The Yankee pitcher is flirting with
the perfect game
and I can barely stand to watch,
to take on the responsibility of
Shrodinger's fan:
Does the mere act of my attention
affect the final result?
Meanwhile, on the next
channel, the Queen is at
the Kentucky Derby.
The announcer, casting about
for something to fill the too-long moments
before the race begins
tells us that seeing this race
has been one of her Majesty's
lifelong dreams.
I'm startled, bemused.
What's a queen doing with dreams?
What the hell else is on her to-do list?
You are already Queen!
There are shows for people longing
to be Queen for a Day,
and you're already there!
A perfect day I guess that means,
lacking only a trip to this horse race
or that.
Or for pitchers,
the opportunity to stand before
the frenzied masses
and focus only
on the batter before him
one at a time
until all twenty-seven are disposed of.
Rarer than queens.
There've been dozens of those,
but only fifteen perfect games.
I look away for a second,
distracted by the shout of
kids through the window.
From the television,
the crack of the bat.
It's over the wall.
It's over.
Street Sense comes in first,
Hard Spun just behind,
but there's no crown for second
or glory for those who took
a perfect game
into the eighth.
(Thanks to Bren for the hot tip!)
Monday, May 07, 2007
Sunday, May 06, 2007
sunday two
waiting for leonard cohen
sunday night and you’re waiting
for leonard cohen to call –
like all those nights
you were fourteen or twenty-one
or thirty and you fell
asleep between blank pages
of an open notebook
leonard cohen didn’t knock
on the screen door
of your parents’ house –
his car broken down
on the suburban cul-de-sac,
or seeking shelter
for an urgent poem
he didn’t find your address
on a wayward scrap and follow
your scent from montreal or l.a.
to the stacks of a university library
to rest his palm on your forehead
but now you’re waiting
for leonard cohen
to read your name
in an obscure literary journal
and sweet-talk the local operator
into giving up your phone number
Maybe I'm feeling guilty for not posting yesterday, so here's two today. This L.C. piece is one of a series I started working on last May Day. I wrote the first stanza of this ages ago, but just rounded out the rest today.
sunday night and you’re waiting
for leonard cohen to call –
like all those nights
you were fourteen or twenty-one
or thirty and you fell
asleep between blank pages
of an open notebook
leonard cohen didn’t knock
on the screen door
of your parents’ house –
his car broken down
on the suburban cul-de-sac,
or seeking shelter
for an urgent poem
he didn’t find your address
on a wayward scrap and follow
your scent from montreal or l.a.
to the stacks of a university library
to rest his palm on your forehead
but now you’re waiting
for leonard cohen
to read your name
in an obscure literary journal
and sweet-talk the local operator
into giving up your phone number
Maybe I'm feeling guilty for not posting yesterday, so here's two today. This L.C. piece is one of a series I started working on last May Day. I wrote the first stanza of this ages ago, but just rounded out the rest today.
sunday one
monday
sunday morning sleep
slowly relinquishes its hold
over your eyes,
lashes unraveling
and reknit
until you can focus
on open
moments out of the womb
of sleep and your first instinct
is to set the alarm
for tomorrow, and monday
seeps into our sheets
and clothes, chafing
all day, a fact
that won’t lie still
sunday morning sleep
slowly relinquishes its hold
over your eyes,
lashes unraveling
and reknit
until you can focus
on open
moments out of the womb
of sleep and your first instinct
is to set the alarm
for tomorrow, and monday
seeps into our sheets
and clothes, chafing
all day, a fact
that won’t lie still
Saturday, May 05, 2007
four
I wanted to write an ironic poem
about the lazy black cat & the mail carrier
locked in mid-morning mortal combat
the mail carrier’s single feint was refusing
to deliver to that house
any more
the cat’s tactics are familiar & include the growl
the stalk, the quick climb up calves
made wiry by walking
onto regulation navy & beyond
to slice at eyes; also, not blinking
when the camera’s iris opened & shut
for the wink wink second-to-last item
on Winnipeg’s evening news
then I was going to cleverly allude
to the kicker – the mooncalf born with six legs
but able to gambol in the flat bright light
of mid-day Nebraska
because its two extra legs, knobby & newborn
don’t quite touch the ground
but mocking bureaucracy is cheap sport
and deformations
are just no fun.
I wanted to write an elegiac poem
about half-frozen blood, the alley it was spilled in
and the man who at the end
of a boozy night had his throat cut
by a friend & lost it
how the temperature dropped (like a body)
overnight the blood becoming just another pool
of salty slush on the asphalt
in the alley behind one of my old addresses
how photographers gathered the next day
to shoot bike treads sneakers
beaters in blood
because the fire service didn’t bother
to wash it away until early afternoon
but we all know this is a bad way to die
and nothing came
after that.
I wanted to write a tender poem
about my daughter that marked the moment
months in months in her dry furious cheeks
were first wetted down
how the bruised pear between my legs
gave a final meaty contraction a glad twang
at this first drop in the bucket
but I don’t remember when it was & there is no poetry
in sour two-day-old laundry & the greasy crumbs
in the seams of my days
& I would still give just about anything
for a moment to myself
& oh fuck she just woke up –
about the lazy black cat & the mail carrier
locked in mid-morning mortal combat
the mail carrier’s single feint was refusing
to deliver to that house
any more
the cat’s tactics are familiar & include the growl
the stalk, the quick climb up calves
made wiry by walking
onto regulation navy & beyond
to slice at eyes; also, not blinking
when the camera’s iris opened & shut
for the wink wink second-to-last item
on Winnipeg’s evening news
then I was going to cleverly allude
to the kicker – the mooncalf born with six legs
but able to gambol in the flat bright light
of mid-day Nebraska
because its two extra legs, knobby & newborn
don’t quite touch the ground
but mocking bureaucracy is cheap sport
and deformations
are just no fun.
I wanted to write an elegiac poem
about half-frozen blood, the alley it was spilled in
and the man who at the end
of a boozy night had his throat cut
by a friend & lost it
how the temperature dropped (like a body)
overnight the blood becoming just another pool
of salty slush on the asphalt
in the alley behind one of my old addresses
how photographers gathered the next day
to shoot bike treads sneakers
beaters in blood
because the fire service didn’t bother
to wash it away until early afternoon
but we all know this is a bad way to die
and nothing came
after that.
I wanted to write a tender poem
about my daughter that marked the moment
months in months in her dry furious cheeks
were first wetted down
how the bruised pear between my legs
gave a final meaty contraction a glad twang
at this first drop in the bucket
but I don’t remember when it was & there is no poetry
in sour two-day-old laundry & the greasy crumbs
in the seams of my days
& I would still give just about anything
for a moment to myself
& oh fuck she just woke up –
Cinco de Mayo
The first day of
true spring
bikes, flowers, shorts, sun
We celebrate not by
jumping round the maypole
but dancing with sparklers,
christening my balcony
just as I pictured it
when I took the place
in snow-time
The first party of
my new city
avocados, cilantro, plantains, peppers
procured in chinatown
cooking for a sufficient
number of guests
to feel
this is a place
where I have
friends enough
and the likelihood of
more to come
Just as
Cinco de Mayo
celebrates a
triumphant battle
rather than the
arrival of final
independence
I will take
this victory
and still hope
to win the war
true spring
bikes, flowers, shorts, sun
We celebrate not by
jumping round the maypole
but dancing with sparklers,
christening my balcony
just as I pictured it
when I took the place
in snow-time
The first party of
my new city
avocados, cilantro, plantains, peppers
procured in chinatown
cooking for a sufficient
number of guests
to feel
this is a place
where I have
friends enough
and the likelihood of
more to come
Just as
Cinco de Mayo
celebrates a
triumphant battle
rather than the
arrival of final
independence
I will take
this victory
and still hope
to win the war
More about the wind
Like Yves Klein I'm becoming obsessed with one element: the wind. Of course, it's hard not to these days. I wrote this one yesterday, but because of laptop woes, I was unable to retrieve it until today.
The world’s most challenging puzzle
recoils from winter
urinates umbilical
strings of the nothing
we are in its wake.
And who’s to say
what’s on its mind
other than procreation.
Impersonation.
Impregnation.
More hot air
than fresh breath
it balloons the belly—
punctures imagination’s
sponge, dimples
the mind’s continuous
banding. The wind
reattaches us
annually to a land
sand-banked by dirt-
devils, our own
memory’s hills
mounded each May.
The world’s most challenging puzzle
recoils from winter
urinates umbilical
strings of the nothing
we are in its wake.
And who’s to say
what’s on its mind
other than procreation.
Impersonation.
Impregnation.
More hot air
than fresh breath
it balloons the belly—
punctures imagination’s
sponge, dimples
the mind’s continuous
banding. The wind
reattaches us
annually to a land
sand-banked by dirt-
devils, our own
memory’s hills
mounded each May.
Walking Granville Bridge
in spring, sky placated
but only for now, everything green
or metallic for miles in either direction.
Angry sea a bit of both; hard surface
with chips bitten from it.
To the east and west glass towers--a future
city, beautiful, cheap, terrifying.
A billion shards piped together waiting
for disaster. The hot overcast air
makes its way under my hair.
And there, below, the whole world,
the visible world, every piece
and particle,
about to take flight.
but only for now, everything green
or metallic for miles in either direction.
Angry sea a bit of both; hard surface
with chips bitten from it.
To the east and west glass towers--a future
city, beautiful, cheap, terrifying.
A billion shards piped together waiting
for disaster. The hot overcast air
makes its way under my hair.
And there, below, the whole world,
the visible world, every piece
and particle,
about to take flight.
May 5th, Tower Point (again)
Wild camas-
stars of cloudless skies on long thin stems,
restless, green;
some days there is change in the wind,
some days, even trees cease to breath.
Today, I walk one step at a time,
think of how ancients took wild camas,
ate its sweet root, pulled from black earth
beneath groves of naked arbutus.
Today, I remember a place far from here-
where glacier streams, ice-fed lakes
are blue glass,
blue as the camas I walk through-
in the mountains....
last year.
Today, I give myself-one barefoot step,
one piece of clothing at a time,
my skin sweet as camas root-
to the soft bed
of moss, tall stalks of grass,
chocolate lilies, amethyst larkspur,
the long breath,
the patience of the field,
where wild camas grows.
sms 05/05/07
stars of cloudless skies on long thin stems,
restless, green;
some days there is change in the wind,
some days, even trees cease to breath.
Today, I walk one step at a time,
think of how ancients took wild camas,
ate its sweet root, pulled from black earth
beneath groves of naked arbutus.
Today, I remember a place far from here-
where glacier streams, ice-fed lakes
are blue glass,
blue as the camas I walk through-
in the mountains....
last year.
Today, I give myself-one barefoot step,
one piece of clothing at a time,
my skin sweet as camas root-
to the soft bed
of moss, tall stalks of grass,
chocolate lilies, amethyst larkspur,
the long breath,
the patience of the field,
where wild camas grows.
sms 05/05/07
Friday, May 04, 2007
three
Incandescent
1.
Electricity, like gravity, is a force of nature
no one “invented” it;
he did not invent the microphone
he had no machine that talked to the dead
although Edison claimed to have invented wax paper
he probably did not.
Edison did not lose his hearing
it is more accurate to say he was very hard
of hearing & the high-pitched sound
of the telegraph
“beats the babble
of ordinary conversation.”
He liked the phonograph so much
he called it his “baby.”
There are several stories
by people who knew Edison
that tell of him biting into phonographs
sound vibrations travelled through his teeth
to his inner ear.
(He bit the piano at home
as well.)
2.
Edison was a “news butcher” by twelve.
At fifteen, he roamed the country as a “tramp telegrapher”
moving thirteen times in seven years
often working all night
taking messages for trains
and even for the Union Army during the Civil War.
It was later found that people
become more proficient at receiving Morse code
when it was taught as a language that is heard
instead of one read from a page –
to reflect the sound of Morse code
practitioners began to vocalise
a dash as "dah"
and a dot as "dit."
At twenty-four, Edison noticed 16-year-old Mary
punching perforations into telegraph tape;
even on his wedding day
Edison returned to the lab to work
on his stock ticker.
In middle age, Edison still slept on laboratory tables
but he taught 20-year-old Mina Morse
so that they could have secret conversations
when her family was around
(her father held 92 patents
his most famous invention being
the Buckeye Mower
and Reaper)
tapping into each other’s hand.
In Morse code, the letters most commonly used
in the English language are assigned
the shortest sequences
but Edison always had what he needed
and incandescent lighting
is soft enough
for use indoors.
3.
Operators skilled in Morse code
can often "copy" code in their heads
at rates in excess of 40 WPM.
Some operators may have passed 100 WPM.
By this time they are "hearing" phrases
and sentences
rather than words.
In 1877, Edison recorded the first words
on a piece of tin foil.
He recited the nursery rhyme
“Mary Had a Little Lamb”
& the phonograph played the words
back to him.
Edison did not invent the first light bulb
he didn’t invent a hearing aid
he earned 150 patents on telegraph
improvements alone
(his daughter “Dot” claims to have seen Edison
propose marriage to Mina
using Morse code.)
4.
In 1927, Edison told 300 hard-of-hearing adults
"Deaf people should take to reading.”
There is little point in learning to read written Morse;
the sounds of all of the letters and symbols
need to be learned
for both sending and receiving.
5.
Edison once wrote, "I have not heard a bird sing
since I was twelve years old."
A dash is equal to three dots.
The space between parts of the same letter is equal to one dot.
The space between two letters is equal to three dots.
The space between two words is equal to five dots.
When the French navy ceased using Morse code in 1997
the final message transmitted was "Calling all.
This is our last cry
before our eternal silence."
* * *
Sources:
Edison National Historic Site: http://www.nps.gov/archive/edis/home.htm
Wikipedia entry on Morse code: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morse_code
Great moments in science / Edison and Light bulb: http://www.abc.net.au/science/k2/moments/s1523482.htm
* * *
Okay, I've got a full blown Edison obsession going...meant to work on a new poem. Only wanted to work on this one.
“.. …. .- …- . -. --- - …. . .- .-. -.. .- -… .. .-. -.. … .. -. -.-. . .. .-- .- … - .-- . .-.. …- . -.-- . .- .-. … --- .-.. -.. “
- Thomas Alva Edison, 1885.
“In speed contests between expert Morse code operators and expert cellphone SMS text messaging users, Morse code has consistently won, leading to speculation that cellphone manufacturers might someday build interfaces for Morse code input.”
- Wikipedia entry on Morse Code (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morse_code)
1.
Electricity, like gravity, is a force of nature
no one “invented” it;
he did not invent the microphone
he had no machine that talked to the dead
although Edison claimed to have invented wax paper
he probably did not.
Edison did not lose his hearing
it is more accurate to say he was very hard
of hearing & the high-pitched sound
of the telegraph
“beats the babble
of ordinary conversation.”
He liked the phonograph so much
he called it his “baby.”
There are several stories
by people who knew Edison
that tell of him biting into phonographs
sound vibrations travelled through his teeth
to his inner ear.
(He bit the piano at home
as well.)
2.
Edison was a “news butcher” by twelve.
At fifteen, he roamed the country as a “tramp telegrapher”
moving thirteen times in seven years
often working all night
taking messages for trains
and even for the Union Army during the Civil War.
It was later found that people
become more proficient at receiving Morse code
when it was taught as a language that is heard
instead of one read from a page –
to reflect the sound of Morse code
practitioners began to vocalise
a dash as "dah"
and a dot as "dit."
At twenty-four, Edison noticed 16-year-old Mary
punching perforations into telegraph tape;
even on his wedding day
Edison returned to the lab to work
on his stock ticker.
In middle age, Edison still slept on laboratory tables
but he taught 20-year-old Mina Morse
so that they could have secret conversations
when her family was around
(her father held 92 patents
his most famous invention being
the Buckeye Mower
and Reaper)
tapping into each other’s hand.
In Morse code, the letters most commonly used
in the English language are assigned
the shortest sequences
but Edison always had what he needed
and incandescent lighting
is soft enough
for use indoors.
3.
Operators skilled in Morse code
can often "copy" code in their heads
at rates in excess of 40 WPM.
Some operators may have passed 100 WPM.
By this time they are "hearing" phrases
and sentences
rather than words.
In 1877, Edison recorded the first words
on a piece of tin foil.
He recited the nursery rhyme
“Mary Had a Little Lamb”
& the phonograph played the words
back to him.
Edison did not invent the first light bulb
he didn’t invent a hearing aid
he earned 150 patents on telegraph
improvements alone
(his daughter “Dot” claims to have seen Edison
propose marriage to Mina
using Morse code.)
4.
In 1927, Edison told 300 hard-of-hearing adults
"Deaf people should take to reading.”
There is little point in learning to read written Morse;
the sounds of all of the letters and symbols
need to be learned
for both sending and receiving.
5.
Edison once wrote, "I have not heard a bird sing
since I was twelve years old."
A dash is equal to three dots.
The space between parts of the same letter is equal to one dot.
The space between two letters is equal to three dots.
The space between two words is equal to five dots.
When the French navy ceased using Morse code in 1997
the final message transmitted was "Calling all.
This is our last cry
before our eternal silence."
* * *
Sources:
Edison National Historic Site: http://www.nps.gov/archive/edis/home.htm
Wikipedia entry on Morse code: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morse_code
Great moments in science / Edison and Light bulb: http://www.abc.net.au/science/k2/moments/s1523482.htm
* * *
Okay, I've got a full blown Edison obsession going...meant to work on a new poem. Only wanted to work on this one.
outdoors, in
shattering
i
the lake breaks up – all crash
and fractured drama
against silent thawing sand
branches shyly budding
beyond the dunes
massive tracts of ice
hammered by heat
into handfuls of melting glass,
glitter that wind will spirit away
in its brazen beak
ii
room: still with sunday, hum
from an inch of open window,
wind sidles along the wall,
slips its sly tongue
behind picture frames
sudden gnash of glass
and the attic floor
awash in ice chips,
glinting and steadfast
unwilling to be swept away
i
the lake breaks up – all crash
and fractured drama
against silent thawing sand
branches shyly budding
beyond the dunes
massive tracts of ice
hammered by heat
into handfuls of melting glass,
glitter that wind will spirit away
in its brazen beak
ii
room: still with sunday, hum
from an inch of open window,
wind sidles along the wall,
slips its sly tongue
behind picture frames
sudden gnash of glass
and the attic floor
awash in ice chips,
glinting and steadfast
unwilling to be swept away
Here we are
Floating above thick trees
Above dark clouds
Above the weeping world
We'd say into the stars then
but that's a lie of omission,
denying the hardships
of what that journey entails
Heading for our own sun-star
gets too hot after only a few blocks --
even our own planet is starting
to feel the need
to scooch back
from the heat
But those other lights
out there
calling to us
are so far, so cold
As fast as I fly
I don't get any closer
The only thing left
is to jump to leap
to have faith, shun doubt
The old ways aren't working
and we don't have time
to screw around
trying to figure out
a logical solution
unlogic is all that remains
reverse inverse the universe
turn it inside out
to jump to a new star
Be in ourselves
the nebula
we are seeking
Above dark clouds
Above the weeping world
We'd say into the stars then
but that's a lie of omission,
denying the hardships
of what that journey entails
Heading for our own sun-star
gets too hot after only a few blocks --
even our own planet is starting
to feel the need
to scooch back
from the heat
But those other lights
out there
calling to us
are so far, so cold
As fast as I fly
I don't get any closer
The only thing left
is to jump to leap
to have faith, shun doubt
The old ways aren't working
and we don't have time
to screw around
trying to figure out
a logical solution
unlogic is all that remains
reverse inverse the universe
turn it inside out
to jump to a new star
Be in ourselves
the nebula
we are seeking
I am a dirty bowl
coated in dried pasta sauce
untouched vegetables rotting on my face
I smell
Entering the house, the odor and spectacle should drive you back
But
I am heavy ceramic
Unable to move
Unable to care
I need someone to wash me
touch me with warm, soapy hands
scrub me inside
and out
Clean away the depression and put me back on the shelf
waiting
for a new love
Hi all. This is my first year posting.
Thank you so much for your feedback on the egg poem. I was thrilled to read all the comments. I don't write a whole lot of poetry, but this project inspired me to gather some courage to just get out there and work.
I know Ariel and Polly from our time in Winnipeg journalism. I now live in Toronto and work in marketing - usually the opposite of poetry.
- Joanna
coated in dried pasta sauce
untouched vegetables rotting on my face
I smell
Entering the house, the odor and spectacle should drive you back
But
I am heavy ceramic
Unable to move
Unable to care
I need someone to wash me
touch me with warm, soapy hands
scrub me inside
and out
Clean away the depression and put me back on the shelf
waiting
for a new love
Hi all. This is my first year posting.
Thank you so much for your feedback on the egg poem. I was thrilled to read all the comments. I don't write a whole lot of poetry, but this project inspired me to gather some courage to just get out there and work.
I know Ariel and Polly from our time in Winnipeg journalism. I now live in Toronto and work in marketing - usually the opposite of poetry.
- Joanna
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Who has patented the wind
The wind isn’t something
to hang around lightly.
Last night’s fury hair-raised—
a paper-eater chewing a mouthful,
the garbage picker rustled by an alley bin,
one lid’s nervous quake—
some ordinary organism yelling
“Don’t let it in!” But my bedroom
window thinks better, moans
with delight as finger’s scurry
the full-breeze flapped, cotton’s
fringed fling, the home’s homely bones
squared in an eye-glassed gape.
Yet there’s something
artful in the wind’s stuttering
determination, the day’s lip
buckled irregular-blue, every tree
bristled by the weathered
vane’s attempt to paint and sell
each of its trademarked frames
the same.
to hang around lightly.
Last night’s fury hair-raised—
a paper-eater chewing a mouthful,
the garbage picker rustled by an alley bin,
one lid’s nervous quake—
some ordinary organism yelling
“Don’t let it in!” But my bedroom
window thinks better, moans
with delight as finger’s scurry
the full-breeze flapped, cotton’s
fringed fling, the home’s homely bones
squared in an eye-glassed gape.
Yet there’s something
artful in the wind’s stuttering
determination, the day’s lip
buckled irregular-blue, every tree
bristled by the weathered
vane’s attempt to paint and sell
each of its trademarked frames
the same.
more a snippet than a poem, really
all day
i wait all day
for these ten minutes
awake in our bed,
for your minted breath,
a lick of dark
across my eyelids,
and for the little clicks
your glasses make
as they are folded
and set on the nightstand
i wait all day
for these ten minutes
awake in our bed,
for your minted breath,
a lick of dark
across my eyelids,
and for the little clicks
your glasses make
as they are folded
and set on the nightstand
two
Incandescent
1.
Electricity, like gravity, is a force of nature
no one “invented” it;
he did not invent the microphone
he had no machine that talked to the dead
although Edison claimed to have invented wax paper
he probably did not
Edison did not lose his hearing
it is more accurate
to say he was very hard of hearing
and that the high-pitched sound of the telegraph
“beats the babble
of ordinary conversation.”
He liked the phonograph so much
he called it his “baby”
there are several stories by people who knew
that tell of him biting into phonographs
sound vibrations his teeth
his inner ear
2.
Edison worked as a tramp telegrapher
moving thirteen times in seven years
it was later found that people
become more proficient at receiving Morse code
when it is taught as a language that is heard
instead of one read from a page
to reflect the sound of Morse code
practitioners began to vocalise
a dash as "dah"
and a dot as "dit"
The letters most commonly used
in the English language
were assigned
the shortest sequences
He slept on laboratory tables
but taught Mina Morse code
so that they could have secret conversations
when her family was around
they used it as a type
of sign language
Edison always had what he needed
incandescent lighting is soft enough
for use indoors
* * *
Mmm. This is a mix-n-match found poem from the Thomas Edison home pages and the Wikipedia entry on Morse code that had its impetus from Regan's light bulb blurb. After more than an hour poring over Edison's list of patents, I have no idea if the poem works...oh well.
“.. …. .- …- . -. --- - …. . .- .-. -.. .- -… .. .-. -.. … .. -. -.-. . .. .-- .- … - .-- . .-.. …- . -.-- . .- .-. … --- .-.. -.. “
– Thomas Alva Edison
1.
Electricity, like gravity, is a force of nature
no one “invented” it;
he did not invent the microphone
he had no machine that talked to the dead
although Edison claimed to have invented wax paper
he probably did not
Edison did not lose his hearing
it is more accurate
to say he was very hard of hearing
and that the high-pitched sound of the telegraph
“beats the babble
of ordinary conversation.”
Design for a Cabinet
Design for a Grille For a Phonograph Cabinet
Design for a Grille For a Phonograph Cabinet
Design for a Grille For a Phonograph Cabinet
He liked the phonograph so much
he called it his “baby”
there are several stories by people who knew
that tell of him biting into phonographs
sound vibrations his teeth
his inner ear
2.
Edison worked as a tramp telegrapher
moving thirteen times in seven years
it was later found that people
become more proficient at receiving Morse code
when it is taught as a language that is heard
instead of one read from a page
to reflect the sound of Morse code
practitioners began to vocalise
a dash as "dah"
and a dot as "dit"
Machinery for Perforating Paper for Telegraph Pump
Telegraph Apparatus
Printing Telegraphs
Chemical Telegraphs
The letters most commonly used
in the English language
were assigned
the shortest sequences
He slept on laboratory tables
but taught Mina Morse code
so that they could have secret conversations
when her family was around
they used it as a type
of sign language
Perforators for Automatic Telegraphs
Duplex Telegraphs
Chemical Telegraphy
Automatic Telegraphs
Edison always had what he needed
incandescent lighting is soft enough
for use indoors
* * *
Mmm. This is a mix-n-match found poem from the Thomas Edison home pages and the Wikipedia entry on Morse code that had its impetus from Regan's light bulb blurb. After more than an hour poring over Edison's list of patents, I have no idea if the poem works...oh well.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
one year
on your first trip
around the sun
you may not have known
you were traveling
an ellipse, though you’ve learned
elements of its geometry –
parabola of breast,
arc of arms to hold you
now you’re rounding out
your orbit, embarking
on your next long loop
through the same
set of seasons,
three hundred and sixty
degrees of green
tomorrow you’ll begin
to see pattern
in the stretch
of light through days
and its elastic snap
back to dark,
you’ll know the moon
will forever be filling
and draining and that geese
will leave but always
circle back
Ariel, your birthday-poem-for-Anna proposition was my inspiration today. Thanks for the idea... if you like where this is going, this might be a candidate for your project. I think the last stanza needs some work... Let me know if you have comments. And, I require no compensation. BTW: I'm not sure I know what "Labels" mean in blogland. Is this something I should be doing? ~k.
on your first trip
around the sun
you may not have known
you were traveling
an ellipse, though you’ve learned
elements of its geometry –
parabola of breast,
arc of arms to hold you
now you’re rounding out
your orbit, embarking
on your next long loop
through the same
set of seasons,
three hundred and sixty
degrees of green
tomorrow you’ll begin
to see pattern
in the stretch
of light through days
and its elastic snap
back to dark,
you’ll know the moon
will forever be filling
and draining and that geese
will leave but always
circle back
Ariel, your birthday-poem-for-Anna proposition was my inspiration today. Thanks for the idea... if you like where this is going, this might be a candidate for your project. I think the last stanza needs some work... Let me know if you have comments. And, I require no compensation. BTW: I'm not sure I know what "Labels" mean in blogland. Is this something I should be doing? ~k.
Packing
How is it that all
the bits of here
are so hard to gather
when I want to go there?
What shadow of home
can I fold
to reappear
with familiar lines
in a strange city
full of its own darkness?
Hard angles and noise
at all hours
await my still veins.
I'll take my own thin spoon
to lift foreign soup,
magically delivered,
my spoon
to coax my lips
open
for whatever
feeding I find possible.
I'll take my own brushes
to lay color down
as it appears flashing
in my challenged eyes,
searching for some brightness
to rival the poppies
I leave half exploded
in blooming flames
near the thin blue iris
and tight-budded peonies.
I need to see past the brink
of clematis glowing
in the moonlight
and travel to the sounds
of gulls and rocks,
bridges and boats.
I need to find paints
for matching what I'll find
after the city,
when dawn
first touches land
and night still snores
here by the rivers.
I must carry that
in my bag
for later.
the bits of here
are so hard to gather
when I want to go there?
What shadow of home
can I fold
to reappear
with familiar lines
in a strange city
full of its own darkness?
Hard angles and noise
at all hours
await my still veins.
I'll take my own thin spoon
to lift foreign soup,
magically delivered,
my spoon
to coax my lips
open
for whatever
feeding I find possible.
I'll take my own brushes
to lay color down
as it appears flashing
in my challenged eyes,
searching for some brightness
to rival the poppies
I leave half exploded
in blooming flames
near the thin blue iris
and tight-budded peonies.
I need to see past the brink
of clematis glowing
in the moonlight
and travel to the sounds
of gulls and rocks,
bridges and boats.
I need to find paints
for matching what I'll find
after the city,
when dawn
first touches land
and night still snores
here by the rivers.
I must carry that
in my bag
for later.
touch
i go for my massage
at the student clinic
but it's far from clinical
the only fleshy contact i've had in weeks
i preen like a cat when her fingers
touch down
i keep my purr silent, safely caged
so she won't think i'm a freak
but inside i'm glowing, so grateful
for this god-sent feeling
of worth, human-ness
deservement of pleasure
then she digs deep
into twisted tissue
untangling knots of
pressure, guilt, doubt
all the unfinished business
i carry around in that crowded
space between my shoulders
under that fragile neck
straining to keep
my head on straight
deep breaths she says
and I comply,
try to find the path
to letting go
at the student clinic
but it's far from clinical
the only fleshy contact i've had in weeks
i preen like a cat when her fingers
touch down
i keep my purr silent, safely caged
so she won't think i'm a freak
but inside i'm glowing, so grateful
for this god-sent feeling
of worth, human-ness
deservement of pleasure
then she digs deep
into twisted tissue
untangling knots of
pressure, guilt, doubt
all the unfinished business
i carry around in that crowded
space between my shoulders
under that fragile neck
straining to keep
my head on straight
deep breaths she says
and I comply,
try to find the path
to letting go
Earplugs
For when the city's pulse is too quick and
furious--shouts of construction workers
matching the steam-whine of their instruments,
bicker and twitter of the man and woman
in the apartment next door (her giggle
a piccolo, his basso profundo
palpitating the wall), thuggy buses--
there's you two little orange wonders,
oversized pills to cure the world of noise.
Gone is the dry-hump thump of Beyonce
beyond the wall. Sound becomes a thing
to feel, not hear. Time passed not by watch-tick
or tap-drip but by the soft, predictable
one-two tide of my own quiet blood.
---
A silly aside: the National Post (which I never read b/c the politics drive me crazy) has currently got on a contest in which they ask for poems of any length or form about the doomed incandescent lightbulb. The prize is a box of assorted soon-to-be-obsolete bulbs valued at 95$. I think this is funny and lovely. The deadline is tomorrow afternoon sometime, contest@nationalpost.com. I might write one anyway, but not bother with the National Post.
furious--shouts of construction workers
matching the steam-whine of their instruments,
bicker and twitter of the man and woman
in the apartment next door (her giggle
a piccolo, his basso profundo
palpitating the wall), thuggy buses--
there's you two little orange wonders,
oversized pills to cure the world of noise.
Gone is the dry-hump thump of Beyonce
beyond the wall. Sound becomes a thing
to feel, not hear. Time passed not by watch-tick
or tap-drip but by the soft, predictable
one-two tide of my own quiet blood.
---
A silly aside: the National Post (which I never read b/c the politics drive me crazy) has currently got on a contest in which they ask for poems of any length or form about the doomed incandescent lightbulb. The prize is a box of assorted soon-to-be-obsolete bulbs valued at 95$. I think this is funny and lovely. The deadline is tomorrow afternoon sometime, contest@nationalpost.com.
Nickel
Anchored at the seawall for Sunday cyclists
to puzzle over, washed up at high tide.
Slick brown fur—at first glance,
I thought dog, drowned. Belly-down, forepaws
stretched out like a two-year-old’s rendition
of Superman. Then I saw it’s broad flat
tail, bleached the colour of concrete.
Childhood coin, the price of a jelly candy
turned life-size. Tree-feller, log-jammer,
far from our imagined habitat: scenic marsh
with moose backdrop. Trying to make a go of it
among sewage outlets. An observer
held out his cell phone to take a picture;
there was talk of gnawed aspens
on Granville Island, as cherry blossoms
dotted confetti on park bench couples.
Across the beaver’s eyelids, a flicker—
thinking, it’s still alive—until I saw the fly
searching for a passageway in.
to puzzle over, washed up at high tide.
Slick brown fur—at first glance,
I thought dog, drowned. Belly-down, forepaws
stretched out like a two-year-old’s rendition
of Superman. Then I saw it’s broad flat
tail, bleached the colour of concrete.
Childhood coin, the price of a jelly candy
turned life-size. Tree-feller, log-jammer,
far from our imagined habitat: scenic marsh
with moose backdrop. Trying to make a go of it
among sewage outlets. An observer
held out his cell phone to take a picture;
there was talk of gnawed aspens
on Granville Island, as cherry blossoms
dotted confetti on park bench couples.
Across the beaver’s eyelids, a flicker—
thinking, it’s still alive—until I saw the fly
searching for a passageway in.
Her eggs are perfect
Her eggs are perfect
whites completely set, yolks warm and runny.
Her eggs are perfect
She used to cook them for her Dad, she says, who died before I was born.
Her eggs are perfect
but on the weekends at the farm, we only ever have his eggs.
It is her day off, I guess, or his domain somehow. Or he just enjoyed
cooking eggs and she enjoyed him enjoying it. I never understood this.
His eggs continue to this day to be over- or under- done, yet
he relies on this one easy meal backed into a widower's corner.
Her eggs were perfect
and I never would have known except by chance one night by default
of nothing else appealing in the fridge, she made dinner for her daughter.
Her eggs were perfect
over easy.
whites completely set, yolks warm and runny.
Her eggs are perfect
She used to cook them for her Dad, she says, who died before I was born.
Her eggs are perfect
but on the weekends at the farm, we only ever have his eggs.
It is her day off, I guess, or his domain somehow. Or he just enjoyed
cooking eggs and she enjoyed him enjoying it. I never understood this.
His eggs continue to this day to be over- or under- done, yet
he relies on this one easy meal backed into a widower's corner.
Her eggs were perfect
and I never would have known except by chance one night by default
of nothing else appealing in the fridge, she made dinner for her daughter.
Her eggs were perfect
over easy.
labels
Using my MASSIVE ADMINISTRATIVE POWER, I've added labels to your first posts, primarily to allow non-chronological navigation.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
one
Spring fills ditches
decants and distills all the freeze! thaw!
and, careful drunk,
quietly drinks it down
elsewhere snowmelt puddles slop
with the swagger and ripple
of defrosted chorus
croak
Spring chokes up at bridges
rafts and scraped plates of ice stack up
under all that silt and foam half-seen trunks
roll like daredevil barrels
about to go over the falls
elsewhere docks get unmoored
deck chairs tilt ass
over teakettle
sink into reefs of catfish lures
grocery carts
and late summer suicides
Spring pulls trains of grit behind buses
fills mouths with left-over traction
every right angle filled
with foil cellophane
and the perfect chapped lip prints
on cigarettes
smoked down
to the filter
Spring spends seedy pussywillows
then invests in greening moss
mulch sod
decants and distills all the freeze! thaw!
and, careful drunk,
quietly drinks it down
elsewhere snowmelt puddles slop
with the swagger and ripple
of defrosted chorus
croak
Spring chokes up at bridges
rafts and scraped plates of ice stack up
under all that silt and foam half-seen trunks
roll like daredevil barrels
about to go over the falls
elsewhere docks get unmoored
deck chairs tilt ass
over teakettle
sink into reefs of catfish lures
grocery carts
and late summer suicides
Spring pulls trains of grit behind buses
fills mouths with left-over traction
every right angle filled
with foil cellophane
and the perfect chapped lip prints
on cigarettes
smoked down
to the filter
Spring spends seedy pussywillows
then invests in greening moss
mulch sod
day one
melt
so much sun reflected off
our winter-pale skin,
cooped-up breath and limbs unfurling
heat along the beach
that the ice shatters,
becomes clumsy
as our warmth approaches,
something breaking always
just ahead of us –
a tray of glasses smashing,
chimes collapsing –
and the lake licks its lips
before we can tell which
of the solid whitecaps
has gone under
ice stands no chance
against us, the end
of april, the water’s hunger,
but small, ragged holdouts float,
stubborn and doomed, out deep,
and with soft feet
we rub away crosshatch
the ice has dragged
into the sand
in crawling defeat
so much sun reflected off
our winter-pale skin,
cooped-up breath and limbs unfurling
heat along the beach
that the ice shatters,
becomes clumsy
as our warmth approaches,
something breaking always
just ahead of us –
a tray of glasses smashing,
chimes collapsing –
and the lake licks its lips
before we can tell which
of the solid whitecaps
has gone under
ice stands no chance
against us, the end
of april, the water’s hunger,
but small, ragged holdouts float,
stubborn and doomed, out deep,
and with soft feet
we rub away crosshatch
the ice has dragged
into the sand
in crawling defeat
It's a-MAY-thing!
Hello--
here's my start to the May Day explosion of verse. My brief intro: I'm a Regina writer that leans too far in to the centre, laments the loss of sleep, lisps in the wind while walking, lingers in grocery stores, lounges on freshly mowed lawns, and is lucky enough to take part in writing a poem, probably every other day, for the month of May.
I like the notion of themes so as not to confuse anyone, my theme this year is "After Yves Klein" .
Dear Y
This is the letter I start
late one night after drinking
too much gin.
The unopened voice
splashed and splattered
within paint-can tin.
Dear Y
This is the letter that starts
again to speak all things
to say I need
late one night
after drinking. This—
letter brushes the red coat’s
pocketed past.
Dear Y
This is the letter that undresses
what it would, addresses
what it should—
bristles thin plumes, mottles
motivation’s scent
but remains unsent
word’s wetness, the paper’s
piece not yet dry.
Dear Y
This is the letter that starts
again and again.
Dear Y
This is the letter
that says not square
burglarizes sky with tri-
angular arms
one mass pillar-pushed—
resemblance stolen
from a post.
Dear Y
This letter says things I sought
to speak late one night,
but never said—
a lick in memory’s inserted
fold, the enveloped eye
enclosed.
Dear Y
This letter is a letter’s
pretense receding.
Past and distance. Some far
away inkblot dispatched.
Dear Y
This letter is our present
acting out—
pretense we’re passing by.
Dear Y
This letter I write
late one night after drinking
too much gin—
why’s sun-roofed
performance uprooted.
here's my start to the May Day explosion of verse. My brief intro: I'm a Regina writer that leans too far in to the centre, laments the loss of sleep, lisps in the wind while walking, lingers in grocery stores, lounges on freshly mowed lawns, and is lucky enough to take part in writing a poem, probably every other day, for the month of May.
I like the notion of themes so as not to confuse anyone, my theme this year is "After Yves Klein" .
Dear Y
This is the letter I start
late one night after drinking
too much gin.
The unopened voice
splashed and splattered
within paint-can tin.
Dear Y
This is the letter that starts
again to speak all things
to say I need
late one night
after drinking. This—
letter brushes the red coat’s
pocketed past.
Dear Y
This is the letter that undresses
what it would, addresses
what it should—
bristles thin plumes, mottles
motivation’s scent
but remains unsent
word’s wetness, the paper’s
piece not yet dry.
Dear Y
This is the letter that starts
again and again.
Dear Y
This is the letter
that says not square
burglarizes sky with tri-
angular arms
one mass pillar-pushed—
resemblance stolen
from a post.
Dear Y
This letter says things I sought
to speak late one night,
but never said—
a lick in memory’s inserted
fold, the enveloped eye
enclosed.
Dear Y
This letter is a letter’s
pretense receding.
Past and distance. Some far
away inkblot dispatched.
Dear Y
This letter is our present
acting out—
pretense we’re passing by.
Dear Y
This letter I write
late one night after drinking
too much gin—
why’s sun-roofed
performance uprooted.
May flowers
I'm ready for my flowers
you know, the ones all that rain
in April's gonna bring on
cuz this here is May
and damnit I've had
enough with rain
and thunderclouds
bring me poppies
and lillies and tulips
galore
bring me red ones
and blue ones
and yellow ones
throw in a few pink
if you're so inclined
but you can keep anything orange
it don't match my nail polish
likewise purple
too garish by half
I'm not askin for
nothin fancy
a fistful of daisies
or a field of marsh-roses
that'd do me just fine
you know, the ones all that rain
in April's gonna bring on
cuz this here is May
and damnit I've had
enough with rain
and thunderclouds
bring me poppies
and lillies and tulips
galore
bring me red ones
and blue ones
and yellow ones
throw in a few pink
if you're so inclined
but you can keep anything orange
it don't match my nail polish
likewise purple
too garish by half
I'm not askin for
nothin fancy
a fistful of daisies
or a field of marsh-roses
that'd do me just fine
Monday, April 30, 2007
dipping day
From the Forgotten English desk calendar I received for Christmas:
The same desk calendar features the following words for the first week of May, should anyone need a starting point for a poem:
Blash: To soak, to drench. A heavy fall of rain. Deluging: sweaping away by inundation. Applied to meat or drink that is thin, weak, flatulent, or viewed as debilitating to the stomach. To blash one's stomach, to drink too copiously of any weak and diluting liquor.
Steeple-hats: Long hats, described as "pearking up like the sphere or shaft ofa steeple, standyng a quarter of a yarde above the croune of their heades, some more, some lesse, as please the phantasies of their inconstant mindes."
Canvas opera: A circus.
Shumpgullion: A glutton.
Ready-comb: In farm houses, a comb was hung by the string to the kitchen door by which the men-servants combed their hair.
Croozle: To make a low, whispering noise, like an infant just on the point of waking; a nursery word.
Englaimed: Furred; clammy.
On May-morning, the children go out into the country and fetch home the flowering branches of the white-thorn, or boughs of the narrow-leaved elm, which has just put forth its leaves, both of which are called 'May.'
At a later hour, all the boys of the village sally forth with bucket, can, syringe, or other instrument, and avail themselves of a license which the season confers, to dip or well-nigh drown, without regard to person or circumstance, the passenger who has not the protection of 'May' in his hat or button-hole.
The sprig of the hawthorn or elm is probably held to be proof that the bearer has not failed to rise early to do the observance to a morn of May.
- Rev. T.F. Thiselton-Dyer's British Popular Customs, 1876.
The same desk calendar features the following words for the first week of May, should anyone need a starting point for a poem:
Blash: To soak, to drench. A heavy fall of rain. Deluging: sweaping away by inundation. Applied to meat or drink that is thin, weak, flatulent, or viewed as debilitating to the stomach. To blash one's stomach, to drink too copiously of any weak and diluting liquor.
Steeple-hats: Long hats, described as "pearking up like the sphere or shaft ofa steeple, standyng a quarter of a yarde above the croune of their heades, some more, some lesse, as please the phantasies of their inconstant mindes."
Canvas opera: A circus.
Shumpgullion: A glutton.
Ready-comb: In farm houses, a comb was hung by the string to the kitchen door by which the men-servants combed their hair.
Croozle: To make a low, whispering noise, like an infant just on the point of waking; a nursery word.
Englaimed: Furred; clammy.
Introductions
We've got a few new faces round these parts, so I thought it might be useful for each of us to introduce ourselves...like this, for instance:
My name is Ariel Gordon. I'm a Winnipeg-based writer and editor. Though I've written both fiction and creative non-fiction, my primary form these days is poetry. I also review books, mostly literary novels, for the Winnipeg Free Press. In addition, I coordinate The Aqua Books/Writers' Collective Free Your Mind Reading Series, a new monthly multi-genre reading series.
My goal for this month is a poem a day.
My name is Ariel Gordon. I'm a Winnipeg-based writer and editor. Though I've written both fiction and creative non-fiction, my primary form these days is poetry. I also review books, mostly literary novels, for the Winnipeg Free Press. In addition, I coordinate The Aqua Books/Writers' Collective Free Your Mind Reading Series, a new monthly multi-genre reading series.
My goal for this month is a poem a day.
May starts tomorrow!
Who's in?
I will admit up-front that it is unlikely that I will be a 31-for-31 poster, but I would love to dust off my poetry-writing muscles (just finished an intensive 6-month television writing training program - different muscles!)
Cheers!
I will admit up-front that it is unlikely that I will be a 31-for-31 poster, but I would love to dust off my poetry-writing muscles (just finished an intensive 6-month television writing training program - different muscles!)
Cheers!
Sunday, November 05, 2006
palimpsest
Hey all,
Just thought I'd let you know that the all knocked up poems that appeared here have been accepted for publication by a boutique chapbook press called Palimpsest Press.
And so, now that the first glad shock has worn off, I wanted to thank all of youse for your contributions to the ms.
Yours,
Ariel
Just thought I'd let you know that the all knocked up poems that appeared here have been accepted for publication by a boutique chapbook press called Palimpsest Press.
And so, now that the first glad shock has worn off, I wanted to thank all of youse for your contributions to the ms.
Yours,
Ariel
Saturday, July 15, 2006
blog on blog action...
...which is the title of Rob McLennan's recent post on Canadian poetry blogs, where May Day is mentioned:
(Of course, much of this is hyperlinked, which you can't see in my quoting - see the original for the specific references...)
Fun!
The collaborative ones are particularly interesting, including the one Ariel Gordon, Bren Simmers & others keep, as well as this one (when does Gordon find time to do anything else?) or this one, by folk I don't seem to know, as are the geographically-related collaborative blogs, including the one Rob Budde plays about in his northern British Columbia, The Calgary Blow-Out, or trans-cribing Canada, the Winnipeg Words, or my own attempts through the ottawa poetry newsletter. I think Anansi has touring authors get blogs, which is why (it seems) Lisa Moore started, and Michael Winter too, but he keeps going...
(Of course, much of this is hyperlinked, which you can't see in my quoting - see the original for the specific references...)
Fun!
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
No hablo obligado, según pacere
or, Wow:
Six for Thirty-one. Such Logoyalty!
if only to
not mention
Just Moved Back In
With My Former Ex,
due to the skyrocketing price of independence
from Previous Exes,
who shall remain namelessly singular
(& already missing my subterranean getaway
[at bargain basement prices,
you'd think the spiders, sowbugs* & centipedes
would be extra] )
*yeah, you know: sowbugs,
the ones I used to know as silverfish,
except they're grey & their only connection to bodies of water
are dank basements &, Dank Sei Gott,
I no longer have to worry about such entomologies,
I'm above it all now, I'm a second storey man
with three cats to either
keep the upwards-of-four-legged ones in check or
just overshadow them in the landing
on their feet for attention-getting department.
Is this a poem?
I'll never know,
nor will the mouse that punctuated
the first evening before bed
in that other place.
But farewell anyway,
it's time to leave the nest
or coccoon, or whathaveyou.
I've got bigger webs to fry than bottles to spin.
Just because The Era of Canora is over,
doesn't mean that even greater harmoniety isn't
in the air
or the wings
(paper beats the rock I
crawled out from under,
& wings beat air).
I'm getting ready to like
a canary sing.
J'arrive, ma chere.
May we each fly, spanish
or otherwise,
vraiment!
Six for Thirty-one. Such Logoyalty!
if only to
not mention
Just Moved Back In
With My Former Ex,
due to the skyrocketing price of independence
from Previous Exes,
who shall remain namelessly singular
(& already missing my subterranean getaway
[at bargain basement prices,
you'd think the spiders, sowbugs* & centipedes
would be extra] )
*yeah, you know: sowbugs,
the ones I used to know as silverfish,
except they're grey & their only connection to bodies of water
are dank basements &, Dank Sei Gott,
I no longer have to worry about such entomologies,
I'm above it all now, I'm a second storey man
with three cats to either
keep the upwards-of-four-legged ones in check or
just overshadow them in the landing
on their feet for attention-getting department.
Is this a poem?
I'll never know,
nor will the mouse that punctuated
the first evening before bed
in that other place.
But farewell anyway,
it's time to leave the nest
or coccoon, or whathaveyou.
I've got bigger webs to fry than bottles to spin.
Just because The Era of Canora is over,
doesn't mean that even greater harmoniety isn't
in the air
or the wings
(paper beats the rock I
crawled out from under,
& wings beat air).
I'm getting ready to like
a canary sing.
J'arrive, ma chere.
May we each fly, spanish
or otherwise,
vraiment!
the last day
Hey all,
I meant to write a final poem today...but didn't. I also meant to vacuum. What did happen was more than good enough for the last day of May and included clean laundry hauled upstairs, frivolous reading while supine, and a decent smoked salmon and caper sandwich in a sunlit cafe (feet up, feet up).
Also a nice hug or two when all was said and done.
Not to ramble on or anything, but I wanted to say how glad I was that the May Day Poetry Project got a second airing, that all of youse wanted to participate this time around, and that I had the chance to read and be read by such nifty poets.
Keep in touch, if you're so inclined.
If not, maybe I'll see you around these parts next year, eh?
Yours,
A.
I meant to write a final poem today...but didn't. I also meant to vacuum. What did happen was more than good enough for the last day of May and included clean laundry hauled upstairs, frivolous reading while supine, and a decent smoked salmon and caper sandwich in a sunlit cafe (feet up, feet up).
Also a nice hug or two when all was said and done.
Not to ramble on or anything, but I wanted to say how glad I was that the May Day Poetry Project got a second airing, that all of youse wanted to participate this time around, and that I had the chance to read and be read by such nifty poets.
Keep in touch, if you're so inclined.
If not, maybe I'll see you around these parts next year, eh?
Yours,
A.
CONGRATULATIONS!!!!
You guys are amazing! Sorry I wasn't able to join you for the last couple of weeks - it was fun for me while it lasted. Thanks to everyone for your kind comments and good suggestions!
I will try to make some more comments over the next few days. I hope several of the poems here get edited and submitted for publication. Would love to see updates here on any that do get published.
Congrats again and all the best in your writing!
I will try to make some more comments over the next few days. I hope several of the poems here get edited and submitted for publication. Would love to see updates here on any that do get published.
Congrats again and all the best in your writing!
Last post
Thanks so much for the great opportunity to take part in May Day. I enjoyed it, thanks for the comments, and hope all the editing/revision for everyone pays off big time.
Annals of May
(for Gertrude)
1. Write a poem about a flower.
2.
3. Write a poem about a flower.
4.
5. Write a poem about a flower.
6.
7. Write a poem about a flower.
8.
9. Write a poem about a flower.
10.
11. Write a poem about a flower.
12.
13. Write a poem about a flower.
14.
15. Write a poem about a flower.
16.
17. Write a poem about a flower.
18.
19. Write a poem about a flower.
20.
21. Write a poem about a flower.
22.
23. Write a poem about a flower.
24.
25. Write a poem about a flower.
26.
27. Write a poem about a flower.
28.
29. Write a poem about a flower.
30.
31. Write a poem about the poems about the flowers.
Annals of May
(for Gertrude)
1. Write a poem about a flower.
2.
3. Write a poem about a flower.
4.
5. Write a poem about a flower.
6.
7. Write a poem about a flower.
8.
9. Write a poem about a flower.
10.
11. Write a poem about a flower.
12.
13. Write a poem about a flower.
14.
15. Write a poem about a flower.
16.
17. Write a poem about a flower.
18.
19. Write a poem about a flower.
20.
21. Write a poem about a flower.
22.
23. Write a poem about a flower.
24.
25. Write a poem about a flower.
26.
27. Write a poem about a flower.
28.
29. Write a poem about a flower.
30.
31. Write a poem about the poems about the flowers.
refrain
let's have one last poem
about gardens, another round
for all green and thirsty things,
for ideas in bloom and soil
that blackens our knees and notebooks
we'll write just once more
on may rain, final storm
of words before the month tucks under,
before those tentative shoots
of heat reach deep, sapping
ink and leaving pages
sunstruck and limp
we'll plant another handful
of stanzas to see us through
the summer, then find
a shady place to let our pens sleep
thanks to you all for a great -- and challenging! -- experience. the comments, comaraderie, and group energy really helped to see me through. nice working with you all! ~k.
let's have one last poem
about gardens, another round
for all green and thirsty things,
for ideas in bloom and soil
that blackens our knees and notebooks
we'll write just once more
on may rain, final storm
of words before the month tucks under,
before those tentative shoots
of heat reach deep, sapping
ink and leaving pages
sunstruck and limp
we'll plant another handful
of stanzas to see us through
the summer, then find
a shady place to let our pens sleep
thanks to you all for a great -- and challenging! -- experience. the comments, comaraderie, and group energy really helped to see me through. nice working with you all! ~k.
Summer
Wet swimming trucks peel from legs, flip
flops slap-pitty-slap asphalt
as the ice cream truck plays its tired invitation.
Lawnmowers make their last rounds
before cricket reverb, sprinkler’s consonants
fan across the yard. Mosquito drillsaw
against the screen. Moths pour
like batter on the hot 60W,
no calamine for their itch.
The motion sensor strobes all night
as raccoons driveby garbage cans,
white-gloved. Red-eyes
begin their final descent
as birdsong pelts the window
with its gibberish.
---
My last post. Thanks for all your comments!! It's been great. I've caught lots of new poems that otherwise would have disappeared into couch cracks and fuzzy thinking. Wishing you all luck with revision! Till next time...
flops slap-pitty-slap asphalt
as the ice cream truck plays its tired invitation.
Lawnmowers make their last rounds
before cricket reverb, sprinkler’s consonants
fan across the yard. Mosquito drillsaw
against the screen. Moths pour
like batter on the hot 60W,
no calamine for their itch.
The motion sensor strobes all night
as raccoons driveby garbage cans,
white-gloved. Red-eyes
begin their final descent
as birdsong pelts the window
with its gibberish.
---
My last post. Thanks for all your comments!! It's been great. I've caught lots of new poems that otherwise would have disappeared into couch cracks and fuzzy thinking. Wishing you all luck with revision! Till next time...
Another Year
OK, so birthdays are not
such a big deal to some people,
but yours I must celebrate.
Do you know your age
is the same as
the year of my birth? 51?
These little things
hold significance for me.
How could I know
at the age of four
you were being born
into the world and would
someday enter my world
and save my life?
If only I had a small window
to see your happy baby face
to hear you clap your hands
in patty cake when your mother
played and made you the darling
you are today. I would have
known to wait and be
less afraid of all the slaps
that were not play
but came my way.
I did not know, you were
already here, a short ride
in the family station wagon
would have brought me to your door.
But I would still have been alone
before we bumped together
all those years later,
joined in such frenzied passion
we were both amazed each morning
that going to work was only
an afterthought and I waited
breathless and safe for your
sure return. Bad things evaporated.
Do you wonder that I celebrate
each measurement of time
since the day you were born
and tie happy ribbons to each
minute of your smile?
I celebrate with more light than candles
the life I still manage to find
each day because you caught me
when I was falling from the ledge
I had crawled out on
to escape the pain of me,
and I have never left your arms.
Everyday is cake.
such a big deal to some people,
but yours I must celebrate.
Do you know your age
is the same as
the year of my birth? 51?
These little things
hold significance for me.
How could I know
at the age of four
you were being born
into the world and would
someday enter my world
and save my life?
If only I had a small window
to see your happy baby face
to hear you clap your hands
in patty cake when your mother
played and made you the darling
you are today. I would have
known to wait and be
less afraid of all the slaps
that were not play
but came my way.
I did not know, you were
already here, a short ride
in the family station wagon
would have brought me to your door.
But I would still have been alone
before we bumped together
all those years later,
joined in such frenzied passion
we were both amazed each morning
that going to work was only
an afterthought and I waited
breathless and safe for your
sure return. Bad things evaporated.
Do you wonder that I celebrate
each measurement of time
since the day you were born
and tie happy ribbons to each
minute of your smile?
I celebrate with more light than candles
the life I still manage to find
each day because you caught me
when I was falling from the ledge
I had crawled out on
to escape the pain of me,
and I have never left your arms.
Everyday is cake.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
balance
you are steady, level
as these lines i write
myself between, tightropes
i nudge uncertain words
along, watch them wave at loss:
balance, confidence, reason
i am a stumbler, clumsy
as my own handwriting,
tripping over our margins,
scarring anything white,
inscrutable when i place
all my weight in your ruled care
you are steady, level
as these lines i write
myself between, tightropes
i nudge uncertain words
along, watch them wave at loss:
balance, confidence, reason
i am a stumbler, clumsy
as my own handwriting,
tripping over our margins,
scarring anything white,
inscrutable when i place
all my weight in your ruled care
Summer Song
The fan drones on in tonal circles
moving air as water pipes rumble
bass like, clarinet rubber hoses feed
assorted cheap sprinklers.
From another room
the ice maker clatters it’s frozen load
into a bin of cubes, then stirs
and whines a stream of water
into ice trays.
A fat fly slipped in through the mail slot
and is bouncing it’s repeated buzzing
off the windows in stupid confusion
buzzing and thumping the glass
again and again
in a comforting –
not for the fly –
rhythm, calling attention
to solid walls, drum-like
in percussive abilities
beating every hot sound
from in or out to shape
the heat of the long day.
A stray cricket is loose
in the basement singing
an odd fiddling refrain
from it’s dank confines,
serenading the power tools
and silent appliances.
With a little player’s luck
it will find a window cracked
and return to the main orchestra
for the evening performance
where night moths applaud
quiet in the humid hush
under the whispering stars.
moving air as water pipes rumble
bass like, clarinet rubber hoses feed
assorted cheap sprinklers.
From another room
the ice maker clatters it’s frozen load
into a bin of cubes, then stirs
and whines a stream of water
into ice trays.
A fat fly slipped in through the mail slot
and is bouncing it’s repeated buzzing
off the windows in stupid confusion
buzzing and thumping the glass
again and again
in a comforting –
not for the fly –
rhythm, calling attention
to solid walls, drum-like
in percussive abilities
beating every hot sound
from in or out to shape
the heat of the long day.
A stray cricket is loose
in the basement singing
an odd fiddling refrain
from it’s dank confines,
serenading the power tools
and silent appliances.
With a little player’s luck
it will find a window cracked
and return to the main orchestra
for the evening performance
where night moths applaud
quiet in the humid hush
under the whispering stars.
A Map of Empire
When was the last time your shoulders felt relaxed? Somedays you wonder if there aren’t bicycle tires and mixmasters, a junk heap of shoulds walking the tightrope of your trapezius. And let’s not even talk about your neck, how you think it might be out of line and you’ve started to crack it yourself, even though you know it’s bad. Just like crossing your legs torques your hips out of alignment. See, you just did it again.
Close your eyes for a minute and think of all the things you let into the soft tissue of your body. Car alarms, exhaust, pesticides and additives. Learned habits and gestures. That thing you do with your hands, or the way you cough in the morning when you haven’t had enough sleep, clearly from your mother. Or how a memory of your grandfather can lodge can itself in your elbow. That first time he took you out play tennis, whacking balls against the side of the garage till your arm hurt, and you had to stop. He’s dead now. Cancer. Worked at the mill twenty-six years. Twenty-six years, you put two and two together.
He always said empires are built on our backs, our shoulders, our necks. It’s no wonder you’re tired and want to go to bed. Somedays it’s enough just to stand and not weep at the headlines, to take the recycling out. To keep open, so that you can let one more good thing in.
---
This is something I wrote for my theatre class, more of a monologue than a poem? Not sure if the title works, or if opening with a question is too invasive.
Close your eyes for a minute and think of all the things you let into the soft tissue of your body. Car alarms, exhaust, pesticides and additives. Learned habits and gestures. That thing you do with your hands, or the way you cough in the morning when you haven’t had enough sleep, clearly from your mother. Or how a memory of your grandfather can lodge can itself in your elbow. That first time he took you out play tennis, whacking balls against the side of the garage till your arm hurt, and you had to stop. He’s dead now. Cancer. Worked at the mill twenty-six years. Twenty-six years, you put two and two together.
He always said empires are built on our backs, our shoulders, our necks. It’s no wonder you’re tired and want to go to bed. Somedays it’s enough just to stand and not weep at the headlines, to take the recycling out. To keep open, so that you can let one more good thing in.
---
This is something I wrote for my theatre class, more of a monologue than a poem? Not sure if the title works, or if opening with a question is too invasive.
Nine months: sweet nothings
I am a balloon oily with fingerprints under the shirt of this season
flaccid from escaped sips of air the friction of fingers
and the string that connects him and me is these lines
is all the words sighs songs ever exhaled between us
and now lips to belly he blows bewildered endearment
as though you were the faintest orb
a seedpod that could be dispersed
with the least breeze
to me you are a series of wet sneezes
that bent me double a wet wheeze a huff puff
that could kill off any wolf at any door
you are the storm that blew in humid and stayed
squatting over all the corners
and corridors of my city
but between the slow moan of the balloon
and the consumptive heave of the storm
the knot neither of us has yet to try
is that sound the lilt the tilt of the head
is always more important than sentiment
you sweet nothing you
* * *
Speaking of ruts, here's another baby poem...but I suppose it's appropriate, in that art generally imitates life. I can't stop talking about baby, either...but then, neither can anyone else.
I'm glad May's almost finished, otherwise I might be forced to write odes to my recently acquired mu-mus.
flaccid from escaped sips of air the friction of fingers
and the string that connects him and me is these lines
is all the words sighs songs ever exhaled between us
and now lips to belly he blows bewildered endearment
as though you were the faintest orb
a seedpod that could be dispersed
with the least breeze
to me you are a series of wet sneezes
that bent me double a wet wheeze a huff puff
that could kill off any wolf at any door
you are the storm that blew in humid and stayed
squatting over all the corners
and corridors of my city
but between the slow moan of the balloon
and the consumptive heave of the storm
the knot neither of us has yet to try
is that sound the lilt the tilt of the head
is always more important than sentiment
you sweet nothing you
* * *
Speaking of ruts, here's another baby poem...but I suppose it's appropriate, in that art generally imitates life. I can't stop talking about baby, either...but then, neither can anyone else.
I'm glad May's almost finished, otherwise I might be forced to write odes to my recently acquired mu-mus.
Found
Rummaging through containers
of old seeds and garden twine
he found a pair of amber earrings
and brought them to her
in a small white swan,
some plastic wedding favor
from a distant cousin’s nuptials—
the opalescent swan
bending it’s pearly head
like a ride in a park lake
holding the precious amber bits
in the hollow of it’s back, a gift,
and all the delicious smells and
distant sounds, the shape of the shops
in that pastel Mexican village
where jewelry was purchased
come gliding back, leaving a wake
on the surface of time spent there
a vast lake of recollection
with it’s own depths and golden liquidity,
smelling like desert mountain air
corn and peppers and sugar
in autumn, the year they escaped
convoluted holiday suppers in the states
and hid in another language,
a feast far from turkeys
with mariachi bands
playing tunes while she wore
the novel amber ornaments,
honey resin set in silver
swaying in the garden courtyard
overflowing with tropical bougainvillea,
fountains flowing
and the two of them hiding
for a season
seemed so obvious,
a sensible decision
making it all right to wait
sleepy in the afternoons,
waiting for improved
timing to reappear,
as the amber earrings
have recalled.
of old seeds and garden twine
he found a pair of amber earrings
and brought them to her
in a small white swan,
some plastic wedding favor
from a distant cousin’s nuptials—
the opalescent swan
bending it’s pearly head
like a ride in a park lake
holding the precious amber bits
in the hollow of it’s back, a gift,
and all the delicious smells and
distant sounds, the shape of the shops
in that pastel Mexican village
where jewelry was purchased
come gliding back, leaving a wake
on the surface of time spent there
a vast lake of recollection
with it’s own depths and golden liquidity,
smelling like desert mountain air
corn and peppers and sugar
in autumn, the year they escaped
convoluted holiday suppers in the states
and hid in another language,
a feast far from turkeys
with mariachi bands
playing tunes while she wore
the novel amber ornaments,
honey resin set in silver
swaying in the garden courtyard
overflowing with tropical bougainvillea,
fountains flowing
and the two of them hiding
for a season
seemed so obvious,
a sensible decision
making it all right to wait
sleepy in the afternoons,
waiting for improved
timing to reappear,
as the amber earrings
have recalled.
Monday, May 29, 2006
sigh. another poem about the weather. i'm in a major, end-of-may rut.
matinee
clouds so low, so dark
they're grey blades
of a helicopter we duck
from, but watch warily
supple trees doubled,
afternoon crushed
by downdraft, scattered
we salvage what we can
grab, slide between fenceboards,
squeeze sideways from the day
i leave my gardening gloves
palm-up on the lawn,
two helpless hands
unable to cup the rain
we can't hear or see
inside the blacker day
of the movie theatre
matinee
clouds so low, so dark
they're grey blades
of a helicopter we duck
from, but watch warily
supple trees doubled,
afternoon crushed
by downdraft, scattered
we salvage what we can
grab, slide between fenceboards,
squeeze sideways from the day
i leave my gardening gloves
palm-up on the lawn,
two helpless hands
unable to cup the rain
we can't hear or see
inside the blacker day
of the movie theatre
bachelor buttons
the neighbour’s single idea
years narrowed by playing
the field, muddied feet forever sunk
in front lawns weeded in tantrums
keeps his brush cut head tidied
visits the barber on the corner
every two weeks, pays bills
weeks behind, trades clothes
in second hands, drinks beer
or cheap rye, the heart always
stronger than the liver, his last
date fourteen springs ago
every winter hungrier than the last
yet he keeps his blue more than the faith
that each year something good
will eventually blossom
years narrowed by playing
the field, muddied feet forever sunk
in front lawns weeded in tantrums
keeps his brush cut head tidied
visits the barber on the corner
every two weeks, pays bills
weeks behind, trades clothes
in second hands, drinks beer
or cheap rye, the heart always
stronger than the liver, his last
date fourteen springs ago
every winter hungrier than the last
yet he keeps his blue more than the faith
that each year something good
will eventually blossom
Headlines
When a popsicle costs a dollar, we stop taking twenty out of the machine and advance to one hundred. Housing prices eat upward on their graphs; half a million dollars now a starter home. At the bus stop outside the ferry terminal, a teenage boy fists a bottle of pop. We still drink to dull the senses. Excitement slurs his words, all huh-huh-huh’s. Beside him, stands a girl in heels and a short pleated skirt. At thirteen, I wasn’t ready for the need that entered, loveless. My best friend’s mom calling to say it was time for me to wear a bra. Now there are girls as early as ten that want to.
In conversation, we repeat ourselves for emphasis. "A 64 year old bus supervisor beat up over a fare dispute, now he’s got liver damage. 64 years old. Can you believe it? Christ." What do we do with this information? An 11 year old girl abducted, then found. Six dead in an aerial raid. I can’t help but wonder if we store it in our bodies as illness.
People wait for their luggage at the baggage pickup, trust their belongings will be returned safely to them. A small comfort. The bus arrives. We fold up the paper and go home. There are bills to pay. Everyday, a little less certain, we can shop our way out of escalated conflict and one in four breast cancer rates.
In conversation, we repeat ourselves for emphasis. "A 64 year old bus supervisor beat up over a fare dispute, now he’s got liver damage. 64 years old. Can you believe it? Christ." What do we do with this information? An 11 year old girl abducted, then found. Six dead in an aerial raid. I can’t help but wonder if we store it in our bodies as illness.
People wait for their luggage at the baggage pickup, trust their belongings will be returned safely to them. A small comfort. The bus arrives. We fold up the paper and go home. There are bills to pay. Everyday, a little less certain, we can shop our way out of escalated conflict and one in four breast cancer rates.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
summer snow
we wake up from a heavy dream
of summer -- so real we'd lifted
the window in our sleep to hear robins
the yard thick with a new snow
of elm seeds, round flakes
collecting in the folds
of tree-whipped porch screens,
like frost tatting windows in january
seeds gather in drifts, patch
the sidewalk cracks and catching
in the new blooms of iris,
blotting out forget-me-nots
we'd only just met the garden,
but we recognize its white absence
we expect to see our breath
as we stoop to pack snowballs
that disintegrate as they leave our hands
we rummage for shovels, scrape
the car, then stamp on the mat
tracking in snow that won't melt,
just wanders into the corners
and takes root, refusing
each pass of the broom
we wake up from a heavy dream
of summer -- so real we'd lifted
the window in our sleep to hear robins
the yard thick with a new snow
of elm seeds, round flakes
collecting in the folds
of tree-whipped porch screens,
like frost tatting windows in january
seeds gather in drifts, patch
the sidewalk cracks and catching
in the new blooms of iris,
blotting out forget-me-nots
we'd only just met the garden,
but we recognize its white absence
we expect to see our breath
as we stoop to pack snowballs
that disintegrate as they leave our hands
we rummage for shovels, scrape
the car, then stamp on the mat
tracking in snow that won't melt,
just wanders into the corners
and takes root, refusing
each pass of the broom
Crossing The Line
The broken fence will soon be mended
snaggletoothed slats all straightened
and realigned like a successful
dentist’s appointment, with only
a minimum amount of pain.
The city committee that calls itself
The Board of Adjustment
is making the neighbors adjust
the boards in their fence, after
the disarray of winter finally caught
the eye of some inspector. No amount
of good fencing will make these
neighbors good, but at least we
will be spared the sight of their
poor dog trying to squeeze through
in search of a yard where flowers
are allowed to bloom and wither
naturally, not beheaded in their prime
because they are staining the concrete.
snaggletoothed slats all straightened
and realigned like a successful
dentist’s appointment, with only
a minimum amount of pain.
The city committee that calls itself
The Board of Adjustment
is making the neighbors adjust
the boards in their fence, after
the disarray of winter finally caught
the eye of some inspector. No amount
of good fencing will make these
neighbors good, but at least we
will be spared the sight of their
poor dog trying to squeeze through
in search of a yard where flowers
are allowed to bloom and wither
naturally, not beheaded in their prime
because they are staining the concrete.
from yesterday...
humidity
trees huddle link
elbows and lean
in a dozen feet at least
over your head
but still you duck as you run
airway shrinking the path
a slow strangle of green
you use your hands to rip
away thin tripwires
garottes of caterpillar silk
windless hot in that way
shade can't slake the morning
airtight your throat choked
with indecisive insects
tendrils of rain pulled taut
around you but wetness
won't register on your skin
already slippery with the steady
work of feet and heart pumping
either end of a two-man saw your body
its wake of spent webs and stumps
humidity
trees huddle link
elbows and lean
in a dozen feet at least
over your head
but still you duck as you run
airway shrinking the path
a slow strangle of green
you use your hands to rip
away thin tripwires
garottes of caterpillar silk
windless hot in that way
shade can't slake the morning
airtight your throat choked
with indecisive insects
tendrils of rain pulled taut
around you but wetness
won't register on your skin
already slippery with the steady
work of feet and heart pumping
either end of a two-man saw your body
its wake of spent webs and stumps
Eight months: the gathering
As lightning flares like high beams through our window
I wake grunting to a gathering of trains
and your father shuffled over to the far rail
so like a log in some already polluted body of water
I can turn and turn again grunt and rise
only gets louder evacuating deep breaths
that shudder the room
I turn to hold him so that you can kick him too
and you do adding toes
to the skin of this early morning
the rain the last of the lightning
the still sounding trains
A car outside honks as the heavy fingers of rain
hands on gates on windows sills on all the scales
of my plinking night time fear descend
but these are no solitary loon calls
to the edges of night to the few lights in the distance
they are tight and sounding every few seconds
these are not worms surfacing for the rain
there are men staring out into the train yards
men moving between pneumatic rooms
and sounding the horns
The storm breaks through the sirens
all the thunder of trains shaking themselves
until it seems the sky the ground is shaking
my spine bearing your travels up and down the body
on schedule but oh it is so late
Across the city the trains shake themselves like dogs
like horses impatient for their hierarchy
their coupling and uncoupling regimented
long before this barrel race
shudder against flies against cold or boredom
back and forth precise adjustments
unknown to the pinions the gears
but necessary to the men that move them
shudder and shudder until there is a flash of light
and I think storm and I think trains and I think storm
And I can’t see out except into sleep
into this darkened room his breath
and I am too warm misaligned somehow
but like the night like the first thunderstorm of the season
this too will end the lights will flicker but come on
the sand behind my eyelids the grit at the curb
will wash away
I sleep and sleep again and wake
to a car speeding down the alley
leaving a streak in the puddles
in the unseen smear of night
skidding on wet grit and concrete
police sirens trailing after the brightening sky
like all of this has only been the winding
of the day’s gears
At the window again I want to know
which effects were the slippery turns of the log
the shift between night and day winter and spring
gestation and germination
which were the fingers of bulbs down in the yard
washed free of snow mould crystal
and soapy expectation and which were you
trying at me again
I wake grunting to a gathering of trains
and your father shuffled over to the far rail
so like a log in some already polluted body of water
I can turn and turn again grunt and rise
only gets louder evacuating deep breaths
that shudder the room
I turn to hold him so that you can kick him too
and you do adding toes
to the skin of this early morning
the rain the last of the lightning
the still sounding trains
A car outside honks as the heavy fingers of rain
hands on gates on windows sills on all the scales
of my plinking night time fear descend
but these are no solitary loon calls
to the edges of night to the few lights in the distance
they are tight and sounding every few seconds
these are not worms surfacing for the rain
there are men staring out into the train yards
men moving between pneumatic rooms
and sounding the horns
The storm breaks through the sirens
all the thunder of trains shaking themselves
until it seems the sky the ground is shaking
my spine bearing your travels up and down the body
on schedule but oh it is so late
Across the city the trains shake themselves like dogs
like horses impatient for their hierarchy
their coupling and uncoupling regimented
long before this barrel race
shudder against flies against cold or boredom
back and forth precise adjustments
unknown to the pinions the gears
but necessary to the men that move them
shudder and shudder until there is a flash of light
and I think storm and I think trains and I think storm
And I can’t see out except into sleep
into this darkened room his breath
and I am too warm misaligned somehow
but like the night like the first thunderstorm of the season
this too will end the lights will flicker but come on
the sand behind my eyelids the grit at the curb
will wash away
I sleep and sleep again and wake
to a car speeding down the alley
leaving a streak in the puddles
in the unseen smear of night
skidding on wet grit and concrete
police sirens trailing after the brightening sky
like all of this has only been the winding
of the day’s gears
At the window again I want to know
which effects were the slippery turns of the log
the shift between night and day winter and spring
gestation and germination
which were the fingers of bulbs down in the yard
washed free of snow mould crystal
and soapy expectation and which were you
trying at me again
Carnations
secretive floral planners
they achieve little
pay while floundering
in factories
or they knot in shows, cheap
chorus girls overworked
underpaid, bare-breasted
bodies trained to look
good standing.
they achieve little
pay while floundering
in factories
or they knot in shows, cheap
chorus girls overworked
underpaid, bare-breasted
bodies trained to look
good standing.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
As dusk approaches like
another evening walker smiling,
an unplaced neighbor strolling,
after pruning dead wood
from a skimpy rose hedge,
mostly avoiding the painful kiss
of hidden thorns, it’s only sane
that I should wander
down by the lavender mounds
and pull weeds from the feet
of fragrant feathery orbs
growing up pale purple—
hovering over the gray green fronds
tangled with ephemeral weeds—
offering no resistance, bowing out
for the lavender to hover—
pretty porcupines of blooms
sturdy living mounds
merely looking delicate
but holding aroma enough
to put clean tranquil visions
into dreams, leaving scent
from working hands in
my damp hair when loose tendrils
are brushed back from
my sweat washed forehead
and a few wands carry the
scent that is a color
back to perfume an evening.
another evening walker smiling,
an unplaced neighbor strolling,
after pruning dead wood
from a skimpy rose hedge,
mostly avoiding the painful kiss
of hidden thorns, it’s only sane
that I should wander
down by the lavender mounds
and pull weeds from the feet
of fragrant feathery orbs
growing up pale purple—
hovering over the gray green fronds
tangled with ephemeral weeds—
offering no resistance, bowing out
for the lavender to hover—
pretty porcupines of blooms
sturdy living mounds
merely looking delicate
but holding aroma enough
to put clean tranquil visions
into dreams, leaving scent
from working hands in
my damp hair when loose tendrils
are brushed back from
my sweat washed forehead
and a few wands carry the
scent that is a color
back to perfume an evening.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Soaking
After watering the gardens
and watching wet fall
in so many patterns—
sprays and snaky diamond blobs
when I whipped the hose
back and forth over the startled herbs
I let myself down into the water I drew
inside the house, rushing water
making a mini waterfall, beckoning—
big pile of peach soap bubbles,
filling the tub like whipped cream—
so delicious to my hungry skin
overheated from the afternoon,
starting to show sun’s blush—
just a hint of luster from oil
and sweat, dusted with potting soil—
needing the slide into clean water,
needing to float drained limbs
in whatever pond
I can make for myself
and three yellow duckies,
my skin drinks it all in.
After watering the gardens
and watching wet fall
in so many patterns—
sprays and snaky diamond blobs
when I whipped the hose
back and forth over the startled herbs
I let myself down into the water I drew
inside the house, rushing water
making a mini waterfall, beckoning—
big pile of peach soap bubbles,
filling the tub like whipped cream—
so delicious to my hungry skin
overheated from the afternoon,
starting to show sun’s blush—
just a hint of luster from oil
and sweat, dusted with potting soil—
needing the slide into clean water,
needing to float drained limbs
in whatever pond
I can make for myself
and three yellow duckies,
my skin drinks it all in.
la fiesta
clink lean, lime-choked beer bottles,
match mouths to the round, cold lips
and leave them panting, sweating
perfect circles onto the plastic tablecloth
make a toast to spanish laughter,
to the red-banded black fedora
and the singer wearing it, to salt
and pepper and paper napkins
kiss the evening on both cheeks,
lip-prints of chilies and heat, love
leftover from the day
clap after each song, every bite
of papusa and tortilla soft
and warm as an open mouth
let your voice off its leash,
pass your hands around and let everyone lick
the spice from your palms
then, drink again, this time to the lilacs
you'll twist from branches on the walk home,
the tune you'll shoo from your lips and
the chain link fence you'll drag your hand along
clink lean, lime-choked beer bottles,
match mouths to the round, cold lips
and leave them panting, sweating
perfect circles onto the plastic tablecloth
make a toast to spanish laughter,
to the red-banded black fedora
and the singer wearing it, to salt
and pepper and paper napkins
kiss the evening on both cheeks,
lip-prints of chilies and heat, love
leftover from the day
clap after each song, every bite
of papusa and tortilla soft
and warm as an open mouth
let your voice off its leash,
pass your hands around and let everyone lick
the spice from your palms
then, drink again, this time to the lilacs
you'll twist from branches on the walk home,
the tune you'll shoo from your lips and
the chain link fence you'll drag your hand along
nocturnal
where do poems go
on days so long and lithe
sunlight lolls all over
the sidewalks on lenore street,
stretches through mismatched fences,
meanders the verandahs until nine thirty
they must hole up, play solitaire,
wait out more flattering light --
streetlamps, porchglow, moon --
then lift their small heads,
nightcrawlers surfacing
where do poems go
on days so long and lithe
sunlight lolls all over
the sidewalks on lenore street,
stretches through mismatched fences,
meanders the verandahs until nine thirty
they must hole up, play solitaire,
wait out more flattering light --
streetlamps, porchglow, moon --
then lift their small heads,
nightcrawlers surfacing
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Searching for the right flower
It’s not a beginning I’m after—
my fetalled memory mimicked
each evening in heated bathing rituals.
(Tonight I cut my right knee
twice with a fresh razor, triple-
bladed for improved results).
Nor is it an end—
flour-beetles spent in spelt
cursing a kitchen coated
with little legs and bleach—
every cupboard cleared like a beach
when someone yells “shark”.
Tonight I’m looking for the middle—
some well-fashioned spell near
an already centred crust
similar to the common petunia’s
flawed shadow echoed in my mirror—
a light-weary shape steadying me.
My umbrella-body sprawls
chin up, head flush with porcelain
nothing holding but a knee.
my fetalled memory mimicked
each evening in heated bathing rituals.
(Tonight I cut my right knee
twice with a fresh razor, triple-
bladed for improved results).
Nor is it an end—
flour-beetles spent in spelt
cursing a kitchen coated
with little legs and bleach—
every cupboard cleared like a beach
when someone yells “shark”.
Tonight I’m looking for the middle—
some well-fashioned spell near
an already centred crust
similar to the common petunia’s
flawed shadow echoed in my mirror—
a light-weary shape steadying me.
My umbrella-body sprawls
chin up, head flush with porcelain
nothing holding but a knee.
Office Work
Come cubicle talk and paper cuts,
credit card interest that is your inbox.
Copiers and their fickle relations
with faxes and PDF’s.
Come paid coffee breaks and benefits,
stale air and industrial carpet.
Come dressed appropriately for well-oiled boredom.
Come patrons, come clients, come users
who empty their anger like a mail bag onto your desk,
who expect you to say yes, and thank them
for their business. Come willing to be scripted.
To hoard small tasks in order to feel important,
like putting the magazines out or changing
today’s date on the calendar.
Come carpal tunnel and bad posture.
Come missing a friend’s birthday
only to celebrate a co-workers.
Come ten years in, mortgaged,
and feeling like you can’t get out, can’t do any better.
Come resumes on file by the dozen, of those who would
take your place. Come inflation and 0.0.0. pay increases.
Come scissors with your name taped on them.
Come willing to stay for the pension.
credit card interest that is your inbox.
Copiers and their fickle relations
with faxes and PDF’s.
Come paid coffee breaks and benefits,
stale air and industrial carpet.
Come dressed appropriately for well-oiled boredom.
Come patrons, come clients, come users
who empty their anger like a mail bag onto your desk,
who expect you to say yes, and thank them
for their business. Come willing to be scripted.
To hoard small tasks in order to feel important,
like putting the magazines out or changing
today’s date on the calendar.
Come carpal tunnel and bad posture.
Come missing a friend’s birthday
only to celebrate a co-workers.
Come ten years in, mortgaged,
and feeling like you can’t get out, can’t do any better.
Come resumes on file by the dozen, of those who would
take your place. Come inflation and 0.0.0. pay increases.
Come scissors with your name taped on them.
Come willing to stay for the pension.
good news!
Hey all,
My poem, Seven months: the navel-gaze, has been selected for The Guardian Review's Poetry Workshop's April Shortlist.
Though the poem technically isn't a part of the May Day festivities, having been written and posted in April to my blog as well as another group on-line poetry project called Taking the Brim _ Took the Broom, I believe it was the first in the All Knocked Up series I've been writing of late...
Anyways, the way the Poetry Workshop works is this: "Every month, our poetry workshop is hosted by a different poet who sets an exercise, chooses the most interesting responses and offers an appraisal of them. That's the hard part taken care of - all you need to do is start writing ..."
For April, the poet was Scottish writer Jen Hadfield and the exercize anti-praise poems.
Interestingly, in her treatise on how to write anti-praise, Hadfield cites Canadian poet Wendy Morton...
Anyways, if you haven't seen this website/exercize yet, it's well worth checking out...
(Yay!)
My poem, Seven months: the navel-gaze, has been selected for The Guardian Review's Poetry Workshop's April Shortlist.
Though the poem technically isn't a part of the May Day festivities, having been written and posted in April to my blog as well as another group on-line poetry project called Taking the Brim _ Took the Broom, I believe it was the first in the All Knocked Up series I've been writing of late...
Anyways, the way the Poetry Workshop works is this: "Every month, our poetry workshop is hosted by a different poet who sets an exercise, chooses the most interesting responses and offers an appraisal of them. That's the hard part taken care of - all you need to do is start writing ..."
For April, the poet was Scottish writer Jen Hadfield and the exercize anti-praise poems.
Interestingly, in her treatise on how to write anti-praise, Hadfield cites Canadian poet Wendy Morton...
Anyways, if you haven't seen this website/exercize yet, it's well worth checking out...
(Yay!)
yesterday's poem.... again, having technical difficulties.
late may
summer knocks but kicks in
the door before we answer,
pyjamas at the foot of the bed,
we heat-dream of sleeping,
spread our fingers toward a mirage:
cool stretch of sheets, dry corner of pillow
trees mash branches
at the screen, push leaves
through mesh, into nostrils,
planting green so deep we'll have it
on our breath the end of september
a handful of breeze circles the house,
reads each piece of paper on the desk,
then huffs at the heat and leaves,
slamming the porch door
late may
summer knocks but kicks in
the door before we answer,
pyjamas at the foot of the bed,
we heat-dream of sleeping,
spread our fingers toward a mirage:
cool stretch of sheets, dry corner of pillow
trees mash branches
at the screen, push leaves
through mesh, into nostrils,
planting green so deep we'll have it
on our breath the end of september
a handful of breeze circles the house,
reads each piece of paper on the desk,
then huffs at the heat and leaves,
slamming the porch door
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Lights Out
Sometimes you just have to leave
the dishes in the sink
and go on to bed
with no regrets. Bowls
will wait and not shrivel
for lack of water or soap.
New flats of perennials pause
in the warm night, parked on the porch,
dry soil soaked in cool water,
drenched as soon as I got them home,
but still dry out as mosquito air sucks
everything up into already soaked
stars lurking in the clouds. I’ll
need whatever juice I can muster
to rise early before the shovel of heat
hits me alongside the head
and sends me staggering back
inside. It’s a race to dig and drop
starter sets of salvias, thyme
and gaillardia – before
the sun begins baking the soil
into an overdone cake. My skin
feels hot as a done muffin. I spent
too much time in the melting
glass house picking only
what I need and can pay for—
sweat showering me in
lavender rivulets,
dizzy green swimming
through the offerings.
The living wins this round—
dirty can just wait.
Sometimes you just have to leave
the dishes in the sink
and go on to bed
with no regrets. Bowls
will wait and not shrivel
for lack of water or soap.
New flats of perennials pause
in the warm night, parked on the porch,
dry soil soaked in cool water,
drenched as soon as I got them home,
but still dry out as mosquito air sucks
everything up into already soaked
stars lurking in the clouds. I’ll
need whatever juice I can muster
to rise early before the shovel of heat
hits me alongside the head
and sends me staggering back
inside. It’s a race to dig and drop
starter sets of salvias, thyme
and gaillardia – before
the sun begins baking the soil
into an overdone cake. My skin
feels hot as a done muffin. I spent
too much time in the melting
glass house picking only
what I need and can pay for—
sweat showering me in
lavender rivulets,
dizzy green swimming
through the offerings.
The living wins this round—
dirty can just wait.
Nine months: swelling and swollen
In the front street birds slide and pick at early morning
the whorls of my ears busy
with their spring fling song of staked territories
shreds of shell and exultation
remind me again that this is on schedule
like the cross-town wail of the first train
like yesterday’s strikes of rain and sun
that inflated my ankles
as though they were only ever slack inner tubes
waiting for this summer
for me to rise and resume this bloated ride
On the sidewalk the bus finds the dip where showers collect
the cobbles wetted down for a single mid-afternoon hour
spraying a confetti of dirty water up and down my legs
spring a currency none of us can spend
not the man rooted like a dandelion
in the gummy grit of spring
not the community cops that go jovial when they see him
remind me again how the cops had stripped down
bunches of lilacs
instead of guns in the small of their backs
the leaves wilting against the uniform belief
that something can be done that there will be more
than bare branches and suckers next year
and I’ll assume the solid cast of poured plaster
the soon-to-split ripeness
of another day
the whorls of my ears busy
with their spring fling song of staked territories
shreds of shell and exultation
remind me again that this is on schedule
like the cross-town wail of the first train
like yesterday’s strikes of rain and sun
that inflated my ankles
as though they were only ever slack inner tubes
waiting for this summer
for me to rise and resume this bloated ride
On the sidewalk the bus finds the dip where showers collect
the cobbles wetted down for a single mid-afternoon hour
spraying a confetti of dirty water up and down my legs
spring a currency none of us can spend
not the man rooted like a dandelion
in the gummy grit of spring
not the community cops that go jovial when they see him
remind me again how the cops had stripped down
bunches of lilacs
instead of guns in the small of their backs
the leaves wilting against the uniform belief
that something can be done that there will be more
than bare branches and suckers next year
and I’ll assume the solid cast of poured plaster
the soon-to-split ripeness
of another day
Slumber
Ride the crosstown bus everyday
and never see the same person twice.
Think nothing of it,
going to the store for milk
filling our baskets with more
value-added and bonus. We want
to read the paper and window shop,
have weekends off. Who doesn’t?
The first woman soldier killed in battle,
only there’s no war on. Signs
become the new landmarks, I love
hats, gas at 121.5, J76 Casualwear.
If you add up those minutes, weeks are spent
sitting next to someone on blue vinyl
saying nothing. Maybe this year we’ll write
a few donations. Get a tax write-off.
Maybe we’ll go farther into debt,
lanyards and security cards,
farther into slumber.
and never see the same person twice.
Think nothing of it,
going to the store for milk
filling our baskets with more
value-added and bonus. We want
to read the paper and window shop,
have weekends off. Who doesn’t?
The first woman soldier killed in battle,
only there’s no war on. Signs
become the new landmarks, I love
hats, gas at 121.5, J76 Casualwear.
If you add up those minutes, weeks are spent
sitting next to someone on blue vinyl
saying nothing. Maybe this year we’ll write
a few donations. Get a tax write-off.
Maybe we’ll go farther into debt,
lanyards and security cards,
farther into slumber.
Well...
I fell off the poetry wagon and rolled all the way down to the bottom of the hill. In my defense, I've been writing a novel, but really there isn't any excuse other than, "ooops." I have been reading everyone else's poems regularly, however.
5 AM
The road and the sky
are the same slate grey. Everywhere
grey light, as though the coming sun
has woken the world to its own
potential for vision. We feel
very distinct, tired but clear,
our eyes wide open.
On the bridge, a man with a dog
watches the river change colour.
His shoulders are square. His
dog lays by his feet, head on paws. They could
have been there all night, they
indicate with their relaxed tableau,
they could be there all day.
It is fragile, this grey clarity. Even
as I come back alone from
the airport, the streets have begun
to lose their quiet. At the turn onto Portage,
three cars wait with mine, and at the
Tim Horton's drive through, a tail
of commuters are ordering muffins,
starting the day.
At home, I surrender to my bed
again, although I do not sleep. The cat
comes to knead your pillow and I watch
the light brighten behind the curtains,
I can't seem to close my eyes, I imagine
your plane lifting into the sky, slipping
between the sun's fingers, a grey bird
chasing night all the way to Edmonton.
5 AM
The road and the sky
are the same slate grey. Everywhere
grey light, as though the coming sun
has woken the world to its own
potential for vision. We feel
very distinct, tired but clear,
our eyes wide open.
On the bridge, a man with a dog
watches the river change colour.
His shoulders are square. His
dog lays by his feet, head on paws. They could
have been there all night, they
indicate with their relaxed tableau,
they could be there all day.
It is fragile, this grey clarity. Even
as I come back alone from
the airport, the streets have begun
to lose their quiet. At the turn onto Portage,
three cars wait with mine, and at the
Tim Horton's drive through, a tail
of commuters are ordering muffins,
starting the day.
At home, I surrender to my bed
again, although I do not sleep. The cat
comes to knead your pillow and I watch
the light brighten behind the curtains,
I can't seem to close my eyes, I imagine
your plane lifting into the sky, slipping
between the sun's fingers, a grey bird
chasing night all the way to Edmonton.
Repeat Offender
A repeat offender with a radio collar,
we track his signal by satellite.
As roads tear the backcountry
into saleable morsels, corridor to campground,
he always returns, rooting about
for half-eaten hotdogs buried in ash.
Relocation’s a tricky business–
when the door to the cage slams shut,
and the bear pummels its weight
against the walls, who’ll volunteer
once we’ve flown upriver,
to stand and pull the 100m cord?
Watch the bear tear out into the scrub,
or turn, thump the ground, charge.
Three strikes, he’s out.
No life sentence or rehab,
just the long cylinder of the rifle
tracking its bullet towards the head.
----
This is Tuesday's poem, posted in the wee hours. Not sure about the narrative structure in the above poem. The tone, the use of we. I'm struggling a bit trying to get emotion into the piece. Any thoughts? Also, in lieu of missing Monday's post, here's another poem that I'll dedicate to Anna who is already a few weeks into her season in the fire tower. Somethings I don't miss about the job and 3-6 is one of them.
Domestic
Snug elastic, the afternoon chafes.
Those hours between three and six
when the radio plays nothing but jazz
and you’re stuck inside a fire tower all day,
peeing in a jar. What you’d hoped to do
won’t get done, but it’s too early to give up
trying. In German, there’s a word for
men who iron their underwear,
but you’ve long since forgotten it.
Few things are certain: without floss
all roads lead to gingivitis. Most people cheat
at crossword puzzles. Cotton shrinks.
we track his signal by satellite.
As roads tear the backcountry
into saleable morsels, corridor to campground,
he always returns, rooting about
for half-eaten hotdogs buried in ash.
Relocation’s a tricky business–
when the door to the cage slams shut,
and the bear pummels its weight
against the walls, who’ll volunteer
once we’ve flown upriver,
to stand and pull the 100m cord?
Watch the bear tear out into the scrub,
or turn, thump the ground, charge.
Three strikes, he’s out.
No life sentence or rehab,
just the long cylinder of the rifle
tracking its bullet towards the head.
----
This is Tuesday's poem, posted in the wee hours. Not sure about the narrative structure in the above poem. The tone, the use of we. I'm struggling a bit trying to get emotion into the piece. Any thoughts? Also, in lieu of missing Monday's post, here's another poem that I'll dedicate to Anna who is already a few weeks into her season in the fire tower. Somethings I don't miss about the job and 3-6 is one of them.
Domestic
Snug elastic, the afternoon chafes.
Those hours between three and six
when the radio plays nothing but jazz
and you’re stuck inside a fire tower all day,
peeing in a jar. What you’d hoped to do
won’t get done, but it’s too early to give up
trying. In German, there’s a word for
men who iron their underwear,
but you’ve long since forgotten it.
Few things are certain: without floss
all roads lead to gingivitis. Most people cheat
at crossword puzzles. Cotton shrinks.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
The latest rash of babies turning up
in dumpsters has hit the city news
and made me sick again. I am losing patience
with these women who can’t take the child
to a church hospital fire station or
just an old fashioned basket at a neighbors’
door. What’s wrong with this mess that
it’s being repeated over and over
while the anchorwoman reports—Baby Doe
found yesterday is still in serious condition
but is expected to make it.—Make what?
A happy holiday in some foster home
that won’t mind if the plastic bags cut off
oxygen and hope from a new brain needing
to find a way out of the trash,
some kind of receiving blanket besides
old newspapers and banana peels?
I’m trying to keep my compassion up,
trying to imagine the vacant logic that
even for a moment though it was a good idea
to treat some little person who had so
recently emerged as garbage.
in dumpsters has hit the city news
and made me sick again. I am losing patience
with these women who can’t take the child
to a church hospital fire station or
just an old fashioned basket at a neighbors’
door. What’s wrong with this mess that
it’s being repeated over and over
while the anchorwoman reports—Baby Doe
found yesterday is still in serious condition
but is expected to make it.—Make what?
A happy holiday in some foster home
that won’t mind if the plastic bags cut off
oxygen and hope from a new brain needing
to find a way out of the trash,
some kind of receiving blanket besides
old newspapers and banana peels?
I’m trying to keep my compassion up,
trying to imagine the vacant logic that
even for a moment though it was a good idea
to treat some little person who had so
recently emerged as garbage.
hangover
the weekend is nearly asleep
but in the fissures of monday morning --
seven-minute snooze between alarms,
a red light, empty coffee cup --
you can still find heat stored
on your skin, garden under your nails
and gripped in the folds of your mind
you wither at the thought of socks,
the plot of office, you sit at your desk but can't
open the door to your work -- a key
broken off, your brain snagged
on sunday, memories of sunshine
barging in like dandelions in the lawn
by now the storm you're watching will have breached
the screens, all the windows in the house
left up, leftover from a time before rain
was born, just yesterday there weren't clouds,
the only grey found in the shade of elms,
chest feathers of sparrows, uprooted worms
you spend the day pinching your blisters,
your patch of sunburn, trying to hold
at the surface the person you are
in barefeet, under a blue sky
the weekend is nearly asleep
but in the fissures of monday morning --
seven-minute snooze between alarms,
a red light, empty coffee cup --
you can still find heat stored
on your skin, garden under your nails
and gripped in the folds of your mind
you wither at the thought of socks,
the plot of office, you sit at your desk but can't
open the door to your work -- a key
broken off, your brain snagged
on sunday, memories of sunshine
barging in like dandelions in the lawn
by now the storm you're watching will have breached
the screens, all the windows in the house
left up, leftover from a time before rain
was born, just yesterday there weren't clouds,
the only grey found in the shade of elms,
chest feathers of sparrows, uprooted worms
you spend the day pinching your blisters,
your patch of sunburn, trying to hold
at the surface the person you are
in barefeet, under a blue sky
Tell-a-phone
Not my number though, a relative's.
pansies
arthritic old men
hunched in white plastic chairs, their eyes
squinted, too many years
smoking
heat, watching
days go by
pansies
arthritic old men
hunched in white plastic chairs, their eyes
squinted, too many years
smoking
heat, watching
days go by
I’d given up on her arrival when dusk
fell in the slow-motion way of May,
sun digging it’s heels in to slow it’s descent
wanting to stay up for a glass of water,
but I was able to rise from my reading
and head out for some weeding, once
help arrived. We tackled the ring around
the tulip poplar, pulling wild strawberries
from the grass pie and tossing roots like
centipedes with hundred of hair legs
flinging composted blackness into the
coffee night air dripping around us.
Dirt climbed under our nails and gave
us honest hands, no denying the work
we were brewing, passing time, ripping
roots, flinging rhythmically to the
noise of night bugs—none biting by some
magic of weeding fury that wrapped us
in our devotion, our kneeling in dirt,
our preparation for flats of color
coming to adorn this place of communion
between growing things with hands and those
without, wormy things blessing the ground
before heading back to their work, lady bugs
flying home to eat aphids and kiss rosebuds.
Two hours we weeded and never once felt the sting
of anything besides the bite to get things planted.
fell in the slow-motion way of May,
sun digging it’s heels in to slow it’s descent
wanting to stay up for a glass of water,
but I was able to rise from my reading
and head out for some weeding, once
help arrived. We tackled the ring around
the tulip poplar, pulling wild strawberries
from the grass pie and tossing roots like
centipedes with hundred of hair legs
flinging composted blackness into the
coffee night air dripping around us.
Dirt climbed under our nails and gave
us honest hands, no denying the work
we were brewing, passing time, ripping
roots, flinging rhythmically to the
noise of night bugs—none biting by some
magic of weeding fury that wrapped us
in our devotion, our kneeling in dirt,
our preparation for flats of color
coming to adorn this place of communion
between growing things with hands and those
without, wormy things blessing the ground
before heading back to their work, lady bugs
flying home to eat aphids and kiss rosebuds.
Two hours we weeded and never once felt the sting
of anything besides the bite to get things planted.
Monday, May 22, 2006
toofer won
pardon the long-weekend backlog... here's two day's worth of poems, which makes us square. not that anyone's counting.
*
heliotropes
we fall through a sunlit crack
in the afternoon, four of us gathered
in a sling of oak and poplar,
a warm, green lobe pinched off
by the assiniboine
tree roots knit a nest
the depth of a sunday hour,
of sitting and breathing,
eating fruit and almonds
a pale, overgrown species
of woodland sunflowers, we track
the sun with our faces, unable
to untangle ourselves
from the young ferns, lift
our roots from the moss
and walk back to the car
*
slake
leonard cohen is lounging
on my verandah, the flat
of a glass of wine pressed
to his chest, waiting for me
to finish the weeding
i open the screen door,
remove his jacket,
slip my fingers between
his pages and let the words slide
down my throat
*
heliotropes
we fall through a sunlit crack
in the afternoon, four of us gathered
in a sling of oak and poplar,
a warm, green lobe pinched off
by the assiniboine
tree roots knit a nest
the depth of a sunday hour,
of sitting and breathing,
eating fruit and almonds
a pale, overgrown species
of woodland sunflowers, we track
the sun with our faces, unable
to untangle ourselves
from the young ferns, lift
our roots from the moss
and walk back to the car
*
slake
leonard cohen is lounging
on my verandah, the flat
of a glass of wine pressed
to his chest, waiting for me
to finish the weeding
i open the screen door,
remove his jacket,
slip my fingers between
his pages and let the words slide
down my throat
escape
Apologies, I've been away from the boards preparing an application for a screenwriting program. Lots of words but none of them here!
Taking the inspiration, here is a phone poem (# is family friends from my youth)
Escape
Wasn't always like this
I was young once like you
But things change
Life goes quickly on
Though we beg it to throw on the brakes
Barring that, jump
from grey vans hurtling down the highway
Taking the inspiration, here is a phone poem (# is family friends from my youth)
Escape
Wasn't always like this
I was young once like you
But things change
Life goes quickly on
Though we beg it to throw on the brakes
Barring that, jump
from grey vans hurtling down the highway
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Polishing silver earrings I recall
women who gave them to me
over years quivering like a heat mirage
barely visible at this distance.
No precious stones or gold,
no fortunes spent to please a magpie.
I have always been content
with silver in inventive shapes,
just silver that requires attention.
Touch it with the hands
remove the tarnish with
tiny rubbed circles.
Use a special cloth, so old
and full of tarnish smudge—
minuscule molecules of spent silver,
exposed to air and darkened
silently when I wasn’t looking
not paying attention.
I look for the women in the cloth—
but they are smudges in history
left to darken or die
or fade from the brilliance
that sent silver my way,
then lost it’s luster when
I wasn’t paying attention.
women who gave them to me
over years quivering like a heat mirage
barely visible at this distance.
No precious stones or gold,
no fortunes spent to please a magpie.
I have always been content
with silver in inventive shapes,
just silver that requires attention.
Touch it with the hands
remove the tarnish with
tiny rubbed circles.
Use a special cloth, so old
and full of tarnish smudge—
minuscule molecules of spent silver,
exposed to air and darkened
silently when I wasn’t looking
not paying attention.
I look for the women in the cloth—
but they are smudges in history
left to darken or die
or fade from the brilliance
that sent silver my way,
then lost it’s luster when
I wasn’t paying attention.
Some haiku
snapdragons
are bullies in bed
prefer to rest in warmed sheets
pretend to be gods
snapdragons
velvet rainbow tubes
attract more than their fair share
of snipped attention
snapdragons
despise crowds and break
suspenders of green-eyed thumbs
crushed under pressure
are bullies in bed
prefer to rest in warmed sheets
pretend to be gods
snapdragons
velvet rainbow tubes
attract more than their fair share
of snipped attention
snapdragons
despise crowds and break
suspenders of green-eyed thumbs
crushed under pressure
Saturday, May 20, 2006
We got to market late again
arriving with no time to spare.
Some farmers were already gone
back to henhouses and spinach rows.
Some stalls were bare plywood
embarrassingly nude of food.
So we had to buy eggs from a skinny
cackling woman hawking next
to the grizzled onion seller
with a bad comb-over,
who may be her father or brother
but finally got a haircut, thank goodness.
While we stood waiting, the round women
next to me took every
last one of the red bell peppers—
two fat bags of waxed crimson
trucked in from Florida this time of year—
so I took a basket of what looked like
badly treated Christmas ornaments,
shades of green and yellow
not even coming close to red.
The ladies in the spice shop hobbled
back and forth behind the counter
on swollen feet –
the end of shift approaching—
carrying their smiles above weary bodies,
yet remember what we like
and apologize for being out
a certain sausage they make.
Come back next week, we’ll have more.
The baker’s wife had rolls half price,
our thin reward for coming late,
but warns us, all the booths
with local strawberries sold out
already, so sorry, they were so sweet.
As we made our way dodging
the dwindling crowd,
two cotton mesh bags expanded
to hold abundant bunches of broccoli—
three heads for a dollar, lady,
take ‘em off my hands, lady—
so we waddled out of the market
like packed mules sagging
under the weight of our own provisions.
arriving with no time to spare.
Some farmers were already gone
back to henhouses and spinach rows.
Some stalls were bare plywood
embarrassingly nude of food.
So we had to buy eggs from a skinny
cackling woman hawking next
to the grizzled onion seller
with a bad comb-over,
who may be her father or brother
but finally got a haircut, thank goodness.
While we stood waiting, the round women
next to me took every
last one of the red bell peppers—
two fat bags of waxed crimson
trucked in from Florida this time of year—
so I took a basket of what looked like
badly treated Christmas ornaments,
shades of green and yellow
not even coming close to red.
The ladies in the spice shop hobbled
back and forth behind the counter
on swollen feet –
the end of shift approaching—
carrying their smiles above weary bodies,
yet remember what we like
and apologize for being out
a certain sausage they make.
Come back next week, we’ll have more.
The baker’s wife had rolls half price,
our thin reward for coming late,
but warns us, all the booths
with local strawberries sold out
already, so sorry, they were so sweet.
As we made our way dodging
the dwindling crowd,
two cotton mesh bags expanded
to hold abundant bunches of broccoli—
three heads for a dollar, lady,
take ‘em off my hands, lady—
so we waddled out of the market
like packed mules sagging
under the weight of our own provisions.
night walk
you don't ask what time it is
when i say i can't sleep
just come straight from a dream
and tell me you like to walk
across empty parking lots
with your eyes closed, measuring
the length of your comfort in the dark
like holding your breath or a flame
to your palm, surveying the territory
of your conviction, your capacity
to travel the underside of the familiar
i try wandering blindly
through the bed, but
even with you as my landmark, i can't
help opening my eyes, checking
my position in relation to the clock
you don't ask what time it is
when i say i can't sleep
just come straight from a dream
and tell me you like to walk
across empty parking lots
with your eyes closed, measuring
the length of your comfort in the dark
like holding your breath or a flame
to your palm, surveying the territory
of your conviction, your capacity
to travel the underside of the familiar
i try wandering blindly
through the bed, but
even with you as my landmark, i can't
help opening my eyes, checking
my position in relation to the clock
Friday, May 19, 2006
The things with wings are flying in
like shadows that you hear,
a speck so fast it was not seen
as I read in the room.
The only proof one came at all is
memory of the thud
against the glass closed to the sky.
It must have looked bird-open.
How could a little fledgling know
the air would be so hard,
the exit blocked—
then nothing?
I did look up and nothing saw.
I went back to my book.
Who was more startled when it woke
among the potted plants
and tumbled to the table’s edge
to find the floor so far?
A tiny swoop to land upon
the carpet by the books
piled high like shrubs to hide among,
so why not have adventure?
It would not fly from room to room
But chose to hop around.
A mouse brown bird and just
as small, with pale yellow shoulders
made my chest jump with each
new hop, while thinking,
“Where’s the cat?”
I followed with a towel to throw—
on good advice from friends—
but young is faster than these bones
and makes a good escape.
When I gave up to read awhile
and form some strategy,
the cat came home and fetched the bird
from underneath a bed—
in it’s dark jaws so full of teeth
I knew the bird was dead.
I grabbed the cat by her neck’s nape
and being full,
she dropped her toy.
I braced myself with tissued hand
and knelt to scoop the body,
when off it hopped and threw me back
with a mild coronary.
The little devil, sly and slight
stood posing in the hall
while I removed the peevish cat
and closed the open doors.
I found a basket small enough
And threw it like a trap
to port the youngster back outside
to play in the azaleas.
The cat is back upon my lap.
She thinks we had a party.
No doubt at all,
the screens go on
first thing in the morning.
like shadows that you hear,
a speck so fast it was not seen
as I read in the room.
The only proof one came at all is
memory of the thud
against the glass closed to the sky.
It must have looked bird-open.
How could a little fledgling know
the air would be so hard,
the exit blocked—
then nothing?
I did look up and nothing saw.
I went back to my book.
Who was more startled when it woke
among the potted plants
and tumbled to the table’s edge
to find the floor so far?
A tiny swoop to land upon
the carpet by the books
piled high like shrubs to hide among,
so why not have adventure?
It would not fly from room to room
But chose to hop around.
A mouse brown bird and just
as small, with pale yellow shoulders
made my chest jump with each
new hop, while thinking,
“Where’s the cat?”
I followed with a towel to throw—
on good advice from friends—
but young is faster than these bones
and makes a good escape.
When I gave up to read awhile
and form some strategy,
the cat came home and fetched the bird
from underneath a bed—
in it’s dark jaws so full of teeth
I knew the bird was dead.
I grabbed the cat by her neck’s nape
and being full,
she dropped her toy.
I braced myself with tissued hand
and knelt to scoop the body,
when off it hopped and threw me back
with a mild coronary.
The little devil, sly and slight
stood posing in the hall
while I removed the peevish cat
and closed the open doors.
I found a basket small enough
And threw it like a trap
to port the youngster back outside
to play in the azaleas.
The cat is back upon my lap.
She thinks we had a party.
No doubt at all,
the screens go on
first thing in the morning.
bleeding hearts
hibernate an ongoing ache in narrowly ground chambers, measure
grief in seasons, find the sum of every year is carried over, wintered beds
subtracted in eager homecomings, and the previous year’s obsession
reduced to memory by a quick, pointed romance, their own movement
manic: love and the newly multiplied reason for existence—every year
they rise to the challenge, collapse once more in sweet palmed
longing, a summer crush of pink and green lives turned, the heart
upside down, and the center of each swollen self, falling
grief in seasons, find the sum of every year is carried over, wintered beds
subtracted in eager homecomings, and the previous year’s obsession
reduced to memory by a quick, pointed romance, their own movement
manic: love and the newly multiplied reason for existence—every year
they rise to the challenge, collapse once more in sweet palmed
longing, a summer crush of pink and green lives turned, the heart
upside down, and the center of each swollen self, falling
night vision
you can't batten down your eyelids,
can't lace the lashes tonight
wriggling from the palm of the pillow,
your mind won't be pinned
you roll around the bed like an idea
refusing to take root, a loose key
a scrappy stray wandering,
sniffing for sympathy
it takes all night to count the breaths
of the house, to watch the clock drag its hands
nothing will still long enough
for you to tie a knot in the day
a robin, a white-throated sparrow conspire,
pry open the window, slide
their voices over the sill and you try
again to make eye contact with sleep
you can't batten down your eyelids,
can't lace the lashes tonight
wriggling from the palm of the pillow,
your mind won't be pinned
you roll around the bed like an idea
refusing to take root, a loose key
a scrappy stray wandering,
sniffing for sympathy
it takes all night to count the breaths
of the house, to watch the clock drag its hands
nothing will still long enough
for you to tie a knot in the day
a robin, a white-throated sparrow conspire,
pry open the window, slide
their voices over the sill and you try
again to make eye contact with sleep
When I'm 64
Chestnuts bloom pink and white, candy-stripers
outside the old folks home. It’s talent night;
some cheery voice sings despite the shabby chairs
and poor attendance. Walkers and wheelchairs
count the parts replaced, clock
the warranty on what’s left
while I slow-shuffle the block,
pause outside the iron-wrought to listen.
Almost thirty and another hour lost
to the piston of negative self-talk.
I don’t look at people as they pass.
The piano is all raised eyebrows, high notes.
In the courtyard, some fool’s planted tomatoes
certain the danger of frost has passed.
---
Okay, a late night post, but here it is. I'm off to the island for the long weekend; I'll be without internet access till Tuesday. I look forward to reading your weekend posts then. Thanks so much for the encouragement this week. It was a struggle sometimes.
outside the old folks home. It’s talent night;
some cheery voice sings despite the shabby chairs
and poor attendance. Walkers and wheelchairs
count the parts replaced, clock
the warranty on what’s left
while I slow-shuffle the block,
pause outside the iron-wrought to listen.
Almost thirty and another hour lost
to the piston of negative self-talk.
I don’t look at people as they pass.
The piano is all raised eyebrows, high notes.
In the courtyard, some fool’s planted tomatoes
certain the danger of frost has passed.
---
Okay, a late night post, but here it is. I'm off to the island for the long weekend; I'll be without internet access till Tuesday. I look forward to reading your weekend posts then. Thanks so much for the encouragement this week. It was a struggle sometimes.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
This is the time of the biting bugs
the time when screens should go up,
doors should not be left wide open,
and attention should be paid
when wandering at dusk to view stars.
This is the time when slight flutters
on the arm may bite in the next breath,
before you can wipe it away,
before you realize it’s not just wind
moving tiny hairs against tan skin.
This is the time when day is slightly darkened,
metallic webbing stretched over glass,
light sacrificed for safety, the simple safety
netting provides some sleepers in Africa,
some lucky enough to own it.
This is the time when I remember
the treasure of walls and floors
and beds and screens and all the things
that divide our children from the death
waiting in a silent bite.
the time when screens should go up,
doors should not be left wide open,
and attention should be paid
when wandering at dusk to view stars.
This is the time when slight flutters
on the arm may bite in the next breath,
before you can wipe it away,
before you realize it’s not just wind
moving tiny hairs against tan skin.
This is the time when day is slightly darkened,
metallic webbing stretched over glass,
light sacrificed for safety, the simple safety
netting provides some sleepers in Africa,
some lucky enough to own it.
This is the time when I remember
the treasure of walls and floors
and beds and screens and all the things
that divide our children from the death
waiting in a silent bite.
just a little untitled lunch-hour dealie from me today...
you've waited too long
to shore up your mind,
correct your spine,
you've been eroded
by the small winged worries
that live on blood,
use your energy and patience
to make their little nests
you are brittle now,
always holding a glass
of milk, hiding small nicks
on your skin
with styptic fingertips
you sit and bite
at the air, arms too worn
to wave away gnats
no one else can see
you've waited too long
to shore up your mind,
correct your spine,
you've been eroded
by the small winged worries
that live on blood,
use your energy and patience
to make their little nests
you are brittle now,
always holding a glass
of milk, hiding small nicks
on your skin
with styptic fingertips
you sit and bite
at the air, arms too worn
to wave away gnats
no one else can see
When words roll through my head
like cattle through a dusty trail
in a distant canyon land
I can almost hear the calling back and forth
the insistent moaning as they travel
on their way to slaughter
hesitant to arrive anywhere
and so plod on at their own pace
herded with great difficulty
from one point to another.
A snake’s rattle or telephone ring
can send them all stampeding.
like cattle through a dusty trail
in a distant canyon land
I can almost hear the calling back and forth
the insistent moaning as they travel
on their way to slaughter
hesitant to arrive anywhere
and so plod on at their own pace
herded with great difficulty
from one point to another.
A snake’s rattle or telephone ring
can send them all stampeding.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
just like
you're just like leonard cohen,
the way you bring my groceries in,
though you lack the old man cap,
the dark slant, the manners
but you do him better,
pushing the cart and paying the bill,
stacking the cans of beans in the cupboard,
balancing the avacado and tomatoes
you'll never sing my name,
won't make me into a poem,
but you kiss me in the dairy aisle
like he would, like it's the only item on the list
you're just like leonard cohen,
the way you bring my groceries in,
though you lack the old man cap,
the dark slant, the manners
but you do him better,
pushing the cart and paying the bill,
stacking the cans of beans in the cupboard,
balancing the avacado and tomatoes
you'll never sing my name,
won't make me into a poem,
but you kiss me in the dairy aisle
like he would, like it's the only item on the list
Peacekeeping
An army of stench,
the marigold stands
planted at attention.
Half camouflaged
in green fatigues,
they salute each other
from end to end.
Always an edgy
operation, they’re
the garden’s best
defense— soldiers
and leaves as artillery.
Marigolds hold
front lines, borders,
and beds, fight
for petaline rights
in mud trenches.
They wear their
orange permed dos
in undone helmets,
alert folks at the back
with surveillance,
watch for the multi-legged
drone of the enemy,
fast conduct of bees
active air conflict,
or a probing cat
who squats, dropping
his dirty bomb
one foot away.
the marigold stands
planted at attention.
Half camouflaged
in green fatigues,
they salute each other
from end to end.
Always an edgy
operation, they’re
the garden’s best
defense— soldiers
and leaves as artillery.
Marigolds hold
front lines, borders,
and beds, fight
for petaline rights
in mud trenches.
They wear their
orange permed dos
in undone helmets,
alert folks at the back
with surveillance,
watch for the multi-legged
drone of the enemy,
fast conduct of bees
active air conflict,
or a probing cat
who squats, dropping
his dirty bomb
one foot away.
Between midnight and one am
I realize I’ve left my laundry in the dryer,
forgot to buy cereal, someone’s
pawed through my day fourteen underwear
and there’s nothing for breakfast.
The day’s spent, but still
I check email, cruise MLS. Scrutinize
my face with a magnifying mirror. Worry
about the groceries I bought on overdraft,
how the bank dings me two dollars
every time I dip into the red.
Body sacked over the chair, I’m unwilling
to usher myself the few steps to bed,
so I type long overdue replies with one hand
till something gives–the clock punched,
I collapse, having earned my seven hour leave.
forgot to buy cereal, someone’s
pawed through my day fourteen underwear
and there’s nothing for breakfast.
The day’s spent, but still
I check email, cruise MLS. Scrutinize
my face with a magnifying mirror. Worry
about the groceries I bought on overdraft,
how the bank dings me two dollars
every time I dip into the red.
Body sacked over the chair, I’m unwilling
to usher myself the few steps to bed,
so I type long overdue replies with one hand
till something gives–the clock punched,
I collapse, having earned my seven hour leave.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
The candle scent is Sunflower—
meaningless unless you’re into
marketing—
but stale
smoke in the office fades
under the influence
of the small flame
hotly luminating
cut glass walls, a votive
holder too expensive-looking
to be bought by me,
yet
I can’t think of
who would give such a gift
and why to me?
After so
many continuous days of rain
even the suggestion of sun
is the real gift.
meaningless unless you’re into
marketing—
but stale
smoke in the office fades
under the influence
of the small flame
hotly luminating
cut glass walls, a votive
holder too expensive-looking
to be bought by me,
yet
I can’t think of
who would give such a gift
and why to me?
After so
many continuous days of rain
even the suggestion of sun
is the real gift.
taking off
let's wake up early and like robins --
singing, primed to fly
we'll light the laughter of the floorboards
before the sun even knuckles
sleep out of its eyes
pull the plug on the alarm,
on time itself, and obligations
punch t-shirts into a backpack,
let our jobs go like a handful of dandelion seeds
we'll slip out of the grid of days
and lists, the measure of property lines
and stretch
wave to the stunned stucco face
and tell the garden to stand up for itself
let's wake up early and like robins --
singing, primed to fly
we'll light the laughter of the floorboards
before the sun even knuckles
sleep out of its eyes
pull the plug on the alarm,
on time itself, and obligations
punch t-shirts into a backpack,
let our jobs go like a handful of dandelion seeds
we'll slip out of the grid of days
and lists, the measure of property lines
and stretch
wave to the stunned stucco face
and tell the garden to stand up for itself
Game
At least you’re not raging anymore she says
well into their third pint, as they sit on the patio
trading divorce stories.
Maybe it’s their age, maybe it’s ours,
but I don’t want to be like them,
having just become comfortable with small silences
across the table, as we play scrabble, wanting
the possibility of a close score, a perfect ending,
not some hundred point gap. A year and a half later
and I’m feeling better about it she says
though I still have that impulse to google
him late at night. Sometimes I forget
what it’s like, curled around anger so hot and fast,
picking the scab open again. How could I
and still walk down the street
arms linked with another woman
convinced this time, we’d play it right.
---
Okay, I give up for today. I'm hot and cranky and nothing better is going to come.
well into their third pint, as they sit on the patio
trading divorce stories.
Maybe it’s their age, maybe it’s ours,
but I don’t want to be like them,
having just become comfortable with small silences
across the table, as we play scrabble, wanting
the possibility of a close score, a perfect ending,
not some hundred point gap. A year and a half later
and I’m feeling better about it she says
though I still have that impulse to google
him late at night. Sometimes I forget
what it’s like, curled around anger so hot and fast,
picking the scab open again. How could I
and still walk down the street
arms linked with another woman
convinced this time, we’d play it right.
---
Okay, I give up for today. I'm hot and cranky and nothing better is going to come.
Temp gig
By what perversion
of fate
am I editing
wedding videos?
chopping happy moments
into bits
dicing couples'
cute memories
of how they met
and all they expect
from each other
synching the sound
so their stories
sound right
I never meant to
become bitter
or return to
the cynicism
that served my
teen years so well
even before
I'd ever kissed
a boy
or known
what true pain
really was
but here I am muttering
don't believe him
sweetheart
oh god, it'll never work
big weddings can't buy
happiness --
nothing can
And I may be right
but who am I
to fast forward?
Got to just
let them
play it out
slow motion
soft light
kind cuts
of fate
am I editing
wedding videos?
chopping happy moments
into bits
dicing couples'
cute memories
of how they met
and all they expect
from each other
synching the sound
so their stories
sound right
I never meant to
become bitter
or return to
the cynicism
that served my
teen years so well
even before
I'd ever kissed
a boy
or known
what true pain
really was
but here I am muttering
don't believe him
sweetheart
oh god, it'll never work
big weddings can't buy
happiness --
nothing can
And I may be right
but who am I
to fast forward?
Got to just
let them
play it out
slow motion
soft light
kind cuts
Monday, May 15, 2006
In the gray hour before the rain came again,
we found some daylilies, clear lemon yellow,
a small clump hiding behind paving stones
and baby boulders, waiting to be recognized
as one of the special applicants for adoption.
Nearly missed as it lay beaten flat by
this morning’s downpour a single flower
waved on it’s thin stalk, a tiny hand of petals
drawing attention to itself. Only when
I lifted it with a clump of dark
damp dirt did I spy the pair of buds
on the same stalk, baby buds waiting
to unfold like sunshine in the new bed
not far away after a nap and dreams.
Tucking the still sleeping lilies into place,
I sang a lullaby and shushed the baby buds,
letting the afternoon rain continue the melody.
we found some daylilies, clear lemon yellow,
a small clump hiding behind paving stones
and baby boulders, waiting to be recognized
as one of the special applicants for adoption.
Nearly missed as it lay beaten flat by
this morning’s downpour a single flower
waved on it’s thin stalk, a tiny hand of petals
drawing attention to itself. Only when
I lifted it with a clump of dark
damp dirt did I spy the pair of buds
on the same stalk, baby buds waiting
to unfold like sunshine in the new bed
not far away after a nap and dreams.
Tucking the still sleeping lilies into place,
I sang a lullaby and shushed the baby buds,
letting the afternoon rain continue the melody.
Seven months: the eldest, after...
You turn changeling even before you are born
tugging me into midnight lands where I wear out slippers
two-stepping down the hall in the dark of this body
to empty a bladder hardly big enough for a princess’ pea
When I return to bed touching the mound of mattress
pillows and slung limbs my careful buttressing of your burrow in me
my old soldier wakes the night closing at my heels
and opens the hoary hill of his arms opens them wide
tugging me into midnight lands where I wear out slippers
two-stepping down the hall in the dark of this body
to empty a bladder hardly big enough for a princess’ pea
When I return to bed touching the mound of mattress
pillows and slung limbs my careful buttressing of your burrow in me
my old soldier wakes the night closing at my heels
and opens the hoary hill of his arms opens them wide
upstairs there's a door
upstairs there's a door
we've never opened,
a room that sleeps
comfortably above us --
such a quiet, shy idea
we keep forgetting
it's an option, a space
we could move into
finding the painted hinges
behind the desk is like falling
for the same magic
over and over: surprise
and then, surprise
i poke my mind inside,
find a collection
of priceless words we might like
to use, jam jars of laughter,
a fortune in time,
but it's not enough to risk
the disappointment of stale
newspapers, empty bottles
i burrow my finger through the ring
that once held the lock,
but i can't taste any difference
in the air on my hands
so i sweep around it,
carefully polishing, but never
lifting, the latch
upstairs there's a door
we've never opened,
a room that sleeps
comfortably above us --
such a quiet, shy idea
we keep forgetting
it's an option, a space
we could move into
finding the painted hinges
behind the desk is like falling
for the same magic
over and over: surprise
and then, surprise
i poke my mind inside,
find a collection
of priceless words we might like
to use, jam jars of laughter,
a fortune in time,
but it's not enough to risk
the disappointment of stale
newspapers, empty bottles
i burrow my finger through the ring
that once held the lock,
but i can't taste any difference
in the air on my hands
so i sweep around it,
carefully polishing, but never
lifting, the latch
What’s in a name
Always a celebrity, the rose knows
any other name is her own, understands
she’s the heart of any bouquet—
sells herself by the dozen.
The rose is infectious, the germ
of specialization trafficked in vine and bush.
Public property, she’s a test-tube donor,
mother to generations of herself, a dynasty
tracked back to simple four-petalled features
pressed into service; humbled beginnings
lost in the rapid rise to fame. But her conceit
is only a cover, an occasion to hide fears
of mortality, disease, and customs of flowers.
The rose’s popularity is infinite yet
she remains a loner; her pointed personality
eventually prickles others the wrong way.
any other name is her own, understands
she’s the heart of any bouquet—
sells herself by the dozen.
The rose is infectious, the germ
of specialization trafficked in vine and bush.
Public property, she’s a test-tube donor,
mother to generations of herself, a dynasty
tracked back to simple four-petalled features
pressed into service; humbled beginnings
lost in the rapid rise to fame. But her conceit
is only a cover, an occasion to hide fears
of mortality, disease, and customs of flowers.
The rose’s popularity is infinite yet
she remains a loner; her pointed personality
eventually prickles others the wrong way.
Buy and Sell
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.
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.
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.
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