I wanted to write an ironic poem
about the lazy black cat & the mail carrier
locked in mid-morning mortal combat
the mail carrier’s single feint was refusing
to deliver to that house
any more
the cat’s tactics are familiar & include the growl
the stalk, the quick climb up calves
made wiry by walking
onto regulation navy & beyond
to slice at eyes; also, not blinking
when the camera’s iris opened & shut
for the wink wink second-to-last item
on Winnipeg’s evening news
then I was going to cleverly allude
to the kicker – the mooncalf born with six legs
but able to gambol in the flat bright light
of mid-day Nebraska
because its two extra legs, knobby & newborn
don’t quite touch the ground
but mocking bureaucracy is cheap sport
and deformations
are just no fun.
I wanted to write an elegiac poem
about half-frozen blood, the alley it was spilled in
and the man who at the end
of a boozy night had his throat cut
by a friend & lost it
how the temperature dropped (like a body)
overnight the blood becoming just another pool
of salty slush on the asphalt
in the alley behind one of my old addresses
how photographers gathered the next day
to shoot bike treads sneakers
beaters in blood
because the fire service didn’t bother
to wash it away until early afternoon
but we all know this is a bad way to die
and nothing came
after that.
I wanted to write a tender poem
about my daughter that marked the moment
months in months in her dry furious cheeks
were first wetted down
how the bruised pear between my legs
gave a final meaty contraction a glad twang
at this first drop in the bucket
but I don’t remember when it was & there is no poetry
in sour two-day-old laundry & the greasy crumbs
in the seams of my days
& I would still give just about anything
for a moment to myself
& oh fuck she just woke up –
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Cinco de Mayo
The first day of
true spring
bikes, flowers, shorts, sun
We celebrate not by
jumping round the maypole
but dancing with sparklers,
christening my balcony
just as I pictured it
when I took the place
in snow-time
The first party of
my new city
avocados, cilantro, plantains, peppers
procured in chinatown
cooking for a sufficient
number of guests
to feel
this is a place
where I have
friends enough
and the likelihood of
more to come
Just as
Cinco de Mayo
celebrates a
triumphant battle
rather than the
arrival of final
independence
I will take
this victory
and still hope
to win the war
true spring
bikes, flowers, shorts, sun
We celebrate not by
jumping round the maypole
but dancing with sparklers,
christening my balcony
just as I pictured it
when I took the place
in snow-time
The first party of
my new city
avocados, cilantro, plantains, peppers
procured in chinatown
cooking for a sufficient
number of guests
to feel
this is a place
where I have
friends enough
and the likelihood of
more to come
Just as
Cinco de Mayo
celebrates a
triumphant battle
rather than the
arrival of final
independence
I will take
this victory
and still hope
to win the war
More about the wind
Like Yves Klein I'm becoming obsessed with one element: the wind. Of course, it's hard not to these days. I wrote this one yesterday, but because of laptop woes, I was unable to retrieve it until today.
The world’s most challenging puzzle
recoils from winter
urinates umbilical
strings of the nothing
we are in its wake.
And who’s to say
what’s on its mind
other than procreation.
Impersonation.
Impregnation.
More hot air
than fresh breath
it balloons the belly—
punctures imagination’s
sponge, dimples
the mind’s continuous
banding. The wind
reattaches us
annually to a land
sand-banked by dirt-
devils, our own
memory’s hills
mounded each May.
The world’s most challenging puzzle
recoils from winter
urinates umbilical
strings of the nothing
we are in its wake.
And who’s to say
what’s on its mind
other than procreation.
Impersonation.
Impregnation.
More hot air
than fresh breath
it balloons the belly—
punctures imagination’s
sponge, dimples
the mind’s continuous
banding. The wind
reattaches us
annually to a land
sand-banked by dirt-
devils, our own
memory’s hills
mounded each May.
Walking Granville Bridge
in spring, sky placated
but only for now, everything green
or metallic for miles in either direction.
Angry sea a bit of both; hard surface
with chips bitten from it.
To the east and west glass towers--a future
city, beautiful, cheap, terrifying.
A billion shards piped together waiting
for disaster. The hot overcast air
makes its way under my hair.
And there, below, the whole world,
the visible world, every piece
and particle,
about to take flight.
but only for now, everything green
or metallic for miles in either direction.
Angry sea a bit of both; hard surface
with chips bitten from it.
To the east and west glass towers--a future
city, beautiful, cheap, terrifying.
A billion shards piped together waiting
for disaster. The hot overcast air
makes its way under my hair.
And there, below, the whole world,
the visible world, every piece
and particle,
about to take flight.
May 5th, Tower Point (again)
Wild camas-
stars of cloudless skies on long thin stems,
restless, green;
some days there is change in the wind,
some days, even trees cease to breath.
Today, I walk one step at a time,
think of how ancients took wild camas,
ate its sweet root, pulled from black earth
beneath groves of naked arbutus.
Today, I remember a place far from here-
where glacier streams, ice-fed lakes
are blue glass,
blue as the camas I walk through-
in the mountains....
last year.
Today, I give myself-one barefoot step,
one piece of clothing at a time,
my skin sweet as camas root-
to the soft bed
of moss, tall stalks of grass,
chocolate lilies, amethyst larkspur,
the long breath,
the patience of the field,
where wild camas grows.
sms 05/05/07
stars of cloudless skies on long thin stems,
restless, green;
some days there is change in the wind,
some days, even trees cease to breath.
Today, I walk one step at a time,
think of how ancients took wild camas,
ate its sweet root, pulled from black earth
beneath groves of naked arbutus.
Today, I remember a place far from here-
where glacier streams, ice-fed lakes
are blue glass,
blue as the camas I walk through-
in the mountains....
last year.
Today, I give myself-one barefoot step,
one piece of clothing at a time,
my skin sweet as camas root-
to the soft bed
of moss, tall stalks of grass,
chocolate lilies, amethyst larkspur,
the long breath,
the patience of the field,
where wild camas grows.
sms 05/05/07
Friday, May 04, 2007
three
Incandescent
1.
Electricity, like gravity, is a force of nature
no one “invented” it;
he did not invent the microphone
he had no machine that talked to the dead
although Edison claimed to have invented wax paper
he probably did not.
Edison did not lose his hearing
it is more accurate to say he was very hard
of hearing & the high-pitched sound
of the telegraph
“beats the babble
of ordinary conversation.”
He liked the phonograph so much
he called it his “baby.”
There are several stories
by people who knew Edison
that tell of him biting into phonographs
sound vibrations travelled through his teeth
to his inner ear.
(He bit the piano at home
as well.)
2.
Edison was a “news butcher” by twelve.
At fifteen, he roamed the country as a “tramp telegrapher”
moving thirteen times in seven years
often working all night
taking messages for trains
and even for the Union Army during the Civil War.
It was later found that people
become more proficient at receiving Morse code
when it was taught as a language that is heard
instead of one read from a page –
to reflect the sound of Morse code
practitioners began to vocalise
a dash as "dah"
and a dot as "dit."
At twenty-four, Edison noticed 16-year-old Mary
punching perforations into telegraph tape;
even on his wedding day
Edison returned to the lab to work
on his stock ticker.
In middle age, Edison still slept on laboratory tables
but he taught 20-year-old Mina Morse
so that they could have secret conversations
when her family was around
(her father held 92 patents
his most famous invention being
the Buckeye Mower
and Reaper)
tapping into each other’s hand.
In Morse code, the letters most commonly used
in the English language are assigned
the shortest sequences
but Edison always had what he needed
and incandescent lighting
is soft enough
for use indoors.
3.
Operators skilled in Morse code
can often "copy" code in their heads
at rates in excess of 40 WPM.
Some operators may have passed 100 WPM.
By this time they are "hearing" phrases
and sentences
rather than words.
In 1877, Edison recorded the first words
on a piece of tin foil.
He recited the nursery rhyme
“Mary Had a Little Lamb”
& the phonograph played the words
back to him.
Edison did not invent the first light bulb
he didn’t invent a hearing aid
he earned 150 patents on telegraph
improvements alone
(his daughter “Dot” claims to have seen Edison
propose marriage to Mina
using Morse code.)
4.
In 1927, Edison told 300 hard-of-hearing adults
"Deaf people should take to reading.”
There is little point in learning to read written Morse;
the sounds of all of the letters and symbols
need to be learned
for both sending and receiving.
5.
Edison once wrote, "I have not heard a bird sing
since I was twelve years old."
A dash is equal to three dots.
The space between parts of the same letter is equal to one dot.
The space between two letters is equal to three dots.
The space between two words is equal to five dots.
When the French navy ceased using Morse code in 1997
the final message transmitted was "Calling all.
This is our last cry
before our eternal silence."
* * *
Sources:
Edison National Historic Site: http://www.nps.gov/archive/edis/home.htm
Wikipedia entry on Morse code: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morse_code
Great moments in science / Edison and Light bulb: http://www.abc.net.au/science/k2/moments/s1523482.htm
* * *
Okay, I've got a full blown Edison obsession going...meant to work on a new poem. Only wanted to work on this one.
“.. …. .- …- . -. --- - …. . .- .-. -.. .- -… .. .-. -.. … .. -. -.-. . .. .-- .- … - .-- . .-.. …- . -.-- . .- .-. … --- .-.. -.. “
- Thomas Alva Edison, 1885.
“In speed contests between expert Morse code operators and expert cellphone SMS text messaging users, Morse code has consistently won, leading to speculation that cellphone manufacturers might someday build interfaces for Morse code input.”
- Wikipedia entry on Morse Code (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morse_code)
1.
Electricity, like gravity, is a force of nature
no one “invented” it;
he did not invent the microphone
he had no machine that talked to the dead
although Edison claimed to have invented wax paper
he probably did not.
Edison did not lose his hearing
it is more accurate to say he was very hard
of hearing & the high-pitched sound
of the telegraph
“beats the babble
of ordinary conversation.”
He liked the phonograph so much
he called it his “baby.”
There are several stories
by people who knew Edison
that tell of him biting into phonographs
sound vibrations travelled through his teeth
to his inner ear.
(He bit the piano at home
as well.)
2.
Edison was a “news butcher” by twelve.
At fifteen, he roamed the country as a “tramp telegrapher”
moving thirteen times in seven years
often working all night
taking messages for trains
and even for the Union Army during the Civil War.
It was later found that people
become more proficient at receiving Morse code
when it was taught as a language that is heard
instead of one read from a page –
to reflect the sound of Morse code
practitioners began to vocalise
a dash as "dah"
and a dot as "dit."
At twenty-four, Edison noticed 16-year-old Mary
punching perforations into telegraph tape;
even on his wedding day
Edison returned to the lab to work
on his stock ticker.
In middle age, Edison still slept on laboratory tables
but he taught 20-year-old Mina Morse
so that they could have secret conversations
when her family was around
(her father held 92 patents
his most famous invention being
the Buckeye Mower
and Reaper)
tapping into each other’s hand.
In Morse code, the letters most commonly used
in the English language are assigned
the shortest sequences
but Edison always had what he needed
and incandescent lighting
is soft enough
for use indoors.
3.
Operators skilled in Morse code
can often "copy" code in their heads
at rates in excess of 40 WPM.
Some operators may have passed 100 WPM.
By this time they are "hearing" phrases
and sentences
rather than words.
In 1877, Edison recorded the first words
on a piece of tin foil.
He recited the nursery rhyme
“Mary Had a Little Lamb”
& the phonograph played the words
back to him.
Edison did not invent the first light bulb
he didn’t invent a hearing aid
he earned 150 patents on telegraph
improvements alone
(his daughter “Dot” claims to have seen Edison
propose marriage to Mina
using Morse code.)
4.
In 1927, Edison told 300 hard-of-hearing adults
"Deaf people should take to reading.”
There is little point in learning to read written Morse;
the sounds of all of the letters and symbols
need to be learned
for both sending and receiving.
5.
Edison once wrote, "I have not heard a bird sing
since I was twelve years old."
A dash is equal to three dots.
The space between parts of the same letter is equal to one dot.
The space between two letters is equal to three dots.
The space between two words is equal to five dots.
When the French navy ceased using Morse code in 1997
the final message transmitted was "Calling all.
This is our last cry
before our eternal silence."
* * *
Sources:
Edison National Historic Site: http://www.nps.gov/archive/edis/home.htm
Wikipedia entry on Morse code: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morse_code
Great moments in science / Edison and Light bulb: http://www.abc.net.au/science/k2/moments/s1523482.htm
* * *
Okay, I've got a full blown Edison obsession going...meant to work on a new poem. Only wanted to work on this one.
outdoors, in
shattering
i
the lake breaks up – all crash
and fractured drama
against silent thawing sand
branches shyly budding
beyond the dunes
massive tracts of ice
hammered by heat
into handfuls of melting glass,
glitter that wind will spirit away
in its brazen beak
ii
room: still with sunday, hum
from an inch of open window,
wind sidles along the wall,
slips its sly tongue
behind picture frames
sudden gnash of glass
and the attic floor
awash in ice chips,
glinting and steadfast
unwilling to be swept away
i
the lake breaks up – all crash
and fractured drama
against silent thawing sand
branches shyly budding
beyond the dunes
massive tracts of ice
hammered by heat
into handfuls of melting glass,
glitter that wind will spirit away
in its brazen beak
ii
room: still with sunday, hum
from an inch of open window,
wind sidles along the wall,
slips its sly tongue
behind picture frames
sudden gnash of glass
and the attic floor
awash in ice chips,
glinting and steadfast
unwilling to be swept away
Here we are
Floating above thick trees
Above dark clouds
Above the weeping world
We'd say into the stars then
but that's a lie of omission,
denying the hardships
of what that journey entails
Heading for our own sun-star
gets too hot after only a few blocks --
even our own planet is starting
to feel the need
to scooch back
from the heat
But those other lights
out there
calling to us
are so far, so cold
As fast as I fly
I don't get any closer
The only thing left
is to jump to leap
to have faith, shun doubt
The old ways aren't working
and we don't have time
to screw around
trying to figure out
a logical solution
unlogic is all that remains
reverse inverse the universe
turn it inside out
to jump to a new star
Be in ourselves
the nebula
we are seeking
Above dark clouds
Above the weeping world
We'd say into the stars then
but that's a lie of omission,
denying the hardships
of what that journey entails
Heading for our own sun-star
gets too hot after only a few blocks --
even our own planet is starting
to feel the need
to scooch back
from the heat
But those other lights
out there
calling to us
are so far, so cold
As fast as I fly
I don't get any closer
The only thing left
is to jump to leap
to have faith, shun doubt
The old ways aren't working
and we don't have time
to screw around
trying to figure out
a logical solution
unlogic is all that remains
reverse inverse the universe
turn it inside out
to jump to a new star
Be in ourselves
the nebula
we are seeking
I am a dirty bowl
coated in dried pasta sauce
untouched vegetables rotting on my face
I smell
Entering the house, the odor and spectacle should drive you back
But
I am heavy ceramic
Unable to move
Unable to care
I need someone to wash me
touch me with warm, soapy hands
scrub me inside
and out
Clean away the depression and put me back on the shelf
waiting
for a new love
Hi all. This is my first year posting.
Thank you so much for your feedback on the egg poem. I was thrilled to read all the comments. I don't write a whole lot of poetry, but this project inspired me to gather some courage to just get out there and work.
I know Ariel and Polly from our time in Winnipeg journalism. I now live in Toronto and work in marketing - usually the opposite of poetry.
- Joanna
coated in dried pasta sauce
untouched vegetables rotting on my face
I smell
Entering the house, the odor and spectacle should drive you back
But
I am heavy ceramic
Unable to move
Unable to care
I need someone to wash me
touch me with warm, soapy hands
scrub me inside
and out
Clean away the depression and put me back on the shelf
waiting
for a new love
Hi all. This is my first year posting.
Thank you so much for your feedback on the egg poem. I was thrilled to read all the comments. I don't write a whole lot of poetry, but this project inspired me to gather some courage to just get out there and work.
I know Ariel and Polly from our time in Winnipeg journalism. I now live in Toronto and work in marketing - usually the opposite of poetry.
- Joanna
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Who has patented the wind
The wind isn’t something
to hang around lightly.
Last night’s fury hair-raised—
a paper-eater chewing a mouthful,
the garbage picker rustled by an alley bin,
one lid’s nervous quake—
some ordinary organism yelling
“Don’t let it in!” But my bedroom
window thinks better, moans
with delight as finger’s scurry
the full-breeze flapped, cotton’s
fringed fling, the home’s homely bones
squared in an eye-glassed gape.
Yet there’s something
artful in the wind’s stuttering
determination, the day’s lip
buckled irregular-blue, every tree
bristled by the weathered
vane’s attempt to paint and sell
each of its trademarked frames
the same.
to hang around lightly.
Last night’s fury hair-raised—
a paper-eater chewing a mouthful,
the garbage picker rustled by an alley bin,
one lid’s nervous quake—
some ordinary organism yelling
“Don’t let it in!” But my bedroom
window thinks better, moans
with delight as finger’s scurry
the full-breeze flapped, cotton’s
fringed fling, the home’s homely bones
squared in an eye-glassed gape.
Yet there’s something
artful in the wind’s stuttering
determination, the day’s lip
buckled irregular-blue, every tree
bristled by the weathered
vane’s attempt to paint and sell
each of its trademarked frames
the same.
more a snippet than a poem, really
all day
i wait all day
for these ten minutes
awake in our bed,
for your minted breath,
a lick of dark
across my eyelids,
and for the little clicks
your glasses make
as they are folded
and set on the nightstand
i wait all day
for these ten minutes
awake in our bed,
for your minted breath,
a lick of dark
across my eyelids,
and for the little clicks
your glasses make
as they are folded
and set on the nightstand
two
Incandescent
1.
Electricity, like gravity, is a force of nature
no one “invented” it;
he did not invent the microphone
he had no machine that talked to the dead
although Edison claimed to have invented wax paper
he probably did not
Edison did not lose his hearing
it is more accurate
to say he was very hard of hearing
and that the high-pitched sound of the telegraph
“beats the babble
of ordinary conversation.”
He liked the phonograph so much
he called it his “baby”
there are several stories by people who knew
that tell of him biting into phonographs
sound vibrations his teeth
his inner ear
2.
Edison worked as a tramp telegrapher
moving thirteen times in seven years
it was later found that people
become more proficient at receiving Morse code
when it is taught as a language that is heard
instead of one read from a page
to reflect the sound of Morse code
practitioners began to vocalise
a dash as "dah"
and a dot as "dit"
The letters most commonly used
in the English language
were assigned
the shortest sequences
He slept on laboratory tables
but taught Mina Morse code
so that they could have secret conversations
when her family was around
they used it as a type
of sign language
Edison always had what he needed
incandescent lighting is soft enough
for use indoors
* * *
Mmm. This is a mix-n-match found poem from the Thomas Edison home pages and the Wikipedia entry on Morse code that had its impetus from Regan's light bulb blurb. After more than an hour poring over Edison's list of patents, I have no idea if the poem works...oh well.
“.. …. .- …- . -. --- - …. . .- .-. -.. .- -… .. .-. -.. … .. -. -.-. . .. .-- .- … - .-- . .-.. …- . -.-- . .- .-. … --- .-.. -.. “
– Thomas Alva Edison
1.
Electricity, like gravity, is a force of nature
no one “invented” it;
he did not invent the microphone
he had no machine that talked to the dead
although Edison claimed to have invented wax paper
he probably did not
Edison did not lose his hearing
it is more accurate
to say he was very hard of hearing
and that the high-pitched sound of the telegraph
“beats the babble
of ordinary conversation.”
Design for a Cabinet
Design for a Grille For a Phonograph Cabinet
Design for a Grille For a Phonograph Cabinet
Design for a Grille For a Phonograph Cabinet
He liked the phonograph so much
he called it his “baby”
there are several stories by people who knew
that tell of him biting into phonographs
sound vibrations his teeth
his inner ear
2.
Edison worked as a tramp telegrapher
moving thirteen times in seven years
it was later found that people
become more proficient at receiving Morse code
when it is taught as a language that is heard
instead of one read from a page
to reflect the sound of Morse code
practitioners began to vocalise
a dash as "dah"
and a dot as "dit"
Machinery for Perforating Paper for Telegraph Pump
Telegraph Apparatus
Printing Telegraphs
Chemical Telegraphs
The letters most commonly used
in the English language
were assigned
the shortest sequences
He slept on laboratory tables
but taught Mina Morse code
so that they could have secret conversations
when her family was around
they used it as a type
of sign language
Perforators for Automatic Telegraphs
Duplex Telegraphs
Chemical Telegraphy
Automatic Telegraphs
Edison always had what he needed
incandescent lighting is soft enough
for use indoors
* * *
Mmm. This is a mix-n-match found poem from the Thomas Edison home pages and the Wikipedia entry on Morse code that had its impetus from Regan's light bulb blurb. After more than an hour poring over Edison's list of patents, I have no idea if the poem works...oh well.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
one year
on your first trip
around the sun
you may not have known
you were traveling
an ellipse, though you’ve learned
elements of its geometry –
parabola of breast,
arc of arms to hold you
now you’re rounding out
your orbit, embarking
on your next long loop
through the same
set of seasons,
three hundred and sixty
degrees of green
tomorrow you’ll begin
to see pattern
in the stretch
of light through days
and its elastic snap
back to dark,
you’ll know the moon
will forever be filling
and draining and that geese
will leave but always
circle back
Ariel, your birthday-poem-for-Anna proposition was my inspiration today. Thanks for the idea... if you like where this is going, this might be a candidate for your project. I think the last stanza needs some work... Let me know if you have comments. And, I require no compensation. BTW: I'm not sure I know what "Labels" mean in blogland. Is this something I should be doing? ~k.
on your first trip
around the sun
you may not have known
you were traveling
an ellipse, though you’ve learned
elements of its geometry –
parabola of breast,
arc of arms to hold you
now you’re rounding out
your orbit, embarking
on your next long loop
through the same
set of seasons,
three hundred and sixty
degrees of green
tomorrow you’ll begin
to see pattern
in the stretch
of light through days
and its elastic snap
back to dark,
you’ll know the moon
will forever be filling
and draining and that geese
will leave but always
circle back
Ariel, your birthday-poem-for-Anna proposition was my inspiration today. Thanks for the idea... if you like where this is going, this might be a candidate for your project. I think the last stanza needs some work... Let me know if you have comments. And, I require no compensation. BTW: I'm not sure I know what "Labels" mean in blogland. Is this something I should be doing? ~k.
Packing
How is it that all
the bits of here
are so hard to gather
when I want to go there?
What shadow of home
can I fold
to reappear
with familiar lines
in a strange city
full of its own darkness?
Hard angles and noise
at all hours
await my still veins.
I'll take my own thin spoon
to lift foreign soup,
magically delivered,
my spoon
to coax my lips
open
for whatever
feeding I find possible.
I'll take my own brushes
to lay color down
as it appears flashing
in my challenged eyes,
searching for some brightness
to rival the poppies
I leave half exploded
in blooming flames
near the thin blue iris
and tight-budded peonies.
I need to see past the brink
of clematis glowing
in the moonlight
and travel to the sounds
of gulls and rocks,
bridges and boats.
I need to find paints
for matching what I'll find
after the city,
when dawn
first touches land
and night still snores
here by the rivers.
I must carry that
in my bag
for later.
the bits of here
are so hard to gather
when I want to go there?
What shadow of home
can I fold
to reappear
with familiar lines
in a strange city
full of its own darkness?
Hard angles and noise
at all hours
await my still veins.
I'll take my own thin spoon
to lift foreign soup,
magically delivered,
my spoon
to coax my lips
open
for whatever
feeding I find possible.
I'll take my own brushes
to lay color down
as it appears flashing
in my challenged eyes,
searching for some brightness
to rival the poppies
I leave half exploded
in blooming flames
near the thin blue iris
and tight-budded peonies.
I need to see past the brink
of clematis glowing
in the moonlight
and travel to the sounds
of gulls and rocks,
bridges and boats.
I need to find paints
for matching what I'll find
after the city,
when dawn
first touches land
and night still snores
here by the rivers.
I must carry that
in my bag
for later.
touch
i go for my massage
at the student clinic
but it's far from clinical
the only fleshy contact i've had in weeks
i preen like a cat when her fingers
touch down
i keep my purr silent, safely caged
so she won't think i'm a freak
but inside i'm glowing, so grateful
for this god-sent feeling
of worth, human-ness
deservement of pleasure
then she digs deep
into twisted tissue
untangling knots of
pressure, guilt, doubt
all the unfinished business
i carry around in that crowded
space between my shoulders
under that fragile neck
straining to keep
my head on straight
deep breaths she says
and I comply,
try to find the path
to letting go
at the student clinic
but it's far from clinical
the only fleshy contact i've had in weeks
i preen like a cat when her fingers
touch down
i keep my purr silent, safely caged
so she won't think i'm a freak
but inside i'm glowing, so grateful
for this god-sent feeling
of worth, human-ness
deservement of pleasure
then she digs deep
into twisted tissue
untangling knots of
pressure, guilt, doubt
all the unfinished business
i carry around in that crowded
space between my shoulders
under that fragile neck
straining to keep
my head on straight
deep breaths she says
and I comply,
try to find the path
to letting go
Earplugs
For when the city's pulse is too quick and
furious--shouts of construction workers
matching the steam-whine of their instruments,
bicker and twitter of the man and woman
in the apartment next door (her giggle
a piccolo, his basso profundo
palpitating the wall), thuggy buses--
there's you two little orange wonders,
oversized pills to cure the world of noise.
Gone is the dry-hump thump of Beyonce
beyond the wall. Sound becomes a thing
to feel, not hear. Time passed not by watch-tick
or tap-drip but by the soft, predictable
one-two tide of my own quiet blood.
---
A silly aside: the National Post (which I never read b/c the politics drive me crazy) has currently got on a contest in which they ask for poems of any length or form about the doomed incandescent lightbulb. The prize is a box of assorted soon-to-be-obsolete bulbs valued at 95$. I think this is funny and lovely. The deadline is tomorrow afternoon sometime, contest@nationalpost.com. I might write one anyway, but not bother with the National Post.
furious--shouts of construction workers
matching the steam-whine of their instruments,
bicker and twitter of the man and woman
in the apartment next door (her giggle
a piccolo, his basso profundo
palpitating the wall), thuggy buses--
there's you two little orange wonders,
oversized pills to cure the world of noise.
Gone is the dry-hump thump of Beyonce
beyond the wall. Sound becomes a thing
to feel, not hear. Time passed not by watch-tick
or tap-drip but by the soft, predictable
one-two tide of my own quiet blood.
---
A silly aside: the National Post (which I never read b/c the politics drive me crazy) has currently got on a contest in which they ask for poems of any length or form about the doomed incandescent lightbulb. The prize is a box of assorted soon-to-be-obsolete bulbs valued at 95$. I think this is funny and lovely. The deadline is tomorrow afternoon sometime, contest@nationalpost.com.
Nickel
Anchored at the seawall for Sunday cyclists
to puzzle over, washed up at high tide.
Slick brown fur—at first glance,
I thought dog, drowned. Belly-down, forepaws
stretched out like a two-year-old’s rendition
of Superman. Then I saw it’s broad flat
tail, bleached the colour of concrete.
Childhood coin, the price of a jelly candy
turned life-size. Tree-feller, log-jammer,
far from our imagined habitat: scenic marsh
with moose backdrop. Trying to make a go of it
among sewage outlets. An observer
held out his cell phone to take a picture;
there was talk of gnawed aspens
on Granville Island, as cherry blossoms
dotted confetti on park bench couples.
Across the beaver’s eyelids, a flicker—
thinking, it’s still alive—until I saw the fly
searching for a passageway in.
to puzzle over, washed up at high tide.
Slick brown fur—at first glance,
I thought dog, drowned. Belly-down, forepaws
stretched out like a two-year-old’s rendition
of Superman. Then I saw it’s broad flat
tail, bleached the colour of concrete.
Childhood coin, the price of a jelly candy
turned life-size. Tree-feller, log-jammer,
far from our imagined habitat: scenic marsh
with moose backdrop. Trying to make a go of it
among sewage outlets. An observer
held out his cell phone to take a picture;
there was talk of gnawed aspens
on Granville Island, as cherry blossoms
dotted confetti on park bench couples.
Across the beaver’s eyelids, a flicker—
thinking, it’s still alive—until I saw the fly
searching for a passageway in.
Her eggs are perfect
Her eggs are perfect
whites completely set, yolks warm and runny.
Her eggs are perfect
She used to cook them for her Dad, she says, who died before I was born.
Her eggs are perfect
but on the weekends at the farm, we only ever have his eggs.
It is her day off, I guess, or his domain somehow. Or he just enjoyed
cooking eggs and she enjoyed him enjoying it. I never understood this.
His eggs continue to this day to be over- or under- done, yet
he relies on this one easy meal backed into a widower's corner.
Her eggs were perfect
and I never would have known except by chance one night by default
of nothing else appealing in the fridge, she made dinner for her daughter.
Her eggs were perfect
over easy.
whites completely set, yolks warm and runny.
Her eggs are perfect
She used to cook them for her Dad, she says, who died before I was born.
Her eggs are perfect
but on the weekends at the farm, we only ever have his eggs.
It is her day off, I guess, or his domain somehow. Or he just enjoyed
cooking eggs and she enjoyed him enjoying it. I never understood this.
His eggs continue to this day to be over- or under- done, yet
he relies on this one easy meal backed into a widower's corner.
Her eggs were perfect
and I never would have known except by chance one night by default
of nothing else appealing in the fridge, she made dinner for her daughter.
Her eggs were perfect
over easy.
labels
Using my MASSIVE ADMINISTRATIVE POWER, I've added labels to your first posts, primarily to allow non-chronological navigation.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
one
Spring fills ditches
decants and distills all the freeze! thaw!
and, careful drunk,
quietly drinks it down
elsewhere snowmelt puddles slop
with the swagger and ripple
of defrosted chorus
croak
Spring chokes up at bridges
rafts and scraped plates of ice stack up
under all that silt and foam half-seen trunks
roll like daredevil barrels
about to go over the falls
elsewhere docks get unmoored
deck chairs tilt ass
over teakettle
sink into reefs of catfish lures
grocery carts
and late summer suicides
Spring pulls trains of grit behind buses
fills mouths with left-over traction
every right angle filled
with foil cellophane
and the perfect chapped lip prints
on cigarettes
smoked down
to the filter
Spring spends seedy pussywillows
then invests in greening moss
mulch sod
decants and distills all the freeze! thaw!
and, careful drunk,
quietly drinks it down
elsewhere snowmelt puddles slop
with the swagger and ripple
of defrosted chorus
croak
Spring chokes up at bridges
rafts and scraped plates of ice stack up
under all that silt and foam half-seen trunks
roll like daredevil barrels
about to go over the falls
elsewhere docks get unmoored
deck chairs tilt ass
over teakettle
sink into reefs of catfish lures
grocery carts
and late summer suicides
Spring pulls trains of grit behind buses
fills mouths with left-over traction
every right angle filled
with foil cellophane
and the perfect chapped lip prints
on cigarettes
smoked down
to the filter
Spring spends seedy pussywillows
then invests in greening moss
mulch sod
day one
melt
so much sun reflected off
our winter-pale skin,
cooped-up breath and limbs unfurling
heat along the beach
that the ice shatters,
becomes clumsy
as our warmth approaches,
something breaking always
just ahead of us –
a tray of glasses smashing,
chimes collapsing –
and the lake licks its lips
before we can tell which
of the solid whitecaps
has gone under
ice stands no chance
against us, the end
of april, the water’s hunger,
but small, ragged holdouts float,
stubborn and doomed, out deep,
and with soft feet
we rub away crosshatch
the ice has dragged
into the sand
in crawling defeat
so much sun reflected off
our winter-pale skin,
cooped-up breath and limbs unfurling
heat along the beach
that the ice shatters,
becomes clumsy
as our warmth approaches,
something breaking always
just ahead of us –
a tray of glasses smashing,
chimes collapsing –
and the lake licks its lips
before we can tell which
of the solid whitecaps
has gone under
ice stands no chance
against us, the end
of april, the water’s hunger,
but small, ragged holdouts float,
stubborn and doomed, out deep,
and with soft feet
we rub away crosshatch
the ice has dragged
into the sand
in crawling defeat
It's a-MAY-thing!
Hello--
here's my start to the May Day explosion of verse. My brief intro: I'm a Regina writer that leans too far in to the centre, laments the loss of sleep, lisps in the wind while walking, lingers in grocery stores, lounges on freshly mowed lawns, and is lucky enough to take part in writing a poem, probably every other day, for the month of May.
I like the notion of themes so as not to confuse anyone, my theme this year is "After Yves Klein" .
Dear Y
This is the letter I start
late one night after drinking
too much gin.
The unopened voice
splashed and splattered
within paint-can tin.
Dear Y
This is the letter that starts
again to speak all things
to say I need
late one night
after drinking. This—
letter brushes the red coat’s
pocketed past.
Dear Y
This is the letter that undresses
what it would, addresses
what it should—
bristles thin plumes, mottles
motivation’s scent
but remains unsent
word’s wetness, the paper’s
piece not yet dry.
Dear Y
This is the letter that starts
again and again.
Dear Y
This is the letter
that says not square
burglarizes sky with tri-
angular arms
one mass pillar-pushed—
resemblance stolen
from a post.
Dear Y
This letter says things I sought
to speak late one night,
but never said—
a lick in memory’s inserted
fold, the enveloped eye
enclosed.
Dear Y
This letter is a letter’s
pretense receding.
Past and distance. Some far
away inkblot dispatched.
Dear Y
This letter is our present
acting out—
pretense we’re passing by.
Dear Y
This letter I write
late one night after drinking
too much gin—
why’s sun-roofed
performance uprooted.
here's my start to the May Day explosion of verse. My brief intro: I'm a Regina writer that leans too far in to the centre, laments the loss of sleep, lisps in the wind while walking, lingers in grocery stores, lounges on freshly mowed lawns, and is lucky enough to take part in writing a poem, probably every other day, for the month of May.
I like the notion of themes so as not to confuse anyone, my theme this year is "After Yves Klein" .
Dear Y
This is the letter I start
late one night after drinking
too much gin.
The unopened voice
splashed and splattered
within paint-can tin.
Dear Y
This is the letter that starts
again to speak all things
to say I need
late one night
after drinking. This—
letter brushes the red coat’s
pocketed past.
Dear Y
This is the letter that undresses
what it would, addresses
what it should—
bristles thin plumes, mottles
motivation’s scent
but remains unsent
word’s wetness, the paper’s
piece not yet dry.
Dear Y
This is the letter that starts
again and again.
Dear Y
This is the letter
that says not square
burglarizes sky with tri-
angular arms
one mass pillar-pushed—
resemblance stolen
from a post.
Dear Y
This letter says things I sought
to speak late one night,
but never said—
a lick in memory’s inserted
fold, the enveloped eye
enclosed.
Dear Y
This letter is a letter’s
pretense receding.
Past and distance. Some far
away inkblot dispatched.
Dear Y
This letter is our present
acting out—
pretense we’re passing by.
Dear Y
This letter I write
late one night after drinking
too much gin—
why’s sun-roofed
performance uprooted.
May flowers
I'm ready for my flowers
you know, the ones all that rain
in April's gonna bring on
cuz this here is May
and damnit I've had
enough with rain
and thunderclouds
bring me poppies
and lillies and tulips
galore
bring me red ones
and blue ones
and yellow ones
throw in a few pink
if you're so inclined
but you can keep anything orange
it don't match my nail polish
likewise purple
too garish by half
I'm not askin for
nothin fancy
a fistful of daisies
or a field of marsh-roses
that'd do me just fine
you know, the ones all that rain
in April's gonna bring on
cuz this here is May
and damnit I've had
enough with rain
and thunderclouds
bring me poppies
and lillies and tulips
galore
bring me red ones
and blue ones
and yellow ones
throw in a few pink
if you're so inclined
but you can keep anything orange
it don't match my nail polish
likewise purple
too garish by half
I'm not askin for
nothin fancy
a fistful of daisies
or a field of marsh-roses
that'd do me just fine
Monday, April 30, 2007
dipping day
From the Forgotten English desk calendar I received for Christmas:
The same desk calendar features the following words for the first week of May, should anyone need a starting point for a poem:
Blash: To soak, to drench. A heavy fall of rain. Deluging: sweaping away by inundation. Applied to meat or drink that is thin, weak, flatulent, or viewed as debilitating to the stomach. To blash one's stomach, to drink too copiously of any weak and diluting liquor.
Steeple-hats: Long hats, described as "pearking up like the sphere or shaft ofa steeple, standyng a quarter of a yarde above the croune of their heades, some more, some lesse, as please the phantasies of their inconstant mindes."
Canvas opera: A circus.
Shumpgullion: A glutton.
Ready-comb: In farm houses, a comb was hung by the string to the kitchen door by which the men-servants combed their hair.
Croozle: To make a low, whispering noise, like an infant just on the point of waking; a nursery word.
Englaimed: Furred; clammy.
On May-morning, the children go out into the country and fetch home the flowering branches of the white-thorn, or boughs of the narrow-leaved elm, which has just put forth its leaves, both of which are called 'May.'
At a later hour, all the boys of the village sally forth with bucket, can, syringe, or other instrument, and avail themselves of a license which the season confers, to dip or well-nigh drown, without regard to person or circumstance, the passenger who has not the protection of 'May' in his hat or button-hole.
The sprig of the hawthorn or elm is probably held to be proof that the bearer has not failed to rise early to do the observance to a morn of May.
- Rev. T.F. Thiselton-Dyer's British Popular Customs, 1876.
The same desk calendar features the following words for the first week of May, should anyone need a starting point for a poem:
Blash: To soak, to drench. A heavy fall of rain. Deluging: sweaping away by inundation. Applied to meat or drink that is thin, weak, flatulent, or viewed as debilitating to the stomach. To blash one's stomach, to drink too copiously of any weak and diluting liquor.
Steeple-hats: Long hats, described as "pearking up like the sphere or shaft ofa steeple, standyng a quarter of a yarde above the croune of their heades, some more, some lesse, as please the phantasies of their inconstant mindes."
Canvas opera: A circus.
Shumpgullion: A glutton.
Ready-comb: In farm houses, a comb was hung by the string to the kitchen door by which the men-servants combed their hair.
Croozle: To make a low, whispering noise, like an infant just on the point of waking; a nursery word.
Englaimed: Furred; clammy.
Introductions
We've got a few new faces round these parts, so I thought it might be useful for each of us to introduce ourselves...like this, for instance:
My name is Ariel Gordon. I'm a Winnipeg-based writer and editor. Though I've written both fiction and creative non-fiction, my primary form these days is poetry. I also review books, mostly literary novels, for the Winnipeg Free Press. In addition, I coordinate The Aqua Books/Writers' Collective Free Your Mind Reading Series, a new monthly multi-genre reading series.
My goal for this month is a poem a day.
My name is Ariel Gordon. I'm a Winnipeg-based writer and editor. Though I've written both fiction and creative non-fiction, my primary form these days is poetry. I also review books, mostly literary novels, for the Winnipeg Free Press. In addition, I coordinate The Aqua Books/Writers' Collective Free Your Mind Reading Series, a new monthly multi-genre reading series.
My goal for this month is a poem a day.
May starts tomorrow!
Who's in?
I will admit up-front that it is unlikely that I will be a 31-for-31 poster, but I would love to dust off my poetry-writing muscles (just finished an intensive 6-month television writing training program - different muscles!)
Cheers!
I will admit up-front that it is unlikely that I will be a 31-for-31 poster, but I would love to dust off my poetry-writing muscles (just finished an intensive 6-month television writing training program - different muscles!)
Cheers!
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