More than a to b, an old car is a stand-in
for desire, thwarted and otherwise. Backseat intimacy
of buckles and belts, hot vinyl. Steering wheel sticky
with sugar and grease. Every groove catalogued,
every rock that’s ever pocked the windshield, split
a headlight on the logging road to Kennedy Lake.
Fingers crossed, never knowing when the tranny will go,
but that it will, and soon. Such a fierce and tenacious love
that inevitably lets us down, on the side of the road
changing a tire, or waiting for a tow truck at midnight,
the alternator shot. Last straw in a lengthy list
of hard-to-find parts.
So you give in to the sell
but it’s just a bunch of tire kickers
with minor interest, who talk mileage and rust,
don’t care for the particulars of habit, the slight pull to the left
or the wind-shimmy on a straight stretch;
they raise eyebrows at your nicknames.
So you wait it out for the person who tilts their head
at your travelogues. Take a couple hundred less to know
she’ll be treated right; you can hand over
without worry she’ll end up a junker for parts,
least not yet, surely she’s got a few good years left.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Sunday, May 14, 2006
A Hug
Passing through the same room
on the way to some chore
some undone bit of work
waiting patiently for its turn
we bump past, cloth touching,
almost moving on,
but stop and swivel without thinking
into the arms of each other
old friends for decades still seeking
the scent behind our ears
below the hairline
right above the neck
burrowing into the collar
holding the flavor of the day
and the smelling faintly
what we must remember from
nursing as newborns
some sweetness that means
we are loved and will be safe
and never alone again.
Passing through the same room
on the way to some chore
some undone bit of work
waiting patiently for its turn
we bump past, cloth touching,
almost moving on,
but stop and swivel without thinking
into the arms of each other
old friends for decades still seeking
the scent behind our ears
below the hairline
right above the neck
burrowing into the collar
holding the flavor of the day
and the smelling faintly
what we must remember from
nursing as newborns
some sweetness that means
we are loved and will be safe
and never alone again.
propulsion
a puddle of sunlight falls in front of you
and you try to get your toe on it,
hold it down, but it shuffles two steps
ahead, and when you reach it, two more,
like an answer lifted by the wind
that you follow into traffic
but never find again
fine gravel fills the gap
in your mind -- you are automatic,
only reflex, responding to the river path
you run past the end of your breath,
beyond the length of your muscles,
powered only by the scent
of an idea you had
when you laced up your shoes
but lost on the trail --
something about hunger, maybe,
or pursuit -- you chase the source,
the thought that casts
this shadow you can't break through
a puddle of sunlight falls in front of you
and you try to get your toe on it,
hold it down, but it shuffles two steps
ahead, and when you reach it, two more,
like an answer lifted by the wind
that you follow into traffic
but never find again
fine gravel fills the gap
in your mind -- you are automatic,
only reflex, responding to the river path
you run past the end of your breath,
beyond the length of your muscles,
powered only by the scent
of an idea you had
when you laced up your shoes
but lost on the trail --
something about hunger, maybe,
or pursuit -- you chase the source,
the thought that casts
this shadow you can't break through
Six months: sound slide
The midnight hammer of new siding come loose
banging against hundred year-old planks
the lashing of limbs the heartbeat burp thrash under my skin
his cocked ear the luscious feel of the orange
whose peel has pulled away from my bite mark
the golden light of late afternoon
bouncing from window to window
and never quite making it down to the street
the stalagmite of ice and sand
that hangs from the wheel well of the car
and kicked one two three taps falls under the tires
like the sudden but total calving of an iceberg
the salt blooms the tight skin of each moony phase
his hand on my leg as we circle the block
the heater struggling
the car pinging and knocking in the cold
how I’ve started to grunt when I lever myself out of the bath
banging against hundred year-old planks
the lashing of limbs the heartbeat burp thrash under my skin
his cocked ear the luscious feel of the orange
whose peel has pulled away from my bite mark
the golden light of late afternoon
bouncing from window to window
and never quite making it down to the street
the stalagmite of ice and sand
that hangs from the wheel well of the car
and kicked one two three taps falls under the tires
like the sudden but total calving of an iceberg
the salt blooms the tight skin of each moony phase
his hand on my leg as we circle the block
the heater struggling
the car pinging and knocking in the cold
how I’ve started to grunt when I lever myself out of the bath
There is a nervous hum outside,
the night noise bent on filling
the black space waiting for morning.
Even a full moon hides silent
behind solid tar clouds,
clouds too dense for even a hint
of lunar light to glow through.
The low hum stays steady,
an insistent emergency broadcast,
cellular vibrations of voiceless things
growing into a million shapes –
the formless hum continues
becoming larger than any leaf.
The peculiar weather swirls cold air
backwards, descending from the north,
heading west, spinning cold from the north ,
humming as it works its not-quite-freezing way
down, directing air currents wide as giant rivers
overhead, cold falling like the chill
from the open door of a giant refrigerator
with a burnt out bulb, no clue to it’s contents,
humming its old motor, barely allowing a thaw.
The hum seems louder than it is, just vibrating
chattering teeth, using the jawbone
as a sounding board. This hum
vibrates the trees and ground beneath
gardens and houses, all waiting for the
overdue breath of warmth.
the night noise bent on filling
the black space waiting for morning.
Even a full moon hides silent
behind solid tar clouds,
clouds too dense for even a hint
of lunar light to glow through.
The low hum stays steady,
an insistent emergency broadcast,
cellular vibrations of voiceless things
growing into a million shapes –
the formless hum continues
becoming larger than any leaf.
The peculiar weather swirls cold air
backwards, descending from the north,
heading west, spinning cold from the north ,
humming as it works its not-quite-freezing way
down, directing air currents wide as giant rivers
overhead, cold falling like the chill
from the open door of a giant refrigerator
with a burnt out bulb, no clue to it’s contents,
humming its old motor, barely allowing a thaw.
The hum seems louder than it is, just vibrating
chattering teeth, using the jawbone
as a sounding board. This hum
vibrates the trees and ground beneath
gardens and houses, all waiting for the
overdue breath of warmth.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
A haibun
...because a serious (?) form is still something I think the flowers need, I decided to try something a little different and yet something lyrical that might enhance the bouquet. I'm not sure if it is working; I was troubled trying to produce "a happening" in the prose part of the haibun. My reasoning for this poem is a non-happening is as much a happening as something is happening. (I sort of pilfered the title from a book review, not quite the same, but VERY similar).
Why I’m not a lilac
Every day my north-facing window is a barometer of time, an aging reflection; I drink earl grey while watching the state of the season out the kitchen window, this time spring, the yard in a phoney flux of puberty. I gaze through double-paned glass at the lilacs, a profession of limbs budded like cosmetic surgery, the potential of purpled parcels, the ruse of branches— each one so old and prim they barely bend with the wind, those lavender coiffed buns bound by brown stick-pins rapidly popping from bee-hived dos. The flowers are forms held wisely in place, no closer to opening than an eruption of lava from prairie earth. But appearances are deceptive— lilacs are the poster gals of decorum, have silently slept their way to the top, spent years rooted in affairs, apple-blossoming under eyes and bruised lives gossiped by sparrows and I, each bud a curiosity trained tightly on the yard
memory is pinch-
lipped, stiffens with age—
lilac-petals pulled
Why I’m not a lilac
Every day my north-facing window is a barometer of time, an aging reflection; I drink earl grey while watching the state of the season out the kitchen window, this time spring, the yard in a phoney flux of puberty. I gaze through double-paned glass at the lilacs, a profession of limbs budded like cosmetic surgery, the potential of purpled parcels, the ruse of branches— each one so old and prim they barely bend with the wind, those lavender coiffed buns bound by brown stick-pins rapidly popping from bee-hived dos. The flowers are forms held wisely in place, no closer to opening than an eruption of lava from prairie earth. But appearances are deceptive— lilacs are the poster gals of decorum, have silently slept their way to the top, spent years rooted in affairs, apple-blossoming under eyes and bruised lives gossiped by sparrows and I, each bud a curiosity trained tightly on the yard
memory is pinch-
lipped, stiffens with age—
lilac-petals pulled
gulls
there are a hundred gulls
or a million -- we place bets
that will never pay --
the air saturated with sound,
voices thrown, impossible to count
we can hear only the gulls,
can only hear them:
the constant cheering
of a hometown crowd,
an unseen arena,
deep in the secrecy of the marsh
even hunched in wind and age
last year's grasses are tall gawkers
that fence off the game, rustling
brittle pennants above our heads
we can only imagine the plays --
the dives and saves, the taunts
and dekes -- as we watch the defeated
rounding slow, silent laps in the clouds
there are a hundred gulls
or a million -- we place bets
that will never pay --
the air saturated with sound,
voices thrown, impossible to count
we can hear only the gulls,
can only hear them:
the constant cheering
of a hometown crowd,
an unseen arena,
deep in the secrecy of the marsh
even hunched in wind and age
last year's grasses are tall gawkers
that fence off the game, rustling
brittle pennants above our heads
we can only imagine the plays --
the dives and saves, the taunts
and dekes -- as we watch the defeated
rounding slow, silent laps in the clouds
Friday, May 12, 2006
Slumber party
Slumber Party
Bouquets of peonies are overnighting
in my home, houseguests
in shades of pink-tipped white,
some sporting big winey heads.
Others are balls of pale innocence
hiding smears of red
in random places
like butcher’s children
unaware of what’s been cut.
Fragile balls of petals fluttering
in open windowed rooms,
the odd crowd overflows
from blue glass vases,
a small collection.
The yellow Fiesta pitcher
and one burgundy clay vessel
were pressed into service
for their spacious accommodations.
Canning jars
show linear
green stems
in still water,
vertical reminders
of the rootless state
my blooming friends
find themselves experiencing.
Tonight I can only
offer them another drink
and lie about the prognosis.
I won’t know their names
‘til I find books with their pictures –
too late I fear,
to share with my nodding quests—
all handsome
as Marie Antoinette
before that cake remark.
Bouquets of peonies are overnighting
in my home, houseguests
in shades of pink-tipped white,
some sporting big winey heads.
Others are balls of pale innocence
hiding smears of red
in random places
like butcher’s children
unaware of what’s been cut.
Fragile balls of petals fluttering
in open windowed rooms,
the odd crowd overflows
from blue glass vases,
a small collection.
The yellow Fiesta pitcher
and one burgundy clay vessel
were pressed into service
for their spacious accommodations.
Canning jars
show linear
green stems
in still water,
vertical reminders
of the rootless state
my blooming friends
find themselves experiencing.
Tonight I can only
offer them another drink
and lie about the prognosis.
I won’t know their names
‘til I find books with their pictures –
too late I fear,
to share with my nodding quests—
all handsome
as Marie Antoinette
before that cake remark.
sleeping habits
i watch you poke at sleep
with your toe, then begin
a slow wade -- half an hour
later it only laps at your ankles
you're still, curled into a snail shell
but sleep gathers then recedes
according to the moon
through our window,
the currents of your mind
inching in, twitching each step,
it is a slow process --
swimming lessons for someone
who has known drowning
chest deep, the cusp
of sleep, you prepare to dive
your breath hardens, explodes
through your nose the way
it does when you laugh
with your mouth closed,
your belly kicks out
i used to ask you what was funny,
bringing you to the surface
every time, but now i wait
for you to finish paddling,
for the folds of your mind to loosen
soon your body forgets me,
my hand on your chest,
and sleep is so far over
your head you breathe dreams
and float
i watch you poke at sleep
with your toe, then begin
a slow wade -- half an hour
later it only laps at your ankles
you're still, curled into a snail shell
but sleep gathers then recedes
according to the moon
through our window,
the currents of your mind
inching in, twitching each step,
it is a slow process --
swimming lessons for someone
who has known drowning
chest deep, the cusp
of sleep, you prepare to dive
your breath hardens, explodes
through your nose the way
it does when you laugh
with your mouth closed,
your belly kicks out
i used to ask you what was funny,
bringing you to the surface
every time, but now i wait
for you to finish paddling,
for the folds of your mind to loosen
soon your body forgets me,
my hand on your chest,
and sleep is so far over
your head you breathe dreams
and float
Anti-aging
I'm aging
ungracefully,
ungratefully.
Others claim
amazement
that I look so young,
a backhanded compliment
if ever I heard one.
But I know my
face more intimately.
That red spot
on my nose
is new
this year.
That little bump above my
right cheek
I expected to fade
never has.
I yank white hairs
unmercifully,
pretending it's a
manageable job,
though they have
moved from isolated
incidents to a crop
that grows more
plentiful each season.
The lines
beneath my eyes
multiply monthly
and I suppose
I should take solace
most of them are
born from laughter
but it hasn't helped
that I've spent
years squinting
trying to see things
farther away
than I was meant to.
But seriously,
how can I be expected
to accept the idea
of myself as sage-ing when
I still get zits
and crushes
and am
still taken
suprise by
my period?
I still hate fish
and black olives.
I still fear
the laughter
of teenage girls.
I still dream
of boys out of reach
and exams I'm late for.
I've never conquered
impatience or sitting still,
size six jeans
or the lack of desire
to have children.
I still lose myself
in romance novels
and prefer
19th century insights
to our own
post-modern angst.
But three fears I've overcome:
being alone
living without love
and missing out on
that which I was Meant to Do.
ungracefully,
ungratefully.
Others claim
amazement
that I look so young,
a backhanded compliment
if ever I heard one.
But I know my
face more intimately.
That red spot
on my nose
is new
this year.
That little bump above my
right cheek
I expected to fade
never has.
I yank white hairs
unmercifully,
pretending it's a
manageable job,
though they have
moved from isolated
incidents to a crop
that grows more
plentiful each season.
The lines
beneath my eyes
multiply monthly
and I suppose
I should take solace
most of them are
born from laughter
but it hasn't helped
that I've spent
years squinting
trying to see things
farther away
than I was meant to.
But seriously,
how can I be expected
to accept the idea
of myself as sage-ing when
I still get zits
and crushes
and am
still taken
suprise by
my period?
I still hate fish
and black olives.
I still fear
the laughter
of teenage girls.
I still dream
of boys out of reach
and exams I'm late for.
I've never conquered
impatience or sitting still,
size six jeans
or the lack of desire
to have children.
I still lose myself
in romance novels
and prefer
19th century insights
to our own
post-modern angst.
But three fears I've overcome:
being alone
living without love
and missing out on
that which I was Meant to Do.
sigh. i have on-going computer issues at home. this is yesterday's poem. back to default settings. this still feels very drafty to me... i'm having issues with structure and transitions...
body search
we look one another over
for woodticks, check freckles,
poke moles to know
which flaws belong, are built
into the skin
at your temple i find one
white hair, the single poplar
in a stand of cedar and pine,
and show you mine --
spokes of a spider web
spreading over darkness
where eyes can't reach
we roam with fingers, feeling
for small worries
that crawl and root
i follow the brook of your spine
with my hands, trace a rivulet
of sweat and discover
a shallow basin that receives
my fingers, boots in creekmud
we put away the matches
but keep up the search with lips
on the back of your neck
i come across my own handwriting,
tinged with woodsmoke, the pages
i gave you from my notebook,
words that got the fire going
body search
we look one another over
for woodticks, check freckles,
poke moles to know
which flaws belong, are built
into the skin
at your temple i find one
white hair, the single poplar
in a stand of cedar and pine,
and show you mine --
spokes of a spider web
spreading over darkness
where eyes can't reach
we roam with fingers, feeling
for small worries
that crawl and root
i follow the brook of your spine
with my hands, trace a rivulet
of sweat and discover
a shallow basin that receives
my fingers, boots in creekmud
we put away the matches
but keep up the search with lips
on the back of your neck
i come across my own handwriting,
tinged with woodsmoke, the pages
i gave you from my notebook,
words that got the fire going
Thursday, May 11, 2006
I know better than to watch the news,
wrapped in the quilted distance
between where I sit
and where roadside hells
explode sitting soldiers into bits –
primetime statistics, thrown
through satellite waves –
or whatever communication
miracle brings this crap
packaged between commercials
for local car dealerships
and fast foods’ latest offering
of some manly feast on a bun,
too slick not to swallow,
right before the weather and sports.
I know better than to sit and hear
the numbers dead, casualties –
somehow ours more
than those not in uniform –
thumping against my quilted chest,
soft and silent as bodies of dead robins
thrown at my body
for no apparent reason.
wrapped in the quilted distance
between where I sit
and where roadside hells
explode sitting soldiers into bits –
primetime statistics, thrown
through satellite waves –
or whatever communication
miracle brings this crap
packaged between commercials
for local car dealerships
and fast foods’ latest offering
of some manly feast on a bun,
too slick not to swallow,
right before the weather and sports.
I know better than to sit and hear
the numbers dead, casualties –
somehow ours more
than those not in uniform –
thumping against my quilted chest,
soft and silent as bodies of dead robins
thrown at my body
for no apparent reason.
Improvements
While you are not here, I improve
the house. I hang pictures, I fix
the creaky door's creak, I manage
to install a garbage disposal. Our bed: new sheets.
The living room: new lamps, a series of
shadowboxes which hold many
meaningful photographs featuring people
who love us and are loved. The upstairs
bathroom: shelves and a mirror,
which reflects my harried hair
and my lonely eyes. I cut the lawn, I weed
the garden, I plant ten begonias down
the side of the house. I pull up the carpet
in the basement. On Friday
I move all the furniture around,
in the hopes that it will stop reminding me
that you are not here to use it.
You will not recognise things when
you return, you will be amazed, you will
see with new eyes all the places
you took for granted and realise how much
you missed them, how beautiful they are
now, how much you want to know them
again. You will love it.
the house. I hang pictures, I fix
the creaky door's creak, I manage
to install a garbage disposal. Our bed: new sheets.
The living room: new lamps, a series of
shadowboxes which hold many
meaningful photographs featuring people
who love us and are loved. The upstairs
bathroom: shelves and a mirror,
which reflects my harried hair
and my lonely eyes. I cut the lawn, I weed
the garden, I plant ten begonias down
the side of the house. I pull up the carpet
in the basement. On Friday
I move all the furniture around,
in the hopes that it will stop reminding me
that you are not here to use it.
You will not recognise things when
you return, you will be amazed, you will
see with new eyes all the places
you took for granted and realise how much
you missed them, how beautiful they are
now, how much you want to know them
again. You will love it.
Stutter
Some days all you can do is put the rice on,
trust the rest will come, lace your running shoes
just twenty minutes, just. Push yourself through
with a stopwatch. Some days you’ll coax
fear out the window with nothing but a wooden spoon
and some honey, the wasp slow to take
and you wanting to hit it as hard as you can
to stop the live radio feed in your head--
the voice that says I’ve lost a few pounds,
my pants fit again, that’s something,
but the next cheque’s already spent, can’t
even brown bag it on my front porch, every penny’s flipped,
job boards the new pack-a-day habit–-
your arm swings back, your face twists,
but something in you asks to be merciful.
So it continues.
The wasp stutters against the glass.
trust the rest will come, lace your running shoes
just twenty minutes, just. Push yourself through
with a stopwatch. Some days you’ll coax
fear out the window with nothing but a wooden spoon
and some honey, the wasp slow to take
and you wanting to hit it as hard as you can
to stop the live radio feed in your head--
the voice that says I’ve lost a few pounds,
my pants fit again, that’s something,
but the next cheque’s already spent, can’t
even brown bag it on my front porch, every penny’s flipped,
job boards the new pack-a-day habit–-
your arm swings back, your face twists,
but something in you asks to be merciful.
So it continues.
The wasp stutters against the glass.
I'm retiring
from couplets for awhile. Actually, I simply tire of them. I will think of some other form in which to place my bouquet.
Pick and Gogh
The sunflower is a victim
of her own success—
shades of the girl next door,
once good looks and sunny
dispositions preserved her
role in the spotlight.
Now she’s clichéd,
the wasted model in mass
produced t-shirts and towels
a multiple personality—
the sunflower scrabbles through days
turgid in suburban portraits,
loses sight of the path, movement
of the sun. Follows instead
plots sown, unseeded in the core
of her being, beliefs shed
black-eyed weathering, the future
pecked clean by posturing.
Pick and Gogh
The sunflower is a victim
of her own success—
shades of the girl next door,
once good looks and sunny
dispositions preserved her
role in the spotlight.
Now she’s clichéd,
the wasted model in mass
produced t-shirts and towels
a multiple personality—
the sunflower scrabbles through days
turgid in suburban portraits,
loses sight of the path, movement
of the sun. Follows instead
plots sown, unseeded in the core
of her being, beliefs shed
black-eyed weathering, the future
pecked clean by posturing.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
one of my goals with this mayday project was to use the opportunity to experiment, but i've been finding myself sticking to my same old, mouldy habits. (with the pressure of a poem a day, i've been reverting to doing what i know and am comfy with.) today i'm trying out a found poem (never done this before... not even sure how to do this) because i just couldn't resist the gems contained within the preface to my thesaurus, circa 1962, which i borrowed from my Dad when I was writing a high school essay and never returned. here i've edited down some the selling features -- removed only context and a few words here and there. is that what a found poem is?
what this book can do for you
it offers you immediate,
practical and invaluable assistance
whenever you are in trouble
with a few quick synonyms
for a word you have been over using
you feel that your language lacks
freshness or vigor, your ideas
drab, weak, vague or overly general
laboring over phraseology,
you desperately search
the recesses of your own mind
before you start
tracking down a word,
one particular word
that will most successfully convey
the subtle shading of emotion
you wish to get across to him
what this book can do for you
it offers you immediate,
practical and invaluable assistance
whenever you are in trouble
with a few quick synonyms
for a word you have been over using
you feel that your language lacks
freshness or vigor, your ideas
drab, weak, vague or overly general
laboring over phraseology,
you desperately search
the recesses of your own mind
before you start
tracking down a word,
one particular word
that will most successfully convey
the subtle shading of emotion
you wish to get across to him
Creature Comforts
Sump pump serenades me
like a fat cat, purring
in the basement, all slurpy
with the water seeping in
the cracks,
such fragile foundations,
moist hairlines seeping,
keeping the spring soup soil
outside the place,
keeping us dry and content
aware of how important
a roof over our head
really is,
no matter
how flowers quiver
in the skywatering or
splay their luscious leaves
heavy against grass
gorging in the dark,
all the rooty things
sucking up the wet
catching what they can
letting only ribbons
of irregular rain
run past, percolating
through saturated soil,
ribbons of river
thin as mouse tails
enter and triggers the purring,
the float in the bucket
a worn toy, bobbing.
Sump pump serenades me
like a fat cat, purring
in the basement, all slurpy
with the water seeping in
the cracks,
such fragile foundations,
moist hairlines seeping,
keeping the spring soup soil
outside the place,
keeping us dry and content
aware of how important
a roof over our head
really is,
no matter
how flowers quiver
in the skywatering or
splay their luscious leaves
heavy against grass
gorging in the dark,
all the rooty things
sucking up the wet
catching what they can
letting only ribbons
of irregular rain
run past, percolating
through saturated soil,
ribbons of river
thin as mouse tails
enter and triggers the purring,
the float in the bucket
a worn toy, bobbing.
fence lines
The bison huffs all dark woolly head
hump and hindquarters
then lowers himself into the ditch
its banks of spring gumbo funk already hoof-split
already baked hard
The bison locks his thin front legs
considers the sun-shot wings of mites
the foot-waggling wallow of a cow
her dark mufflers and trailing streamers of winter fur
upheaving
cloven hooves up and down
the dry mud lifting and clouding around her
The bison dips his chin
into reflections of last year
sucks and strains green bleached blonde
garrump gone to spawn
lifts it streaming to the calf
all pulled caramel all legs and on pointe hops
takes his biting attendants his airspace of geese growl
and gull scream of overhead airplane
and peripheral auto drone
and moves off
hump and hindquarters
then lowers himself into the ditch
its banks of spring gumbo funk already hoof-split
already baked hard
The bison locks his thin front legs
considers the sun-shot wings of mites
the foot-waggling wallow of a cow
her dark mufflers and trailing streamers of winter fur
upheaving
cloven hooves up and down
the dry mud lifting and clouding around her
The bison dips his chin
into reflections of last year
sucks and strains green bleached blonde
garrump gone to spawn
lifts it streaming to the calf
all pulled caramel all legs and on pointe hops
takes his biting attendants his airspace of geese growl
and gull scream of overhead airplane
and peripheral auto drone
and moves off
Hands
Blind shackled creatures we so often ball, fist,
harnessed to our daily tasks,
they’re the poster child for repetitive stress,
all that verbing. Sensitivity burnt off their tips;
testing the bath water
always gives an inaccurate reading. Better to use
the ankles, elbows, or wrists. And yet when it rains,
our first gesture is to hold
them up to be pin-pricked. So rarely do we lay them flat,
praise their ability to touch. Lifelines cracked with dry skin,
every tool they grasp
is only an extension of the hand, a poor copy.
----
I'm strugggling with this one. I thought putting it in a pretty form
(aka Stephen Dunn) would help, but I'm not sure. Is it too "poetic"?
Am I a prisoner to sound? Is something missing? Do I need to explode it
and write more before tightening again? Thoughts?
harnessed to our daily tasks,
they’re the poster child for repetitive stress,
all that verbing. Sensitivity burnt off their tips;
testing the bath water
always gives an inaccurate reading. Better to use
the ankles, elbows, or wrists. And yet when it rains,
our first gesture is to hold
them up to be pin-pricked. So rarely do we lay them flat,
praise their ability to touch. Lifelines cracked with dry skin,
every tool they grasp
is only an extension of the hand, a poor copy.
----
I'm strugggling with this one. I thought putting it in a pretty form
(aka Stephen Dunn) would help, but I'm not sure. Is it too "poetic"?
Am I a prisoner to sound? Is something missing? Do I need to explode it
and write more before tightening again? Thoughts?
Dandy Lions
Inspired by Tracy's meditation on dandelions the other day.
We grasp
yellowing stalks
and blow
our wishes
sky high
content to
pay the price
for this cosmic lottery
later
when our wishes become weeds
to be cursed, despised
and destroyed
divine retribution
perverse, unfair
for have we not waited
to yank these ghostly
genies from
the living ground
until they are
giving their
dying gasps?
have we not
helped them
fulfill their
botanic genetic destiny?
We grasp
yellowing stalks
and blow
our wishes
sky high
content to
pay the price
for this cosmic lottery
later
when our wishes become weeds
to be cursed, despised
and destroyed
divine retribution
perverse, unfair
for have we not waited
to yank these ghostly
genies from
the living ground
until they are
giving their
dying gasps?
have we not
helped them
fulfill their
botanic genetic destiny?
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Behind in everything from bills to dishes,
plants still sitting in their plastic trays
losing patience with me as I say,
Not today, but soon. They know I lie.
I am becoming one of those people
who will have to make up stories
to entertain the creditors, to get them
to offer quick pay by phone, the easy way
to get their money, which I have, and
me to get some sleep, which is becoming
more and more a test of tossing
without waking my loved one,
who does not guess how the bank balance
is a poor reflection of how I tend
the family finances when I am absorbed
with every other detail I concoct.
The plants are lucky there is rain,
but other chores need attention
before the whole thing gets out of hand.
plants still sitting in their plastic trays
losing patience with me as I say,
Not today, but soon. They know I lie.
I am becoming one of those people
who will have to make up stories
to entertain the creditors, to get them
to offer quick pay by phone, the easy way
to get their money, which I have, and
me to get some sleep, which is becoming
more and more a test of tossing
without waking my loved one,
who does not guess how the bank balance
is a poor reflection of how I tend
the family finances when I am absorbed
with every other detail I concoct.
The plants are lucky there is rain,
but other chores need attention
before the whole thing gets out of hand.
synthesis? or just a new word for cowardice
taurus terror
autre hauteur
|workplace bullies|
it said on the tv screen
with closed captioning
in the learning commons
abilitybelittled
bullyidiot
this unquantifiable effect.
micro-objectified
embattlement
with a side of belittlement (as in beef)
where the marginalized
by the wrongly strong
belong.
who's the flawedlogical bully
who's the idiot whose deeds are
at the behest of the beast
are glimpses of the human inside
enough to keep playing along?
you can't beat the vestigial salvajuices
out of the postmasochristic idiot
raised as he was
by offending commands
agency pairs with patiency
courtesy of
|Polarity, Dialectic & Organicity|
bullyidiot
abilitybelittled
autre hauteur
|workplace bullies|
it said on the tv screen
with closed captioning
in the learning commons
abilitybelittled
bullyidiot
this unquantifiable effect.
micro-objectified
embattlement
with a side of belittlement (as in beef)
where the marginalized
by the wrongly strong
belong.
who's the flawedlogical bully
who's the idiot whose deeds are
at the behest of the beast
are glimpses of the human inside
enough to keep playing along?
you can't beat the vestigial salvajuices
out of the postmasochristic idiot
raised as he was
by offending commands
agency pairs with patiency
courtesy of
|Polarity, Dialectic & Organicity|
bullyidiot
abilitybelittled
mcgillivray falls
this afternoon we drank water
from bottles, ate apples
cleaned on our sleeves and
tracked an eagle
along a creekbed as it stitched
trees to trees either side
of the narrow stream
we paused to watch the water
fall away -- constant froth
like thick new moss
on the rock -- and lost our way
of telling the white head
and tail from the pale poplars
we were the first to leave
our fingerprints, this season,
on the fine branches
that crowd the path,
the trail littered --
used spruce needles, cedar
scraps, crumpled pages of birch
miles from monday, hours
from a calendar,
we could have believed
in being remote,
but the far off trucks
on the highway were flies
that don't bite, just insist
on your ears
this afternoon we drank water
from bottles, ate apples
cleaned on our sleeves and
tracked an eagle
along a creekbed as it stitched
trees to trees either side
of the narrow stream
we paused to watch the water
fall away -- constant froth
like thick new moss
on the rock -- and lost our way
of telling the white head
and tail from the pale poplars
we were the first to leave
our fingerprints, this season,
on the fine branches
that crowd the path,
the trail littered --
used spruce needles, cedar
scraps, crumpled pages of birch
miles from monday, hours
from a calendar,
we could have believed
in being remote,
but the far off trucks
on the highway were flies
that don't bite, just insist
on your ears
Road Work
Ringside, I watch as dump trucks lumber
up my street, avalanche dirt
from their humped backs. Workers
emerge from underground bunkers,
in their reflective orange spacesuits,
to lunch in the loose gravel, juggle
coffee cups and wrappers into the gutter.
Traffic re-directed through a slalom
of orange pylons and signs No stopping,
Detour, sewer pipes’ cement lengths
lie shrink-wrapped and bundled
on the sidewalk. Dormant. Walking home
I pass giant eggcups, mixers, remnants
of the day’s work crusting the edges, spare sets
of backhoes’ teeth, sawdust and fresh stumps.
The choked bark of each remaining oak.
Wonder what roots are left among
the labyrinth of pipes and cement,
where I once thought, foolishly,
there was solid earth.
up my street, avalanche dirt
from their humped backs. Workers
emerge from underground bunkers,
in their reflective orange spacesuits,
to lunch in the loose gravel, juggle
coffee cups and wrappers into the gutter.
Traffic re-directed through a slalom
of orange pylons and signs No stopping,
Detour, sewer pipes’ cement lengths
lie shrink-wrapped and bundled
on the sidewalk. Dormant. Walking home
I pass giant eggcups, mixers, remnants
of the day’s work crusting the edges, spare sets
of backhoes’ teeth, sawdust and fresh stumps.
The choked bark of each remaining oak.
Wonder what roots are left among
the labyrinth of pipes and cement,
where I once thought, foolishly,
there was solid earth.
3 Cinquains and another Somethin'
Hrm, been having Blogger issues, but here are some recent efforts:
3 Cinquains
Bed
soft ours
holding joining forgetting
we aren't supposed to
Rewind
Icecream
sweet luxury
dip lick consume
in my forbidden pleasure
Sugar
Bike
forlorn abandoned
standing waiting forgiving
rain caresses dirty wheels
Rust
=========================
And from Sunday...
Editing
that which will not be edited
History
all that has passed
Story
what is to come
Cutting
that which is irrelevant
Pasting
together things that were
never supposed to touch
Compressing
years into minutes
Images
what never was and never will be
Yet
through the power of
Creation
Is
3 Cinquains
Bed
soft ours
holding joining forgetting
we aren't supposed to
Rewind
Icecream
sweet luxury
dip lick consume
in my forbidden pleasure
Sugar
Bike
forlorn abandoned
standing waiting forgiving
rain caresses dirty wheels
Rust
=========================
And from Sunday...
Editing
that which will not be edited
History
all that has passed
Story
what is to come
Cutting
that which is irrelevant
Pasting
together things that were
never supposed to touch
Compressing
years into minutes
Images
what never was and never will be
Yet
through the power of
Creation
Is
Eight months: the peanut gallery
How’s the morning sickness?
Is it…a good thing?
Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?
Or do you know and you’re not going to tell me?
What names do you have picked out?
Was it…planned?
You’re not going to carry that are you?
Be careful… don’t fall.
When are you due?
Don’t fall –
Oh! Can I help you with that?
Are you sure you should be…
Are you planning to breastfeed?
You are going to breastfeed, aren’t you?
Careful! (Don’t fff– )
When’s the next one coming?
* * *
Sorry for my absence over the last few days...I've been feeling VERY tired. I DO plan, however, to go back and read/re-read/memorize every poem I missed...
Is it…a good thing?
Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?
Or do you know and you’re not going to tell me?
What names do you have picked out?
Was it…planned?
You’re not going to carry that are you?
Be careful… don’t fall.
When are you due?
Don’t fall –
Oh! Can I help you with that?
Are you sure you should be…
Are you planning to breastfeed?
You are going to breastfeed, aren’t you?
Careful! (Don’t fff– )
When’s the next one coming?
* * *
Sorry for my absence over the last few days...I've been feeling VERY tired. I DO plan, however, to go back and read/re-read/memorize every poem I missed...
Three Cinquain
The inspiration was easier and harder than I thought it would be. I did two traditional and one modern. They were fun.
Yellow
A weed:
dandelion—
fear of the past rising.
Truth is fluff of our selves— lifting
each day.
Daisies
Painted ladies
trim, set, feign.
Are they happy here—
stained?
Daisies
Yellow
eyes set in white
cheeks— how sharply fate falls
gathering outcasts in grudging
bouquets.
Yellow
A weed:
dandelion—
fear of the past rising.
Truth is fluff of our selves— lifting
each day.
Daisies
Painted ladies
trim, set, feign.
Are they happy here—
stained?
Daisies
Yellow
eyes set in white
cheeks— how sharply fate falls
gathering outcasts in grudging
bouquets.
Sidewalk Pause
Waiting for the rain that may not come
next door to the reading that starts later
some young woman singing on the speakers
adds lyrics to the rush hour rhythms.
The cost of coffee gets me a seat
and floor show, sparrows hopping
in bagel crumbs, snatching supper .
Here at the corner cluster of cafes
bookstores and over-priced antiques
I see the city trees turn leaves
light side up, plant prayers for rain,
cupping veins to catch what water falls,
but only if the clouds slow down—
running so high and fast—
past brickwork facades and overhead wires,
parking places for assorted birds
not ready to settle into their nests
just yet. They must be waiting for
the maybe rain, a quick drink
before heading home to sing
their own city sky verses.
5/8/06
Waiting for the rain that may not come
next door to the reading that starts later
some young woman singing on the speakers
adds lyrics to the rush hour rhythms.
The cost of coffee gets me a seat
and floor show, sparrows hopping
in bagel crumbs, snatching supper .
Here at the corner cluster of cafes
bookstores and over-priced antiques
I see the city trees turn leaves
light side up, plant prayers for rain,
cupping veins to catch what water falls,
but only if the clouds slow down—
running so high and fast—
past brickwork facades and overhead wires,
parking places for assorted birds
not ready to settle into their nests
just yet. They must be waiting for
the maybe rain, a quick drink
before heading home to sing
their own city sky verses.
5/8/06
Monday, May 08, 2006
telling
i know by touch
the scar that darts
across your cheek,
i've learned it with my lips,
but i can't remember
what childhood play
cracked your face
open the wine and tell me
again, i've known your stories
so long i've forgotten them
tell me how you taught yourself
to ride a bike, how you met me
and in between
skip the history that lives
with us -- your world halved
so early and the wound still ugly,
slow in healing and always asleep
somewhere in the house
i want to know you over again,
your birthmarks and first loves,
lost toys and late nights
empty the bottle into these two
slim-lipped mouths, round
with thirst, but patient
i know by touch
the scar that darts
across your cheek,
i've learned it with my lips,
but i can't remember
what childhood play
cracked your face
open the wine and tell me
again, i've known your stories
so long i've forgotten them
tell me how you taught yourself
to ride a bike, how you met me
and in between
skip the history that lives
with us -- your world halved
so early and the wound still ugly,
slow in healing and always asleep
somewhere in the house
i want to know you over again,
your birthmarks and first loves,
lost toys and late nights
empty the bottle into these two
slim-lipped mouths, round
with thirst, but patient
Instinct
North wind peeling whitecaps, late afternoon sun–
February makes vacationers of us
after a record slog of rain. Our dog quivers
at the ocean’s edge eying a stick bobbing just out of reach,
but it’s stay and leave it, we don’t want wet car seats
so we toss upwind, admire each speckled oval
at our feet. Each rock asks to be palmed, pocketed
while our framed prints gather dust.
No critics on the beach to say what is and isn’t
art, save ourselves. Driftwood figures
emerge from knotholes, a southwestern
cattle skull, a seal’s head, each shape
mouthed by canine jaws seconds
after we lay it down.
Hair in our eyes, sand-hijacked cuffs
we huck a few choice heavyweights into the salt,
whoop and holler at the splash like six year olds,
at the backlash of tide, thinking for a second
we caused it. Cry out when too late–
our dog goes barreling into the surf.
February makes vacationers of us
after a record slog of rain. Our dog quivers
at the ocean’s edge eying a stick bobbing just out of reach,
but it’s stay and leave it, we don’t want wet car seats
so we toss upwind, admire each speckled oval
at our feet. Each rock asks to be palmed, pocketed
while our framed prints gather dust.
No critics on the beach to say what is and isn’t
art, save ourselves. Driftwood figures
emerge from knotholes, a southwestern
cattle skull, a seal’s head, each shape
mouthed by canine jaws seconds
after we lay it down.
Hair in our eyes, sand-hijacked cuffs
we huck a few choice heavyweights into the salt,
whoop and holler at the splash like six year olds,
at the backlash of tide, thinking for a second
we caused it. Cry out when too late–
our dog goes barreling into the surf.
weeding
I exercise my dominant mammal rights
on this small piece of land between the house
and the sidewalk. The plants here
are mine, to do with as I will. Trowel in hand,
I commit genocide on yarrow, povertyweed,
the never-defeated armies of dandelions.
I dig deep, going for the roots, I understand,
as conquerers must, that the most important defeat
must happen underground, that the smallest defiant shred
can raise an army again, that a nation
of nodding peonies cannot live in the shadow
of purple loosestrife.
on this small piece of land between the house
and the sidewalk. The plants here
are mine, to do with as I will. Trowel in hand,
I commit genocide on yarrow, povertyweed,
the never-defeated armies of dandelions.
I dig deep, going for the roots, I understand,
as conquerers must, that the most important defeat
must happen underground, that the smallest defiant shred
can raise an army again, that a nation
of nodding peonies cannot live in the shadow
of purple loosestrife.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
The Iris Liberation Front
We marched with our horticultural artillery,
spades at the ready, clever hand tools
made for lifting things to freedom—
unidentified rhizomes barely visible
beneath a crust of dappled dirt.
We stab and dig and lift
beneath the sword-shaped leaves
cut down by the developer’s
hired mowers, oblivious
to Ruby’s years of care.
We imagine the missing blooms
the spring palette of colors
unfolding in old fashioned
unnamed strains, mingled over time
and waiting for their rescue.
We parade the stolen flowers back
in my rusty red wagon, destined
to carry moss rose one more summer,
this mission the most it’s ever traveled,
carrying the iris to new soil.
We marched with our horticultural artillery,
spades at the ready, clever hand tools
made for lifting things to freedom—
unidentified rhizomes barely visible
beneath a crust of dappled dirt.
We stab and dig and lift
beneath the sword-shaped leaves
cut down by the developer’s
hired mowers, oblivious
to Ruby’s years of care.
We imagine the missing blooms
the spring palette of colors
unfolding in old fashioned
unnamed strains, mingled over time
and waiting for their rescue.
We parade the stolen flowers back
in my rusty red wagon, destined
to carry moss rose one more summer,
this mission the most it’s ever traveled,
carrying the iris to new soil.
a sunday buncha stuff
back online! finally up and running after an internet downage since friday. i am pleased to report that despite that primo excuse to slack -- and on a gorgeous weekend, too! -- i diligently produced a poem a day. once again, these feel a little slim to me. i'm not sure if that's just what comes with not living for something very long, but i'm resolving to come back to these and give them more attention. maybe in june.
(may 5th)
estranged
you come home boiled clean,
reduced to nerves and words,
twisting in your skin to find
a fit that isn't there
you set your suitcase in the hall
and it sits zipped for days,
your watch a memento
of another timezone
your mind drifts behind, too,
a helium balloon on a string
caught too easily on everything
you've read, everyone you've met
you have a job you can't
remember, a phone number,
a grocery list and garden
you shake hands with your lover
you know it won't keep -- this state
too delicate, too impractical,
but you stay awake until you can't
knowing you'll grow back with sleep
(may 6th)
early may
tulips begin their stoop,
red heads suddenly loaded
with thoughts of summer, unbearable
for slim green spines, they slacken
with the daffodils, laughing
or sighing into the dirt
we've only just lost the snow
and already this spring is old,
grass past our ankles, weeds
dug in for the season
it's early may, our first, and
so well used we can't even find
the robin song in the evening anymore
(may 7th)
heat
you slide sideways between trees,
arms raised as if you're lifting
drinks through the crowd, green fingers
under your shirt leaving cedar
scent that will live on your skin all day
then stain the bed sheets
the sun begs you to take off
your clothes, ferns unroll
their tongues, moss softens
flies lick at your ears,
rev against lips
you aren't used to this attention,
too practical for romance and shy
as the loons watching
from the far side of the lake
but the wind wears you down, hot
and exhausted you lie on the lichen,
ants circling your thighs, and
let the sky at you
(may 5th)
estranged
you come home boiled clean,
reduced to nerves and words,
twisting in your skin to find
a fit that isn't there
you set your suitcase in the hall
and it sits zipped for days,
your watch a memento
of another timezone
your mind drifts behind, too,
a helium balloon on a string
caught too easily on everything
you've read, everyone you've met
you have a job you can't
remember, a phone number,
a grocery list and garden
you shake hands with your lover
you know it won't keep -- this state
too delicate, too impractical,
but you stay awake until you can't
knowing you'll grow back with sleep
(may 6th)
early may
tulips begin their stoop,
red heads suddenly loaded
with thoughts of summer, unbearable
for slim green spines, they slacken
with the daffodils, laughing
or sighing into the dirt
we've only just lost the snow
and already this spring is old,
grass past our ankles, weeds
dug in for the season
it's early may, our first, and
so well used we can't even find
the robin song in the evening anymore
(may 7th)
heat
you slide sideways between trees,
arms raised as if you're lifting
drinks through the crowd, green fingers
under your shirt leaving cedar
scent that will live on your skin all day
then stain the bed sheets
the sun begs you to take off
your clothes, ferns unroll
their tongues, moss softens
flies lick at your ears,
rev against lips
you aren't used to this attention,
too practical for romance and shy
as the loons watching
from the far side of the lake
but the wind wears you down, hot
and exhausted you lie on the lichen,
ants circling your thighs, and
let the sky at you
Flower power?
Aging Relics
The hollyhock is fashionable
in leftover attitude, her style
worn more than once and simply
widespread. These days she’s domestic
a diva keeping her dated flair tupper-
wared and available.
Multi-coloured and petalled,
she looks groovy
wallpapered against aluminium.
Thin is still in. Never hippie
she’s theatrical in belated O’Leary—
a turning on of weeds, a tuning in
to any conversation. Openly bi-annual
she’s a long-lasting hustler,
the straight-haired sixties stem,
perpetually pawned in the wind.
The hollyhock is fashionable
in leftover attitude, her style
worn more than once and simply
widespread. These days she’s domestic
a diva keeping her dated flair tupper-
wared and available.
Multi-coloured and petalled,
she looks groovy
wallpapered against aluminium.
Thin is still in. Never hippie
she’s theatrical in belated O’Leary—
a turning on of weeds, a tuning in
to any conversation. Openly bi-annual
she’s a long-lasting hustler,
the straight-haired sixties stem,
perpetually pawned in the wind.
Nineteen
I remember how it was
to be stupid-young, so pretty and so
new to it, drunk on power like
a thirteen year old on strawberry wine,
my breasts my hair my navel
tarted out in ten-dollar tanktops
and thirty-dollar shoes. I threw myself at
the world, expecting it to catch me,
a million hands opening to receive
my bounty.
The closest practice I had for it was
when I was ten and had just learned
about mosquitoes - the way they follow
carbon dioxide back to the source, the way
that they can track you from miles away. I went
into my bedroom, knelt at the screen and
breathed out gently, watching with avid
glee the frantic swarming that
followed.
to be stupid-young, so pretty and so
new to it, drunk on power like
a thirteen year old on strawberry wine,
my breasts my hair my navel
tarted out in ten-dollar tanktops
and thirty-dollar shoes. I threw myself at
the world, expecting it to catch me,
a million hands opening to receive
my bounty.
The closest practice I had for it was
when I was ten and had just learned
about mosquitoes - the way they follow
carbon dioxide back to the source, the way
that they can track you from miles away. I went
into my bedroom, knelt at the screen and
breathed out gently, watching with avid
glee the frantic swarming that
followed.
Productivity
(a found poem with commentary)
Coughing
[which I am
doing much of
these days]
is your body's way
[my body's special way]
of removing foreign
substances
[where did they come from?]
and mucus
[where will I put it?]
from your lungs
and upper airway
passages.
[but who protects
the lower
passages?]
Productive coughs
are often useful
[but sometimes not?]
and you should not try
[but not trying means
giving up and I
never give up]
to eliminate them.
[eliminate sounds
so harsh -
I mean only to
send them
elsewhere]
Dry, hacking coughs
respond to honey
[you catch more flies
and more coughs
with honey...]
in hot water
[we're in hot water now]
Elevate your head
[always]
with extra pillows
at night .
Quit smoking.
[caught out...]
Avoid exposure
to inhaled irritants,
[cocaine?]
such as smoke,
dust,
or other pollutants,
[invest in a bubble]
or wear a face mask
that is appropriate
for the exposure.
[seek appropriate
face mask]
Many kinds of face
masks are available.
[wear a new one
for every occasion]
Check with your health
professional
to determine
which type
of face mask
will provide you
with the most benefit.
Coughing
[which I am
doing much of
these days]
is your body's way
[my body's special way]
of removing foreign
substances
[where did they come from?]
and mucus
[where will I put it?]
from your lungs
and upper airway
passages.
[but who protects
the lower
passages?]
Productive coughs
are often useful
[but sometimes not?]
and you should not try
[but not trying means
giving up and I
never give up]
to eliminate them.
[eliminate sounds
so harsh -
I mean only to
send them
elsewhere]
Dry, hacking coughs
respond to honey
[you catch more flies
and more coughs
with honey...]
in hot water
[we're in hot water now]
Elevate your head
[always]
with extra pillows
at night .
Quit smoking.
[caught out...]
Avoid exposure
to inhaled irritants,
[cocaine?]
such as smoke,
dust,
or other pollutants,
[invest in a bubble]
or wear a face mask
that is appropriate
for the exposure.
[seek appropriate
face mask]
Many kinds of face
masks are available.
[wear a new one
for every occasion]
Check with your health
professional
to determine
which type
of face mask
will provide you
with the most benefit.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Backache
Backache
The full bulk
of the dead maple
has finally weighed in
on your body
and cut you down,
if only for a few days.
Your trunk recalls
the outstretching of your own limbs
overhead
barely quivering
wrestling the unwieldy chainsaw
through dry wood,
already seasoned
for turning or burning,
cracking away
under it’s own weight
crashing just where you planned
with your precise angled cuts,
geometric falling success
jumping away just in time.
Only a failed cluster of
shriveled spring leaves
at the top of the thinning crown
denied the tree’s last hurrah.
Your whole body
a clenched fist
when you felled the tree
you could not save
hating the loss
as much as the heights
you had to climb,
fear present as anger
wound every muscle
into a solid coil of grim
demolition.
The columned trunk watches,
the still-standing stump
tall as a man
gnarled with burls
waiting these last days
for the final weighty
whine of the saw,
when your body fist unclenches
and lets you drop the last
remains of a departed friend.
The full bulk
of the dead maple
has finally weighed in
on your body
and cut you down,
if only for a few days.
Your trunk recalls
the outstretching of your own limbs
overhead
barely quivering
wrestling the unwieldy chainsaw
through dry wood,
already seasoned
for turning or burning,
cracking away
under it’s own weight
crashing just where you planned
with your precise angled cuts,
geometric falling success
jumping away just in time.
Only a failed cluster of
shriveled spring leaves
at the top of the thinning crown
denied the tree’s last hurrah.
Your whole body
a clenched fist
when you felled the tree
you could not save
hating the loss
as much as the heights
you had to climb,
fear present as anger
wound every muscle
into a solid coil of grim
demolition.
The columned trunk watches,
the still-standing stump
tall as a man
gnarled with burls
waiting these last days
for the final weighty
whine of the saw,
when your body fist unclenches
and lets you drop the last
remains of a departed friend.
Eight months: the square dance
This square may be all circle but I am getting sick of the dance
as I am do-si-do-ed from legs shoulder width apart
legs bent to take the bounce the strain of whatever may come
to tipping back and forth on the cradle of my hips
regulating your metronome spill your astronaut float
through my centre of gravity
to learning the best way to get up
when my legs have been kicked out from under me
my knuckles split not on an enemy’s glass jaw
or uncut teeth but on the kinks of mattress coils
couch cushions carpet piles as though they were soil
and you a seed to be carefully buried till spring
but what I know now restless before the big event
walking off your sucker punches your pile drives
is that even long green promises split the soil
as I am do-si-do-ed from legs shoulder width apart
legs bent to take the bounce the strain of whatever may come
to tipping back and forth on the cradle of my hips
regulating your metronome spill your astronaut float
through my centre of gravity
to learning the best way to get up
when my legs have been kicked out from under me
my knuckles split not on an enemy’s glass jaw
or uncut teeth but on the kinks of mattress coils
couch cushions carpet piles as though they were soil
and you a seed to be carefully buried till spring
but what I know now restless before the big event
walking off your sucker punches your pile drives
is that even long green promises split the soil
The Morning After Mayday Effects
we drink two oceans
commemorating the office of collegial graduations
& hidden associations
but we watch match point
set across the pond
labelled with the cape of good hope
round the horn of passage
how luck will have it
(& for accessorizing success --
a ring & a miss)
how will this go over
mmmmmmthe top
playing without a net
in darkest woody
africa gone south
tennis, any
mmdonjuan?
frankly, scarlett.
business base as usual
in that family way
(my mother leaves a message.
call about wedding.)
talk about your scattergun approaches!
in vino veritas.
spin the baby.
fortune favours the brave? the bold? the daring? the audacious
we got away with getting our parts
in each others' auditions
survived universal deceit
we've shaken the past &
what we've bagged has seasoned us.
carpe meum.
happy 5th, J.
commemorating the office of collegial graduations
& hidden associations
but we watch match point
set across the pond
labelled with the cape of good hope
round the horn of passage
how luck will have it
(& for accessorizing success --
a ring & a miss)
how will this go over
mmmmmmthe top
playing without a net
in darkest woody
africa gone south
tennis, any
mmdonjuan?
frankly, scarlett.
business base as usual
in that family way
(my mother leaves a message.
call about wedding.)
talk about your scattergun approaches!
in vino veritas.
spin the baby.
fortune favours the brave? the bold? the daring? the audacious
we got away with getting our parts
in each others' auditions
survived universal deceit
we've shaken the past &
what we've bagged has seasoned us.
carpe meum.
happy 5th, J.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Glaze drips like fired wine
dancing down the wet goblets.
Dishwater slips away
the whisper of friends’ lips,
washing away evidence
the simple lunch –
brown eggs cracked,
peeled away like hunger,
releasing wet whites,
tuna salad made by six hands
arranged just so on
red-tinged ruffled leaves,
just what we had on hand,
adorned with dark olives
no bread to break, so
crisp tortilla rounds
sat sunny on the mounds—
rinsing lunch from the kitchen air
with shining soap bubbles.
Plates catch reflections of
overhead track lighting
tracing smile shadows
caught in the departed meal
still attached to the vessels.
dancing down the wet goblets.
Dishwater slips away
the whisper of friends’ lips,
washing away evidence
the simple lunch –
brown eggs cracked,
peeled away like hunger,
releasing wet whites,
tuna salad made by six hands
arranged just so on
red-tinged ruffled leaves,
just what we had on hand,
adorned with dark olives
no bread to break, so
crisp tortilla rounds
sat sunny on the mounds—
rinsing lunch from the kitchen air
with shining soap bubbles.
Plates catch reflections of
overhead track lighting
tracing smile shadows
caught in the departed meal
still attached to the vessels.
cat poem
Bajeebers, two poems behind already. *puts nose to grindstone*
Hang, we call it, her little
carry-on of fur and flab
pendulously swinging beneath
her belly. She's become too fat
or middle aged to be efficient - when
she jumps it's not athletic,
she doesn't make it look easy, you
can tell she's working hard, breaking
a sweat getting up to that chairseat.
Still, she's ageing gracefully, getting
greyer around the edges, making
no bones about her love of drowsing
in the sun. She's more likely to muscle
onto your lap than attack your feet.
When you pet her, she falls down,
turns over with a grunt, exposes the long
chubby line of belly. The move
is still endearing, the way she looks
at us, willing us to hold up
our end of the bargain.
Cats are not gods, Egyptian or
other, they aren't wise, they don't
know secrets we don't know, except
ones about the death of small squeakers.
This cat is foolish and silly, she is a terrible
shedder, she has kitty dandruff. Her tail
is too short. She is terrified of other cats,
even ones half her size. Every day
she teaches me
things I already know. Trust
is beautiful, love needs
no reason, and
surrendering dignity
is optional.
Hang, we call it, her little
carry-on of fur and flab
pendulously swinging beneath
her belly. She's become too fat
or middle aged to be efficient - when
she jumps it's not athletic,
she doesn't make it look easy, you
can tell she's working hard, breaking
a sweat getting up to that chairseat.
Still, she's ageing gracefully, getting
greyer around the edges, making
no bones about her love of drowsing
in the sun. She's more likely to muscle
onto your lap than attack your feet.
When you pet her, she falls down,
turns over with a grunt, exposes the long
chubby line of belly. The move
is still endearing, the way she looks
at us, willing us to hold up
our end of the bargain.
Cats are not gods, Egyptian or
other, they aren't wise, they don't
know secrets we don't know, except
ones about the death of small squeakers.
This cat is foolish and silly, she is a terrible
shedder, she has kitty dandruff. Her tail
is too short. She is terrified of other cats,
even ones half her size. Every day
she teaches me
things I already know. Trust
is beautiful, love needs
no reason, and
surrendering dignity
is optional.
Odd as in Ode
I will be away the rest of the weekend and unable to read/respond to any poems (unless I find a computer with internet access). Enjoy the weekend. I'm really enjoying all of the poems so far--you people kick poetry butt.
Bearded Bouquets—another od(e)ditty
Hops are a coarse bunch—
too smart for beer-bellies
they hang about in toughened packs,
all hairy armed, petiole,
and cordate, clutch dirt-
stiffened rhizomes and grin.
Leathered, they are wild ones
biting birds with bines looped on fences,
make grainy eyes at squirrels
and sharply comb serrated leaves
with palmated lobes. Hops form pacts,
bond together, train their own
green shoots each spring to preserve
their formations, create gang-
branched networks, herbaceous
ideas of their Brandoesque selves.
Bearded Bouquets—another od(e)ditty
Hops are a coarse bunch—
too smart for beer-bellies
they hang about in toughened packs,
all hairy armed, petiole,
and cordate, clutch dirt-
stiffened rhizomes and grin.
Leathered, they are wild ones
biting birds with bines looped on fences,
make grainy eyes at squirrels
and sharply comb serrated leaves
with palmated lobes. Hops form pacts,
bond together, train their own
green shoots each spring to preserve
their formations, create gang-
branched networks, herbaceous
ideas of their Brandoesque selves.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
lost poets
(a little bit of fluff for day 4.)
lost poets
let's round up all the lost poets
who shuffle their pyrrhic feet
through this neighbourhood
while we work or sleep,
who hunker under foreign porches
in the rain and pull up flowers
they haven't planted but deem
sublime and worthy
of only their own unique attention
they roam with open notebooks,
trailing feral rhyme and unbroken lines
no one has posted their photos
on streetlamps, no handbills list
their publishing histories or nervous tics --
there's no reward
but we'll recognize them by the jackets
of out-of-print books and lure them
to the back door with talk
of free verse or wine
we'll line them up, flush left,
and sharpen their pencils
lost poets
let's round up all the lost poets
who shuffle their pyrrhic feet
through this neighbourhood
while we work or sleep,
who hunker under foreign porches
in the rain and pull up flowers
they haven't planted but deem
sublime and worthy
of only their own unique attention
they roam with open notebooks,
trailing feral rhyme and unbroken lines
no one has posted their photos
on streetlamps, no handbills list
their publishing histories or nervous tics --
there's no reward
but we'll recognize them by the jackets
of out-of-print books and lure them
to the back door with talk
of free verse or wine
we'll line them up, flush left,
and sharpen their pencils
Fade To Blank
Fade To Blank
They have your teacher locked
away with copies of his work
displayed in a glass cabinet
outside his door,
so he can recognize the room
assigned as home.
They say he can cuss a streak.
He hates noise,
wants quiet,
but loves Frank Sinatra.
If he’s awake he’s
looking for someone to kick—
Don’t get too close—
All the workers know to be
careful ‘cause he is one
strong kicker.
My friend calls
from the still darkness
when the patients sleep,
staying up all night tired
after cleaning houses, in need
of conversation with someone
who remembers who they are.
Remember him? You told me his name.
Your teacher’s halo hair and beard
were still as wild as I recall
in a café where poets drank
and smoked and roared –
so says my friend in her latest
report, grabbing a smoke
outside the view of the cameras
outside the oven warm building.
Your teacher has no memory
of being
anyone we would recognize.
We would be strangers to him
even after many introductions.
But the staff reminds him
he is a poet, a man of words,
a teacher.
My friend told them
this is important.
He hears the truth like news,
sometimes pretending
he believes, because
my friend wakes him
most mornings,
And her brown face smiling
is more familiar than
lost realities.
No expense is spared
to tend the man,
the father, the teacher—
yet time blinks in his eyes—
Expired.
The rhythms of forgotten verse
play angry in his vacant head.
No wonder
he kicks the others
in the shins,
strangers
trying to intrude
into his private stanza.
They have your teacher locked
away with copies of his work
displayed in a glass cabinet
outside his door,
so he can recognize the room
assigned as home.
They say he can cuss a streak.
He hates noise,
wants quiet,
but loves Frank Sinatra.
If he’s awake he’s
looking for someone to kick—
Don’t get too close—
All the workers know to be
careful ‘cause he is one
strong kicker.
My friend calls
from the still darkness
when the patients sleep,
staying up all night tired
after cleaning houses, in need
of conversation with someone
who remembers who they are.
Remember him? You told me his name.
Your teacher’s halo hair and beard
were still as wild as I recall
in a café where poets drank
and smoked and roared –
so says my friend in her latest
report, grabbing a smoke
outside the view of the cameras
outside the oven warm building.
Your teacher has no memory
of being
anyone we would recognize.
We would be strangers to him
even after many introductions.
But the staff reminds him
he is a poet, a man of words,
a teacher.
My friend told them
this is important.
He hears the truth like news,
sometimes pretending
he believes, because
my friend wakes him
most mornings,
And her brown face smiling
is more familiar than
lost realities.
No expense is spared
to tend the man,
the father, the teacher—
yet time blinks in his eyes—
Expired.
The rhythms of forgotten verse
play angry in his vacant head.
No wonder
he kicks the others
in the shins,
strangers
trying to intrude
into his private stanza.
Refusing Heaven
This poem takes the title of Jack Gilbert's latest book, Refusing Heaven, as a starting point and jumps off from there. It was a great exercise, but his title poem kicks ass, so please check it out when you get a chance.
Refusing Heaven
after Jack Gilbert
The man at the turnstile is taking tickets.
I search my pockets and find none–
I’m wearing a hospital gown.
He shakes his head with the practiced
half-smile of a bureaucrat, as if to say
what did you expect?
Even God has to make a living.
Over twenty years of working the gates
and still no raise. So much for the union.
His former life forgotten: taxi driver
steering white collar drunks home on Friday nights,
women with plastic hips to the airport.
The seated weight of his daughter
on his shoulders, heels knocking his chest,
gone the way of twelve-hour shifts.
It’s not our time I say, wishing I had remembered
to scoop the kitty litter before I left.
Poor cat. We do the best we can.
Someone else will have to wash the sheets
in our absence. Let’s go for a drink I say.
Put up a sign that says back in thirty minutes.
But he doesn’t move, just squints at the stadium lights.
By now he realizes it’s all fiber optics, special effects,
but just once, he’d like to be invited backstage.
Refusing Heaven
after Jack Gilbert
The man at the turnstile is taking tickets.
I search my pockets and find none–
I’m wearing a hospital gown.
He shakes his head with the practiced
half-smile of a bureaucrat, as if to say
what did you expect?
Even God has to make a living.
Over twenty years of working the gates
and still no raise. So much for the union.
His former life forgotten: taxi driver
steering white collar drunks home on Friday nights,
women with plastic hips to the airport.
The seated weight of his daughter
on his shoulders, heels knocking his chest,
gone the way of twelve-hour shifts.
It’s not our time I say, wishing I had remembered
to scoop the kitty litter before I left.
Poor cat. We do the best we can.
Someone else will have to wash the sheets
in our absence. Let’s go for a drink I say.
Put up a sign that says back in thirty minutes.
But he doesn’t move, just squints at the stadium lights.
By now he realizes it’s all fiber optics, special effects,
but just once, he’d like to be invited backstage.
Auditions
Auditions will be held
for the next 50 years.
Here is the role
I'd like you to play.
Here are your lines.
Please learn to say them
properly.
If I don't like
your delivery,
I will correct you
until you get it right.
The script will change
over time.
Please be on the look-out
for your new lines.
Please note:
if you gain
too much weight
or too many grey hairs
I will have to put out
a new casting call.
And if you cannot fill
the role I've created for you
I will just have to find
a better actor.
for the next 50 years.
Here is the role
I'd like you to play.
Here are your lines.
Please learn to say them
properly.
If I don't like
your delivery,
I will correct you
until you get it right.
The script will change
over time.
Please be on the look-out
for your new lines.
Please note:
if you gain
too much weight
or too many grey hairs
I will have to put out
a new casting call.
And if you cannot fill
the role I've created for you
I will just have to find
a better actor.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
ok, i'd like to -- and will, someday -- spend a lot more time with this one.
sleeping with leonard cohen
i'm sleeping with leonard cohen again,
like all those old nights i curled
around his words, furtive with my own
i keep him in our sheets, tucked into my side
of the bed -- he's a small man and bent
now under the weight of his mind
he is courtly, polite, except for his hands
which are everywhere, busy with touching
or poems that last all night
i try to cover his mumble with my pillowcase,
but i can't muffle this old man in our bed, this relapse
and you lie, these nights, looking at the wall, listening
sleeping with leonard cohen
i'm sleeping with leonard cohen again,
like all those old nights i curled
around his words, furtive with my own
i keep him in our sheets, tucked into my side
of the bed -- he's a small man and bent
now under the weight of his mind
he is courtly, polite, except for his hands
which are everywhere, busy with touching
or poems that last all night
i try to cover his mumble with my pillowcase,
but i can't muffle this old man in our bed, this relapse
and you lie, these nights, looking at the wall, listening
Cloudburst
Sadie came back from the rez,
riding in front of the thunderstorm
moments before the sky broke loose,
banged on my door
and hollered my name —
never mind the two years
gone without even a parting
cup of black coffee
just grinned and said,
“I knew you’d be here.”
And she was right
as Red Lake when she laughed
and said, “We musta missed
each other down at the pow wow
last week.”
Didn’t I see her
in the bleachers or hear her
cussing the poor excuse
for fry bread they were
trying to pass off?
Her cousin will show ‘em
how to make it if they
can’t do no better than that.
Storms fly in on
the Doppler, green
blobs heading this way,
but no cable station
can tell when Sadie will
blow through and remind
me of the way rain tastes
when it’s laughing.
Sadie came back from the rez,
riding in front of the thunderstorm
moments before the sky broke loose,
banged on my door
and hollered my name —
never mind the two years
gone without even a parting
cup of black coffee
just grinned and said,
“I knew you’d be here.”
And she was right
as Red Lake when she laughed
and said, “We musta missed
each other down at the pow wow
last week.”
Didn’t I see her
in the bleachers or hear her
cussing the poor excuse
for fry bread they were
trying to pass off?
Her cousin will show ‘em
how to make it if they
can’t do no better than that.
Storms fly in on
the Doppler, green
blobs heading this way,
but no cable station
can tell when Sadie will
blow through and remind
me of the way rain tastes
when it’s laughing.
spread e-go'ld: a tale of two stephens -- even?
it's all about the eagle
whether the stephen is roasting the george à la colbert
or the harpooner is skewering kyoto
thousands of hits daily says something
about either nesting or nested values.
follow the blood to the head.
bald faced lies
when is the brain not a muscle
wait i know this one
but i'm a bundle of nerves
when it loves being hustled
when i opened the robot's rebellion
a brain at war with itself was the first thing
that leapt out
as chapters go
capitals & accipiters
the brain is a bloody thing
but by george that rugous gorge
can be healed with holy spackle
this has been a synapshot
now that i know the scope
i just need to work towards the automatic
rifling through my responses
is not option
let your hip do the talkin'
you can raise your sights later
a little truth
can push the necessary lies
a long, long way
down their gullets
the future is a hybrid of the purists
whether the stephen is roasting the george à la colbert
or the harpooner is skewering kyoto
thousands of hits daily says something
about either nesting or nested values.
follow the blood to the head.
bald faced lies
when is the brain not a muscle
wait i know this one
but i'm a bundle of nerves
when it loves being hustled
when i opened the robot's rebellion
a brain at war with itself was the first thing
that leapt out
as chapters go
capitals & accipiters
the brain is a bloody thing
but by george that rugous gorge
can be healed with holy spackle
this has been a synapshot
now that i know the scope
i just need to work towards the automatic
rifling through my responses
is not option
let your hip do the talkin'
you can raise your sights later
a little truth
can push the necessary lies
a long, long way
down their gullets
the future is a hybrid of the purists
Seven months: the ultrasound
I am the fork-scarred sink the utility the water table
you are the warming goldfish
he is the big eye anxious on your domestic bulge
the wet magnification of dorsal flicker ventral thrum
They all should have known better –
you might circle my drain
showing fin and bony ripple on each grainy pass
but I’m the only one likely to go belly up
you are the warming goldfish
he is the big eye anxious on your domestic bulge
the wet magnification of dorsal flicker ventral thrum
They all should have known better –
you might circle my drain
showing fin and bony ripple on each grainy pass
but I’m the only one likely to go belly up
Cunning Conversations
Clematis understands the organ of speech
could befall her name, learns sprawl—
the need of the body to fold
itself in to boundaries placed beside
and beyond, fenced lines she straddles
legs she roots, her progress a pioneering
of paths not settled by anyone.
Clematis stretches her arms to hold
more than herself, an offering—
sky’s taut body unused above,
his clouded washboard abdomen
horizon of leanness, a word smoothing
her cheek, one significant sigh
released in a long-winded draught,
the slip of a hybrid tongue shirring
pink-furrowed petals.
Clematis understands the organ of speech
could befall her name, learns sprawl—
the need of the body to fold
itself in to boundaries placed beside
and beyond, fenced lines she straddles
legs she roots, her progress a pioneering
of paths not settled by anyone.
Clematis stretches her arms to hold
more than herself, an offering—
sky’s taut body unused above,
his clouded washboard abdomen
horizon of leanness, a word smoothing
her cheek, one significant sigh
released in a long-winded draught,
the slip of a hybrid tongue shirring
pink-furrowed petals.
Crush
Crush
At best a circus tent on stilts:
lopsided peaks boast illegible banners
over signature stripes. Maybe it reads asshole,
maybe future wife, who knows at the outset.
A rope ladder descends, the sturdiness of popsicle sticks.
Inside those darkened flaps, what waits?
An acrobatic marvel or the same contortionist
from the last top. We are ever hopeful, so we enter,
strong men into the freak show. Past lion tamers
and their dented hoops, to sit on a padded bench, watch
clowns play up their tricks like the one or two
stories we know will get us laid.
It’s all monkeys on bicycles. A cheap slide
from intermission to the end,
but we’ve paid good money, we’re tired of being alone, so
we clap till our hands smart, try hard to be amazed.
----
Note: I'm trying to get away from the three stanza wonder
(one of my default settings). I'm curious how the couplet form
is working here? Thoughts?
At best a circus tent on stilts:
lopsided peaks boast illegible banners
over signature stripes. Maybe it reads asshole,
maybe future wife, who knows at the outset.
A rope ladder descends, the sturdiness of popsicle sticks.
Inside those darkened flaps, what waits?
An acrobatic marvel or the same contortionist
from the last top. We are ever hopeful, so we enter,
strong men into the freak show. Past lion tamers
and their dented hoops, to sit on a padded bench, watch
clowns play up their tricks like the one or two
stories we know will get us laid.
It’s all monkeys on bicycles. A cheap slide
from intermission to the end,
but we’ve paid good money, we’re tired of being alone, so
we clap till our hands smart, try hard to be amazed.
----
Note: I'm trying to get away from the three stanza wonder
(one of my default settings). I'm curious how the couplet form
is working here? Thoughts?
Lost
This is actually yesterday's poem - too tired to input it last night.
==========================
Lost
Somewhere on my trip I lost
track of what month it is.
Then I misplaced the loonie I'd set aside
for the laundry machine's
precise monetary demands.
Luckily I found another
but in that load two socks
- one black, one white -
ran off together.
Never would've noticed
if they'd stuck to their own kind.
My uncle died a year ago
but I haven't changed
the entry in my Palm
or deleted him
from my recipient list -
I think he still likes
receiving updates.
The Yanks dropped another
last night to the Sox -
their 11th L this season.
I saw losses five and six live
in Minneapolis
only weeks ago
with the man who
only months ago
was my lifemate
and now is on hold,
status indefinite.
I could stand to lose
a few pounds -
I decided that a while ago.
And the stress and guilt
and a bit of cockiness
I'm sure.
And I sure as hell would
like to ditch this cough.
But the things we want
get lost sometimes
while a few things we don't
stick around.
==========================
Lost
Somewhere on my trip I lost
track of what month it is.
Then I misplaced the loonie I'd set aside
for the laundry machine's
precise monetary demands.
Luckily I found another
but in that load two socks
- one black, one white -
ran off together.
Never would've noticed
if they'd stuck to their own kind.
My uncle died a year ago
but I haven't changed
the entry in my Palm
or deleted him
from my recipient list -
I think he still likes
receiving updates.
The Yanks dropped another
last night to the Sox -
their 11th L this season.
I saw losses five and six live
in Minneapolis
only weeks ago
with the man who
only months ago
was my lifemate
and now is on hold,
status indefinite.
I could stand to lose
a few pounds -
I decided that a while ago.
And the stress and guilt
and a bit of cockiness
I'm sure.
And I sure as hell would
like to ditch this cough.
But the things we want
get lost sometimes
while a few things we don't
stick around.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
making a garden
we speak now
in this sweet green time,
before the roots are deep,
of the space
waking around us,
the possibilities
of lupin or liatris,
dianthus or delphinium
you plant meadow rue
and sweet woodruff
in my ears, along
the furrow of my spine
i show you
with my hands
the best spot
for columbine and thrift
your fingers white roots
unravelling in the night
we speak now
in this sweet green time,
before the roots are deep,
of the space
waking around us,
the possibilities
of lupin or liatris,
dianthus or delphinium
you plant meadow rue
and sweet woodruff
in my ears, along
the furrow of my spine
i show you
with my hands
the best spot
for columbine and thrift
your fingers white roots
unravelling in the night
Early Harvest
A nice delivery came today:
a friend, a gift, a treat to share.
It is so lovely when
so early in season
products of gardens
even ones so carefully
attended, indoors,
through the frozen months
the long dark months so pressed
for green so wanting in it’s absence.
Damp quilt chill in the recent air
the thawing’s only just begun
a whisper of green beginning.
But a smile and a small bag
walked past my own seedlings,
through my lavender door,
entered the rooms
that make a house
the size of a pocketbook
with barely room to lose a pair
of glasses, magnifying details
vital detecting realities
variant pungent delicious.
Taste buds wash hands,
and take their seats
anticipating the feast.
A nice delivery came today:
a friend, a gift, a treat to share.
It is so lovely when
so early in season
products of gardens
even ones so carefully
attended, indoors,
through the frozen months
the long dark months so pressed
for green so wanting in it’s absence.
Damp quilt chill in the recent air
the thawing’s only just begun
a whisper of green beginning.
But a smile and a small bag
walked past my own seedlings,
through my lavender door,
entered the rooms
that make a house
the size of a pocketbook
with barely room to lose a pair
of glasses, magnifying details
vital detecting realities
variant pungent delicious.
Taste buds wash hands,
and take their seats
anticipating the feast.
Lighthouse Park
Lighthouse Park
Children clamber over rocks slick
with algae, look no hands, talking
non-stop to parents, egging them to cross
the moss-licked log when–
scrape-palmed and sounding
like a ship’s horn, they’re surprised
the world can hurt them. Knees throb
as they crab-scuttle back
on all fours to solid ground, where
two minutes later, after a kiss to make it better,
they’ve forgotten.
But the body deals in compounds interest;
by the time they’re forty, it’ll be hours
before they can relax, unclench, believe
in ankles and elbows to hold them.
That sharp-scented relief after illness. At seventy,
they know a fall can break them.
But for now they turn back, run along on the outcrop,
while their parents watch, flinching,
fingers crossed.
Children clamber over rocks slick
with algae, look no hands, talking
non-stop to parents, egging them to cross
the moss-licked log when–
scrape-palmed and sounding
like a ship’s horn, they’re surprised
the world can hurt them. Knees throb
as they crab-scuttle back
on all fours to solid ground, where
two minutes later, after a kiss to make it better,
they’ve forgotten.
But the body deals in compounds interest;
by the time they’re forty, it’ll be hours
before they can relax, unclench, believe
in ankles and elbows to hold them.
That sharp-scented relief after illness. At seventy,
they know a fall can break them.
But for now they turn back, run along on the outcrop,
while their parents watch, flinching,
fingers crossed.
Monday, May 01, 2006
body
At last at age 29 I am
in love with myself again.
When I was five I knew this
feeling, this absolute love of body
and mind, this endless fascination
of skin and fingers and flex
and flex.
In bed I love my body with his,
arch and arch, the feeling that we
are driving forward into nothing,
making the universe as we go, and it is
his body and mine, my body arching
over the final crest of creation, oh,
I am me, right down to my toes.
Naked for the shower I stop
to watch myself in the mirror. Pose
and turn, hunch, straighten, glance
over the shoulder, Vrksasana,
Garudasana, all my bones straight
and strong.
in love with myself again.
When I was five I knew this
feeling, this absolute love of body
and mind, this endless fascination
of skin and fingers and flex
and flex.
In bed I love my body with his,
arch and arch, the feeling that we
are driving forward into nothing,
making the universe as we go, and it is
his body and mine, my body arching
over the final crest of creation, oh,
I am me, right down to my toes.
Naked for the shower I stop
to watch myself in the mirror. Pose
and turn, hunch, straighten, glance
over the shoulder, Vrksasana,
Garudasana, all my bones straight
and strong.
The melodic drip of a small fountain
so near at hand –
half full and amplified—
calls for replenishing
it’s copper pipes.
Raindrops from a felt gray sky
are all so dripping moist
on my sad ear.
The crying falls
universal on the very day
the season struggles
announcing
its wet self
to a swelling surge of soil
bound up in
all the growing, trembling
as the poppy pods burst
their green boundaries
and orange comes
falling out and out
crinkly as wet skin
all crepe and thin
in it’s newness
fragile as last moment’s
wet breath
sipping the damp sounds
fertility rejoicing makes.
Each damp petal
explodes
from its containment.
so near at hand –
half full and amplified—
calls for replenishing
it’s copper pipes.
Raindrops from a felt gray sky
are all so dripping moist
on my sad ear.
The crying falls
universal on the very day
the season struggles
announcing
its wet self
to a swelling surge of soil
bound up in
all the growing, trembling
as the poppy pods burst
their green boundaries
and orange comes
falling out and out
crinkly as wet skin
all crepe and thin
in it’s newness
fragile as last moment’s
wet breath
sipping the damp sounds
fertility rejoicing makes.
Each damp petal
explodes
from its containment.
Seven months: the ba da bump
In the shower my hair goes molten
liquid against my neck and shoulders
liquid against loamy curves of battered clay
with its igneous flaws and bulges
but my belly is still a radial tire
whose valve sucks and puckers
pulling the entire chassis to one side at speed
going warm and soft
when still
In the shower my back is a blown vase
spine fluting under the spray glowing red
each vertebrae an ember glowing red
but my belly is still a milk-fed melon on the vine
smelling of sugar and soil and green green rot
even half a summer away
from being man-handled home
* * *
As you can see from my first May Day poem, I'm giving myself a lot of leeway these days...which in purely logistical terms means that I've set myself the rather breezy schedule of posting here three days a week during the month of May.
I'm aiming for Mondays / Wednesdays / Fridays at this point.
Of late, I've been working on poems about my neighbourhood, about trains and storms and early morning demolitions. I've also been working on a series about being knocked up, mostly because it seems like a more legitimate form of complaining than, well, complaining.
Other than that, you should know that I'm from Winnipeg and that this is my third on-line poetry project.
liquid against my neck and shoulders
liquid against loamy curves of battered clay
with its igneous flaws and bulges
but my belly is still a radial tire
whose valve sucks and puckers
pulling the entire chassis to one side at speed
going warm and soft
when still
In the shower my back is a blown vase
spine fluting under the spray glowing red
each vertebrae an ember glowing red
but my belly is still a milk-fed melon on the vine
smelling of sugar and soil and green green rot
even half a summer away
from being man-handled home
* * *
As you can see from my first May Day poem, I'm giving myself a lot of leeway these days...which in purely logistical terms means that I've set myself the rather breezy schedule of posting here three days a week during the month of May.
I'm aiming for Mondays / Wednesdays / Fridays at this point.
Of late, I've been working on poems about my neighbourhood, about trains and storms and early morning demolitions. I've also been working on a series about being knocked up, mostly because it seems like a more legitimate form of complaining than, well, complaining.
Other than that, you should know that I'm from Winnipeg and that this is my third on-line poetry project.
I really did write this on Monday
Hey everyone. Happy May! Nice to be here and meet you all through your poems.
I admit to being a bit daunted by the poem-a-day concept, but I've been making a real effort lately to do more things that scare me. So, I'm going to give it a shot... and not beat myself up too much if I can't pull it off. I'm happy to receive any feedback you want to send my way.
Here goes...
sunday-sad
it isn't raining
but it has
rained and will
rain, you read it
in the grey lines
between whites
of the blind --
the same story
every time
you open your eyes
you feel rain turning
the hike to mud,
drowning hotdog buns
you hear rain
in your own voice
go back to sleep,
taste it in the laundry,
groceries, a day
of closed windows
swallowed before you
have even left the bed
but a chin scuffs
your shoulder, a palm
softens your nipples
and your neck
is wetted with
the words next weekend
you let go of the day
you'd wanted
I admit to being a bit daunted by the poem-a-day concept, but I've been making a real effort lately to do more things that scare me. So, I'm going to give it a shot... and not beat myself up too much if I can't pull it off. I'm happy to receive any feedback you want to send my way.
Here goes...
sunday-sad
it isn't raining
but it has
rained and will
rain, you read it
in the grey lines
between whites
of the blind --
the same story
every time
you open your eyes
you feel rain turning
the hike to mud,
drowning hotdog buns
you hear rain
in your own voice
go back to sleep,
taste it in the laundry,
groceries, a day
of closed windows
swallowed before you
have even left the bed
but a chin scuffs
your shoulder, a palm
softens your nipples
and your neck
is wetted with
the words next weekend
you let go of the day
you'd wanted
so it begins again for the first time
so it works mmmmmmmmm like gravity
got my invitation didn't know how to respond this commitment
targets make for run-ons.
my fletcher recycles commasmmmmmmi bought my object a stanza of adamant re-affection
got my invitation didn't know how to respond this commitment
thing is it commutative? if so, i'd better look
that word up again i'm better at commutilating.
maybe you've seen my work with headstonesisn't that what it's all about?mmmmmrhetorical
questions are not
questions are not
my favourite colour but all the other parachutes* sold out mmmmm the ground is it a good question mark will it interrogate me with impact by crater
targets make for run-ons.
my fletcher recycles commasmmmmmmi bought my object a stanza of adamant re-affection
& it became the subject of how to break up a greens tick sentence
this is just a suggestion to fill the void left by social convention mmm *i demanded the sale have no strings attached
the airplane is my afterthought balloon
Luminare
"Will you call out Open Window, Sir?"
she shouts out to the bus driver
"Just in Case I miss it."
The driver and I stare at her, no
clue what she could be talking about.
"It's a Senior Centre" she explains.
"Don't know it." he says.
"I'll watch out for it then," she says.
"Just before Super Valu
or Valu Village
I'll watch out for it."
But she spends the trip looking around
at any number of things
the boy with a mohawk,
the old man's slow journey down the aisle,
the contents of her purse.
And I'm the one left looking,
the responsible one, always.
Worried we'll all get distracted
worried we'll all miss out
on our chance to jump off
at the Open Window.
she shouts out to the bus driver
"Just in Case I miss it."
The driver and I stare at her, no
clue what she could be talking about.
"It's a Senior Centre" she explains.
"Don't know it." he says.
"I'll watch out for it then," she says.
"Just before Super Valu
or Valu Village
I'll watch out for it."
But she spends the trip looking around
at any number of things
the boy with a mohawk,
the old man's slow journey down the aisle,
the contents of her purse.
And I'm the one left looking,
the responsible one, always.
Worried we'll all get distracted
worried we'll all miss out
on our chance to jump off
at the Open Window.
It begins
Hello fellow poets and (hopefully) readers. I just came off NaPoWriMo, an event of similar concept but held in April. So I'm already firing on all cylinders. At least, that's what I'm telling myself. My goal is 31 poems by the end of the month. This may translate to none on some days and lots on others, or it might mean one poem a day, like creative clockwork. I suppose we shall see.
I welcome critique should the impulse seize you, but with the understanding that these are first drafts, and any of them that I decide to keep will already be undergoing my brutal editing and rewriting processes.
My first poem for May Day is an odd one for me - I don't usually use the prose poem form, partially because I tend to be a very careful and hesitant poet and prose poems always have a very flow-of-consciousness feel for me. At the moment, however, I'm working on a suite of poems about my relationship with my sister, and it's proving very difficult to write. So I'm trying out a bunch of new forms and techniques in the hope that I'll find the key.
you left me
I was, perhaps, five. We were climbing among the bales, great round prickly things like golden cinnamon rolls laid on their sides. The world smelled like dust and hay and our girlish sweat. We were pretending something, we were princesses or elves or maybe Robin Hood. I fell between two bales, my small body slithering downward, my shirt filling with straw. Thump to the ground, a space not quite big enough to turn around in, no leverage to climb out. The hay slipped and slid beneath my sandals. My knees were red. Help I said, trying not to cry. Your face, like God, blotted out the sky above me. You can get out, you said, and you left. I screamed and wept - it was an eternity of minutes before our father came, reached down and drew me out, small wretched peg from a fusty hole. I don't remember much else other than the sinking despair of you leaving me, you leaving me.
I think that's when it happened, my decision not to need you anymore.
I welcome critique should the impulse seize you, but with the understanding that these are first drafts, and any of them that I decide to keep will already be undergoing my brutal editing and rewriting processes.
My first poem for May Day is an odd one for me - I don't usually use the prose poem form, partially because I tend to be a very careful and hesitant poet and prose poems always have a very flow-of-consciousness feel for me. At the moment, however, I'm working on a suite of poems about my relationship with my sister, and it's proving very difficult to write. So I'm trying out a bunch of new forms and techniques in the hope that I'll find the key.
you left me
I was, perhaps, five. We were climbing among the bales, great round prickly things like golden cinnamon rolls laid on their sides. The world smelled like dust and hay and our girlish sweat. We were pretending something, we were princesses or elves or maybe Robin Hood. I fell between two bales, my small body slithering downward, my shirt filling with straw. Thump to the ground, a space not quite big enough to turn around in, no leverage to climb out. The hay slipped and slid beneath my sandals. My knees were red. Help I said, trying not to cry. Your face, like God, blotted out the sky above me. You can get out, you said, and you left. I screamed and wept - it was an eternity of minutes before our father came, reached down and drew me out, small wretched peg from a fusty hole. I don't remember much else other than the sinking despair of you leaving me, you leaving me.
I think that's when it happened, my decision not to need you anymore.
Yah!
I'm so pumped about this project I've written 3 poems in the past 24 hours. This is me: I'm a Regina based writer and finishing an English honours degree at the UofR (I'll be done in Dec.). I work full-time as a barber/stylist and write on anything with blank space. Thanks for letting me participate; I'm looking forward to the whole process-- from reading, to writing, to responding. I plan on writing a poem every second day, while trying to follow some of the themes laid out along the sidebar, but also, I'm trying to be thematic in my approach. I'm open to any suggestions/comments on my poetry; it's all good. Here is my 1st post/poem:
Perennial Red-lights
The pacific giant delphinium knows
roots of its existence are embedded
within loamy soil, their own growth
historical through the surface of envy
green erected as phallicies stalking
the sky, blossoming buds
raspberried repetition, rows
of organized attraction, an old trade
developed through centuries flowered
and tucked purposefully in bearded tufts.
But passionate plants are hypnotic—
hunger and patience combine
catch the attention of leaf rollers’
newborn desire, their harmful invasion
rolled firm within each leaf
constructing the present in carnage
fetalled impulses measured each day
by bites. I wonder as I cleanse
plants every spring with prescriptions
of soap and water, unfurl leaves
remove the worms, if delphiniums remember
each year’s struggle, the parallel
wasting to legless stems—
or if each alzheimered stalk remembers
nothing but perseveration
of this moment.
Perennial Red-lights
The pacific giant delphinium knows
roots of its existence are embedded
within loamy soil, their own growth
historical through the surface of envy
green erected as phallicies stalking
the sky, blossoming buds
raspberried repetition, rows
of organized attraction, an old trade
developed through centuries flowered
and tucked purposefully in bearded tufts.
But passionate plants are hypnotic—
hunger and patience combine
catch the attention of leaf rollers’
newborn desire, their harmful invasion
rolled firm within each leaf
constructing the present in carnage
fetalled impulses measured each day
by bites. I wonder as I cleanse
plants every spring with prescriptions
of soap and water, unfurl leaves
remove the worms, if delphiniums remember
each year’s struggle, the parallel
wasting to legless stems—
or if each alzheimered stalk remembers
nothing but perseveration
of this moment.
Okay, here's my first post! I don't know most of you, but I'm looking forward to reading your work. A bit about me: I live in Vancouver, where I just finished my first year in the MFA program at UBC. I'm the current poetry editor of PRISM international. This is the first May I've spent in town in five years, previously I worked as a Fire Lookout. I'm happy to get comments/suggestions on the poems I post. Thanks so much for letting me be a part of the May Day project. I plan on writing a poem a day, but I'll only post four times a week, Monday-Thursday. Thanks!
Winter’s end
crawls out of a tuna can, yanks the plug,
all our buried garbage resurfaces.
Like a dump truck loosing its gravel,
all the shoulds lodged in your back
go sliding into the ditch come daylight.
Gears cranky and stiff, a bicycle chain
ratcheting around the block, bell thumbed
at everyone you pass. Overnight,
daffodils have popped, tilt
their bugle horns, call to one another
across the field. The end of winter
is like a new bra; you can’t help but feel yourself up.
Like three car alarms going off at once,
a mailbox with a red flag tipped up,
the backhanded crack of a spoon
on the crème brule crust.
Winter’s end
crawls out of a tuna can, yanks the plug,
all our buried garbage resurfaces.
Like a dump truck loosing its gravel,
all the shoulds lodged in your back
go sliding into the ditch come daylight.
Gears cranky and stiff, a bicycle chain
ratcheting around the block, bell thumbed
at everyone you pass. Overnight,
daffodils have popped, tilt
their bugle horns, call to one another
across the field. The end of winter
is like a new bra; you can’t help but feel yourself up.
Like three car alarms going off at once,
a mailbox with a red flag tipped up,
the backhanded crack of a spoon
on the crème brule crust.
May pole
From today’s entry of The Writer’s Almanac with Garrison Keillor...
“Today is May Day, a celebration of the return of spring that goes back thousands of years in European traditions. Various May Day celebrations included the gathering of wildflowers and green branches, the weaving of floral garlands, and the setting up of a decorated May tree, or Maypole, around which people danced.
May Day never developed a Christian equivalent. In order to celebrate the holiday, workers had to stay home from work against their employers' wishes. It became known as a people's holiday, and in 1889, a congress of world Socialist parties held in Paris voted to choose May 1, 1890, as a day of demonstrations in favor of the eight-hour day.”
“Today is May Day, a celebration of the return of spring that goes back thousands of years in European traditions. Various May Day celebrations included the gathering of wildflowers and green branches, the weaving of floral garlands, and the setting up of a decorated May tree, or Maypole, around which people danced.
May Day never developed a Christian equivalent. In order to celebrate the holiday, workers had to stay home from work against their employers' wishes. It became known as a people's holiday, and in 1889, a congress of world Socialist parties held in Paris voted to choose May 1, 1890, as a day of demonstrations in favor of the eight-hour day.”
Hooray
Hooray Hooray it's the First of May!
Welcome to all participants and to those dropping in to see what we're up to!
I think it might help us feel more connected if we introduced ourselves briefly and declared our goal for the month.
I'm Polly Washburn, co-founder of this blog with Ariel. Live in Winnipeg but will be reporting from the U.S. for the final week of the project. Ariel and I were in a writing group together for 3 years, but without her bugging me biweekly to write more poems, I've been focused on film projects and haven't produced much new poetry lately. So my goal is... to write 6 poems a week.
Looking forward to everyone's work and to giving myself this space and time to produce some new Stuff.
Welcome to all participants and to those dropping in to see what we're up to!
I think it might help us feel more connected if we introduced ourselves briefly and declared our goal for the month.
I'm Polly Washburn, co-founder of this blog with Ariel. Live in Winnipeg but will be reporting from the U.S. for the final week of the project. Ariel and I were in a writing group together for 3 years, but without her bugging me biweekly to write more poems, I've been focused on film projects and haven't produced much new poetry lately. So my goal is... to write 6 poems a week.
Looking forward to everyone's work and to giving myself this space and time to produce some new Stuff.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
May Day
Hey all,
We're less than two hours away from the first day of May, and, by extension, the start of the May Day Poetry Project.
That means thirty-one days of poetry, poetry that is both raw and polished, inspired and laboured, fragmentary and oddly complete.
And so, for those of you who will be participating, welcome. I'm looking forward to working among you.
For those of you who have happened by, do drop by again - I promise it'll be worth your while.
We're less than two hours away from the first day of May, and, by extension, the start of the May Day Poetry Project.
That means thirty-one days of poetry, poetry that is both raw and polished, inspired and laboured, fragmentary and oddly complete.
And so, for those of you who will be participating, welcome. I'm looking forward to working among you.
For those of you who have happened by, do drop by again - I promise it'll be worth your while.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
It's almost May!
Ariel and I have been talking, and we'd like to do May Day again! The basic idea is to write a poem a day for the month of May, and in my view, the point is to be more concerned with consistency of output than quality. It might help to look at last year's thoughts.
We're all busy people, so we won't be dictatorial about everyone having to submit a poem a day, though it would be great if people indicate what their goal is at the beginning of the month.
Each poet can indicate the amount of feedback they feel comfortable getting.
Please add your thoughts about this process - see you in May!
We're all busy people, so we won't be dictatorial about everyone having to submit a poem a day, though it would be great if people indicate what their goal is at the beginning of the month.
Each poet can indicate the amount of feedback they feel comfortable getting.
Please add your thoughts about this process - see you in May!
Friday, August 19, 2005
Poem accepted
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.
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.
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!]
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