help me in a beehive frantic moment
find my way home
or park my car
in the lemon light of safety
on a scary street
just because he has some
phony reflective vest
and a walkie-talkie—
Or was that just an old cell phone?
and when I give up all I have
the precious currency taped
up under the dashboard
waiting for an unplanned
emergency
I create the very violation
I avoided,
my rapid trust
betrayed as I wait for my change.
The lot was free.
5-12-05
A couple of attempts at cinquaining it up
Rock
hard rough
falling flying hitting
not far from the mark, from the right
Place
----
Daily News
black white
brief collection
of who killed who today
primes us to go out to defend
scared self
hard rough
falling flying hitting
not far from the mark, from the right
Place
----
Daily News
black white
brief collection
of who killed who today
primes us to go out to defend
scared self
In-Cinqu(ain)
Yay Forms!
Thanks Ariel for the inspiration. There are actually lots of variations on Cinquains - here's another take on the form.
The first line has two syllables, the second line has four syllables, the third line has six syllables and the fourth line has eight syllables, the final line has two syllables:
2
4
6
8
2
The line length is the only firm rule, but there are other guidelines that people have tried to impose from time to time.
Cinquain Guidelines
* Write in iambs (Two syllable groupings in which the first syllable is unstressed and the second syllable stressed. For Example: i DRANK she SMILED we TALKED i THOUGHT) For the last line of the cinquain, however, both syllables should be stressed, NICE BAR.
* Write about a noun. Cinquains generally fail if you try to make them about emotions, philosophies or other complex subjects. They should be about something concrete.
* Don’t try to make each line complete or express a single thought. Each line should flow into the next or the poem will sound static.
* Cinquains work best if you avoid adjectives and adverbs. This doesn’t mean you can’t have any, but focus on the nouns and the verbs. This almost always works best in a cinquain.
* The poem should build toward a climax. The last line should serve as some sort of conclusion to the earlier thoughts. Often, the conclusion has some sort of surprise built into it.
One possible, but not required, format is as follows:
Line 1: Title Noun
Line 2: Description
Line 3: Action
Line 4: Feeling or Effect
Line 5: Synonym of the initial noun.
Thanks Ariel for the inspiration. There are actually lots of variations on Cinquains - here's another take on the form.
The first line has two syllables, the second line has four syllables, the third line has six syllables and the fourth line has eight syllables, the final line has two syllables:
2
4
6
8
2
The line length is the only firm rule, but there are other guidelines that people have tried to impose from time to time.
Cinquain Guidelines
* Write in iambs (Two syllable groupings in which the first syllable is unstressed and the second syllable stressed. For Example: i DRANK she SMILED we TALKED i THOUGHT) For the last line of the cinquain, however, both syllables should be stressed, NICE BAR.
* Write about a noun. Cinquains generally fail if you try to make them about emotions, philosophies or other complex subjects. They should be about something concrete.
* Don’t try to make each line complete or express a single thought. Each line should flow into the next or the poem will sound static.
* Cinquains work best if you avoid adjectives and adverbs. This doesn’t mean you can’t have any, but focus on the nouns and the verbs. This almost always works best in a cinquain.
* The poem should build toward a climax. The last line should serve as some sort of conclusion to the earlier thoughts. Often, the conclusion has some sort of surprise built into it.
One possible, but not required, format is as follows:
Line 1: Title Noun
Line 2: Description
Line 3: Action
Line 4: Feeling or Effect
Line 5: Synonym of the initial noun.
abuttoire untitled.......... as in bout
we all have our tiny torments
from familacerta
tearing apart our little
heavenly holding
moments of promise
no, mine
much worse than yours
according to the shadows i no longer stole
from your growing jack-o lantern
there! a winner!
free inside
every speciously marked box
see details
when you get to the other side
yeah, i'll look you up fer sure,
you & the point
your tale makes
so i can be the wall you climb
in your next life as gecko
where camouflage forges wings
out of waiting
from familacerta
tearing apart our little
heavenly holding
moments of promise
no, mine
much worse than yours
according to the shadows i no longer stole
from your growing jack-o lantern
there! a winner!
free inside
every speciously marked box
see details
when you get to the other side
yeah, i'll look you up fer sure,
you & the point
your tale makes
so i can be the wall you climb
in your next life as gecko
where camouflage forges wings
out of waiting
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Four rules for dating Ninjas
If you want to take a Ninja to dinner
you have to ask real nice
You have to sneak up on her
whisper quite quietly
and get out of the way
before her blade slices your way
If you want to take a Ninja
to meet your parents
you have to make her think
it was all really her idea
you have to let her sneak up on them
and hope they can conceal their
surprise that you know a girl
at all, much less a Ninja
If you want to take a Ninja to bed
you have to lie down real slow
slip under the covers
let her find you there
you have to make a game of it
hide and seek, parry and pursuit
you have to overcome
your fear of knives
If you want to take a Ninja down the aisle
you have to plan it out real careful
find out her list of enemies
be sure they aren't invited
you have to let her pick out the cake
and let her cut it her way
and be very very careful
as you lick it out of her palm
you have to ask real nice
You have to sneak up on her
whisper quite quietly
and get out of the way
before her blade slices your way
If you want to take a Ninja
to meet your parents
you have to make her think
it was all really her idea
you have to let her sneak up on them
and hope they can conceal their
surprise that you know a girl
at all, much less a Ninja
If you want to take a Ninja to bed
you have to lie down real slow
slip under the covers
let her find you there
you have to make a game of it
hide and seek, parry and pursuit
you have to overcome
your fear of knives
If you want to take a Ninja down the aisle
you have to plan it out real careful
find out her list of enemies
be sure they aren't invited
you have to let her pick out the cake
and let her cut it her way
and be very very careful
as you lick it out of her palm
The fifteenth day in May
Assiniboine Forest, May 15, 2005.
Frogs hump Spring's wet backside
in the ultimate catch and release
slip-slide
trill victory
from the potbellied potholed
paths in the forest
while new mosquitoes abdomens blooming red
mimic dandelion down
and the expelled breath that sent them
aloft
the whole air/field to fill
their hum so like the back porch motion-detectors
just after they drop
their guard and everything goes
dark
underfoot the moss grows
so silently it can be heard
glows orange then red
covers logs lengths of path
all the filled-in seeping footsteps and the frogs
half-asleep in their ponds
Don't Marry the Fly echoing
cold-blooded in wet
green dreams
The light?
The light makes me squint.
Frogs hump Spring's wet backside
in the ultimate catch and release
slip-slide
trill victory
from the potbellied potholed
paths in the forest
while new mosquitoes abdomens blooming red
mimic dandelion down
and the expelled breath that sent them
aloft
the whole air/field to fill
their hum so like the back porch motion-detectors
just after they drop
their guard and everything goes
dark
underfoot the moss grows
so silently it can be heard
glows orange then red
covers logs lengths of path
all the filled-in seeping footsteps and the frogs
half-asleep in their ponds
Don't Marry the Fly echoing
cold-blooded in wet
green dreams
The light?
The light makes me squint.
like sad songs
i have seen so many movies the ones i like best
are like sad songs the ones where two people are
in love but cannot tell one another of their love
so they show it but they cannot tell these movies
they make me so sad but i love to watch them it
is good to watch to see love see i can see it right
before my eyes see there is love there is love it
is right there see i can feel it flickering silver there
is soft delight even in this
are like sad songs the ones where two people are
in love but cannot tell one another of their love
so they show it but they cannot tell these movies
they make me so sad but i love to watch them it
is good to watch to see love see i can see it right
before my eyes see there is love there is love it
is right there see i can feel it flickering silver there
is soft delight even in this
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Continuity
Continuous contingencies
continents of contiguencies
basso continuo
contagious contacts
contangoes for the Congo
corgies on congie
congregate in Kon Tikis
conjugating concatenating
contacting copulating corpuscles
containing condign context
congii of contes
continents of contiguencies
basso continuo
contagious contacts
contangoes for the Congo
corgies on congie
congregate in Kon Tikis
conjugating concatenating
contacting copulating corpuscles
containing condign context
congii of contes
The fourteenth day of May
Spring’s swept-bare
bald
its shoots and leaves
just waiting
for the worm
its soupy sidewalks
cracking under the repeated
demands: freeze!
thaw!
and the cold cheek
of the neighbour
out with the new rake
and the washed ironed
workgloves
who clucks at the butts
There are no buts in our yard
only the yellow stalks from last year’s mixed-bag
mixed-up lilies
who should be dug up: divide!
conquer!
while the crooked fingers
of new leaves under the layer
of leaf litter point fingers
at the sky
at you
sheltering
your zone three dreams
like seedlings
that haven’t yet been
hardened off
in the midst of this
ragged
weedy garden
Cooley in Germany
Cooley in Germany
roams the country
making puns in English
that nobody understands
they just smile
& offer advice
on pronunciation
frustrated he
calls them all Schadenfrauds
but they don’t understand
they are being insulted
so they smile
& offer advice
poor Cooley swimming
thru a strange tongue
thru German lager
smiling
& listening
attentive as Kroetsch (you don’t say)
drinking
the sounds
criticizing
the government (there can be no peace between
High & Low Germans until they both agree
Canadian hockey is better)
Cooley stands
tall in the countryside
scoffing at the wind (this is nothing
on the prairies the wind will
well the wind will blowhard
knock you over it will
the wind if the winds will it
if it’s the wind’s will)
but they just smile
not understanding
these poets—such exaggerators
they say but he speaks
only the truth
roams the country
making puns in English
that nobody understands
they just smile
& offer advice
on pronunciation
frustrated he
calls them all Schadenfrauds
but they don’t understand
they are being insulted
so they smile
& offer advice
poor Cooley swimming
thru a strange tongue
thru German lager
smiling
& listening
attentive as Kroetsch (you don’t say)
drinking
the sounds
criticizing
the government (there can be no peace between
High & Low Germans until they both agree
Canadian hockey is better)
Cooley stands
tall in the countryside
scoffing at the wind (this is nothing
on the prairies the wind will
well the wind will blowhard
knock you over it will
the wind if the winds will it
if it’s the wind’s will)
but they just smile
not understanding
these poets—such exaggerators
they say but he speaks
only the truth
Death, from the Family of Secrets
she was found separately
from any significant other
biped
left two starving cats
wishing they could find her will
if only to see if she'd left them at least with pika:
the compulsion to eat anything inedible,
including the paper it was printed on
she must've loved animals
to the very end
(even after alcoholism
even after voices)
because animals are better than human imitations
of animal behaviour
(though liquid courage WILL put hair on your chest --
pound back another one
& pound your chest --
no -- YOUR chest,
not the community chest you
brought into this world!)
she was good at
removing people from her life
good at endings
(no matter how much they cared about her,
her voices were stronger)
unless of course
they could party with the best of her
but this is just the tip of her lifeberg,
thin ice on the rocks.
what the family brought so charitably to her table,
month in, month out,
decades after
-- without thought of reading the degradients --
was food for amnesia,
laced with guilt
(as preservative)
at least, that's what some said
in his head
as he walked again,
home
alone.
(he's been heard to die
laughing about the one where the guy dies
from overindulging
in irony)
this time, though,
he proceeds by attending a wedding instead
because life is all about
celebrating the humanity
within the institution,
ANYTHING
that might constitute
safe refuge
but,
ever & ever
the compulsive artist
too dumb to steal food instead of lines
from all-but-final episodes
of futures plotted along
curves in starry space-gazings
he thinks he too
has mastered the elusive art of series-endings
by impressing into service
"she was important"
ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
shh!
the story is just about
to survive it subject
from any significant other
biped
left two starving cats
wishing they could find her will
if only to see if she'd left them at least with pika:
the compulsion to eat anything inedible,
including the paper it was printed on
she must've loved animals
to the very end
(even after alcoholism
even after voices)
because animals are better than human imitations
of animal behaviour
(though liquid courage WILL put hair on your chest --
pound back another one
& pound your chest --
no -- YOUR chest,
not the community chest you
brought into this world!)
she was good at
removing people from her life
good at endings
(no matter how much they cared about her,
her voices were stronger)
unless of course
they could party with the best of her
but this is just the tip of her lifeberg,
thin ice on the rocks.
what the family brought so charitably to her table,
month in, month out,
decades after
-- without thought of reading the degradients --
was food for amnesia,
laced with guilt
(as preservative)
at least, that's what some said
in his head
as he walked again,
home
alone.
(he's been heard to die
laughing about the one where the guy dies
from overindulging
in irony)
this time, though,
he proceeds by attending a wedding instead
because life is all about
celebrating the humanity
within the institution,
ANYTHING
that might constitute
safe refuge
but,
ever & ever
the compulsive artist
too dumb to steal food instead of lines
from all-but-final episodes
of futures plotted along
curves in starry space-gazings
he thinks he too
has mastered the elusive art of series-endings
by impressing into service
"she was important"
ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
shh!
the story is just about
to survive it subject
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