My father and I tour the basement.
I hold my breath, forgetting I needn't
close my eyes for the bathroom -
they replaced the tortured toilet,
bashed-in sink six years ago. We talk
mildew on the windowledge, do not
worry about falling through the floor.
He says the sliding door is single pane
my mother yells down it's double.
I put my fingers either side, verify
his version. The day darkens here
in the dark corner. She wants me
to look at the broken German clock
and the broken blonde one behind
she's giving to my brother. Why?
I ask. Because he remembers it,
she says, and I say, I remember it,
but that doesn't mean I want it.
She points at 33's and 78's my sister
has told her she doesn't want.
She fusses about shipping them.
I say, She doesn't want the records.
My mother sits on the stuffy sofa
blossoming batting out its ugly arm.
"Such a lovely piece," she says, points
to the end table my sister does want.
The detritus of two lives jumbled
around us, ill cared for as we were,
even cases of his Mark Fable wine
mixed - empty, full, stacked together
like a mind perpetually elsewhere.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Sponging off the New Yorker
Folk-Song Collectors
text from "The Last Verse" by Burkhard Bilger
in April 28, 2008 New Yorker
Cecil Sharp suffered from gout and asthma
smoked heavily and ate no meat - a diet
so strange in parts of the South some took
him for a German spy. He toured southern
Appalacia three times, beginning in 1916,
never made recordings, though he could have.
"What I want more than anything else
is quiet, no children, no Victrolas, nor
strumming of rag-time and the singing
of sentimental songs. I am satisfied
with what I have done," he wrote.
John Lomax was sixty-five in 1933,
had already collected cowboy tunes
with a Harvard fellowship in 1907.
"Squeaky reproductions," he admitted,
made with a wax-cylinder machine.
He took his eighteen-year-old son,
Alan, with him, stuck to the back roads,
and looked for work farms, cotton
fields, lumber camps, and chain gangs --
wherever there was "the least likelihood
of the inclusion of jazz influences, as
he put it. They found Muddy Waters
on a Mississippi plantation, Woody
Guthrie at a benefit for migrant
farm workers, Leadbelly in a Louisiana
penitentiary. The prisoners had
"dynamite in their performances,"
Alan later told the Times. "There was
more emotional heat, more power,
more nobility in what they did than
all the Beethovens and Bachs could
produce."
The McCarthy hearings were on television,
duck-and-cover drills in the classroom,
and the frictionless pop of Perry Como
on the radio. And then, in 1952,
Harry Smith released his "Anthology
of American Folk Music." Smith
was an artist and record collector
from Seattle -- "a polymath and an
autodidact, a dope fiend and an alcoholic,
a legendary experimental filmmaker
and a more legendary sponger," as
Greil Marcus put it in his book.
Back then Seattle too was grittier.
text from "The Last Verse" by Burkhard Bilger
in April 28, 2008 New Yorker
Cecil Sharp suffered from gout and asthma
smoked heavily and ate no meat - a diet
so strange in parts of the South some took
him for a German spy. He toured southern
Appalacia three times, beginning in 1916,
never made recordings, though he could have.
"What I want more than anything else
is quiet, no children, no Victrolas, nor
strumming of rag-time and the singing
of sentimental songs. I am satisfied
with what I have done," he wrote.
John Lomax was sixty-five in 1933,
had already collected cowboy tunes
with a Harvard fellowship in 1907.
"Squeaky reproductions," he admitted,
made with a wax-cylinder machine.
He took his eighteen-year-old son,
Alan, with him, stuck to the back roads,
and looked for work farms, cotton
fields, lumber camps, and chain gangs --
wherever there was "the least likelihood
of the inclusion of jazz influences, as
he put it. They found Muddy Waters
on a Mississippi plantation, Woody
Guthrie at a benefit for migrant
farm workers, Leadbelly in a Louisiana
penitentiary. The prisoners had
"dynamite in their performances,"
Alan later told the Times. "There was
more emotional heat, more power,
more nobility in what they did than
all the Beethovens and Bachs could
produce."
The McCarthy hearings were on television,
duck-and-cover drills in the classroom,
and the frictionless pop of Perry Como
on the radio. And then, in 1952,
Harry Smith released his "Anthology
of American Folk Music." Smith
was an artist and record collector
from Seattle -- "a polymath and an
autodidact, a dope fiend and an alcoholic,
a legendary experimental filmmaker
and a more legendary sponger," as
Greil Marcus put it in his book.
Back then Seattle too was grittier.
NaPoWriMo 29
I Prefer Adversity to Uncertainty
Tip top, zenith, apex, acme, apogee --
It'd be nice to know you're there.
Trees mask views, tired from the haul,
so much easier to take it on the chin
than plant the flag. Moonmen knew
they were news, but you and me, we slog
and scuff, hem and huff, look more for ogre
than our own high noons, though
we too summit and will fall. Pinpoint
your pinnacles, don't hold back --
once you've peed yourself what pride
is left to lose. We all wear down with use.
--
Tip top, zenith, apex, acme, apogee --
It'd be nice to know you're there.
Trees mask views, tired from the haul,
so much easier to take it on the chin
than plant the flag. Moonmen knew
they were news, but you and me, we slog
and scuff, hem and huff, look more for ogre
than our own high noons, though
we too summit and will fall. Pinpoint
your pinnacles, don't hold back --
once you've peed yourself what pride
is left to lose. We all wear down with use.
--
Monday, April 28, 2008
NaPoWriMo 28
Your wrist flexible and ignored you lob
fastball to third base. Your aim is off,
a child snags it from the fence. Bet
won, you're off your million per.
What does this matter? You pore
thinking over records. Old as Noah,
mitt ball, bat helmet, duggout spit
too near the red lit exit.
---
What does it mean this burning word?
Network hive, the bees dying,
who are we afterall but acolytes
our swarms out the door of the open mic tent
why are the chosen ones
so much better dressed? Gossip
and embarrassment warm crowds
under the heat lamps at the main stage
cheese store book store small presses
up the wooden stairs Anne Waldman
wafting here and there we come and go
not waving but drowning not drowning
but overheated the metal chairs hardening
under us poet voices dulling as we
lose ability to hear. I want, I want, I do not want
to be lectured, want to be levitated
some can do it. People I know without nametags
people poets I want to know. I avoid the open mic
tent in the backyard for the kids
am I too old for this? Too crotchety and mean?
Where do I fit in all this?
Do you know me? Hello?
Adjust the poet's microphone, find
her notes, a man calls from down stairs.
fastball to third base. Your aim is off,
a child snags it from the fence. Bet
won, you're off your million per.
What does this matter? You pore
thinking over records. Old as Noah,
mitt ball, bat helmet, duggout spit
too near the red lit exit.
---
What does it mean this burning word?
Network hive, the bees dying,
who are we afterall but acolytes
our swarms out the door of the open mic tent
why are the chosen ones
so much better dressed? Gossip
and embarrassment warm crowds
under the heat lamps at the main stage
cheese store book store small presses
up the wooden stairs Anne Waldman
wafting here and there we come and go
not waving but drowning not drowning
but overheated the metal chairs hardening
under us poet voices dulling as we
lose ability to hear. I want, I want, I do not want
to be lectured, want to be levitated
some can do it. People I know without nametags
people poets I want to know. I avoid the open mic
tent in the backyard for the kids
am I too old for this? Too crotchety and mean?
Where do I fit in all this?
Do you know me? Hello?
Adjust the poet's microphone, find
her notes, a man calls from down stairs.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
NaPoWriMo 27
Name Dropping Poem
Joyce Carol Oates on the radio today.
I picture as I always do Joyce in car,
computer on her lap, husband at
the wheel, arriving at a friend's friend's
wedding, typing till at the last minute
her husband takes her indoors.
The interviewer trolls a long time,
reads an entire James quotation
Joyce agrees is on her bulletin board.
She's written a book of short fictional
end of life memoirs for Hemingway,
Dickinson, others, and James. Henry.
Fastidious in dress and deportment,
a man she imagines as difficult,
but who, thanks to his friend,
Edith Wharton, rolled up Europe
tailored sleeves and, amid stench,
and severed limbs,volunteered,
much as Whitman in the Civil War,
found his human best and was useful.
How has it been for you, the interviewer
asks, in the year since your husband died.
I want to reach out to her, alone in that car.
Joyce Carol Oates on the radio today.
I picture as I always do Joyce in car,
computer on her lap, husband at
the wheel, arriving at a friend's friend's
wedding, typing till at the last minute
her husband takes her indoors.
The interviewer trolls a long time,
reads an entire James quotation
Joyce agrees is on her bulletin board.
She's written a book of short fictional
end of life memoirs for Hemingway,
Dickinson, others, and James. Henry.
Fastidious in dress and deportment,
a man she imagines as difficult,
but who, thanks to his friend,
Edith Wharton, rolled up Europe
tailored sleeves and, amid stench,
and severed limbs,volunteered,
much as Whitman in the Civil War,
found his human best and was useful.
How has it been for you, the interviewer
asks, in the year since your husband died.
I want to reach out to her, alone in that car.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
26 before leaving for Burning Word!
I say what does the doctor say about this
mystery film? Traumatic impact, my mother
says. Looks into the distance. "Mining copper
at Metaline Falls." My father was climbing
up out of the mineshaft as another miner
cleared his drill with a pressure hose.
My Uncle Gene spent that evening picking
rock flakes out of that eye.
mystery film? Traumatic impact, my mother
says. Looks into the distance. "Mining copper
at Metaline Falls." My father was climbing
up out of the mineshaft as another miner
cleared his drill with a pressure hose.
My Uncle Gene spent that evening picking
rock flakes out of that eye.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Quoting from Real Sofistikashun, Chapter Two
Let me begin by saying I deplore despise and turn away from this book's title. I think it is vulgar and flip. I never ever shopped at Toys (backwards) R Us out of the same aversion. I don't think it's cute, either, to reverse letters in "humorous" oral dyslexia, for example, jocularly, "I norgot your fame." (okay, that is a little bit funny.)
Some quotes from "1. Cloud" from Chapter Two, "Tis Backed Like a Weasel: The Slipperiness of Metaphor":
"Of the hinterlands of the gray matter, where metaphors roam free, our data is all rumor, conjecture, and anecdote."
and then,
"It is a mystery hand going into a black mystery box. The head says, 'fetch me a metaphor, hand,' and the hand disappears under a cloth. A moment later, the hand reappears, metaphor on its extended palm. But, despite the spontaneity and ease of this event, we have only a vague idea of where the image came from. In fact, we don't know. And neither does the hand."
Most people naturally make metaphors, and Aristotle said he could teach everything but. Hemingway didn't have a metaphorical bone in his body. But Emerson, of Emerson Tony Hoagland writes:
"Emerson had it, and metaphor flows out of him like Perrier from some high Swiss alp. Emerson's essays, which are his real poetry, seem basically the result of holding a bottle under that transcendental faucet: all the essays say the same two things (know your worth/try harder), but they say it with enormous figurative variety."
Yowsa! I experience metaphor's "endorphin-like impact" here. Thanks, Tony.
Some quotes from "1. Cloud" from Chapter Two, "Tis Backed Like a Weasel: The Slipperiness of Metaphor":
"Of the hinterlands of the gray matter, where metaphors roam free, our data is all rumor, conjecture, and anecdote."
and then,
"It is a mystery hand going into a black mystery box. The head says, 'fetch me a metaphor, hand,' and the hand disappears under a cloth. A moment later, the hand reappears, metaphor on its extended palm. But, despite the spontaneity and ease of this event, we have only a vague idea of where the image came from. In fact, we don't know. And neither does the hand."
Most people naturally make metaphors, and Aristotle said he could teach everything but. Hemingway didn't have a metaphorical bone in his body. But Emerson, of Emerson Tony Hoagland writes:
"Emerson had it, and metaphor flows out of him like Perrier from some high Swiss alp. Emerson's essays, which are his real poetry, seem basically the result of holding a bottle under that transcendental faucet: all the essays say the same two things (know your worth/try harder), but they say it with enormous figurative variety."
Yowsa! I experience metaphor's "endorphin-like impact" here. Thanks, Tony.
NaPoWriMo 25
I want badly to be heard
but I have nothing to say
am mum on the matter of money
impotent as to prosperity
for you to get what you want
I must sacrifice what I want
and I'm not willing to do that
whimsical as you say.
---
You wear the gauge that measures depth
neoprene mitts and wetsuit dull the act
your partner gives thumbs up,
flutters through fan coral's vertical array
all for fun and beauty until POW
your air has fled you're in the cave, no Tom
to save you now. Just so we go for broke
for all that glitters in the proverb
face mask whether fogged or vented
fresh water muddies what you thought was ease.
Oh please. Keep your mind on pressure, ami,
before this boat lets drop another rider --
if only we could plan this from a desk!
Orca bulk menaces like Orson
your fingers ridiculous and reedy
reserve tank holds more air to draw
you give yourself a moment to adapt
nothing in the midst is solid
how will you provide, provide?
but I have nothing to say
am mum on the matter of money
impotent as to prosperity
for you to get what you want
I must sacrifice what I want
and I'm not willing to do that
whimsical as you say.
---
You wear the gauge that measures depth
neoprene mitts and wetsuit dull the act
your partner gives thumbs up,
flutters through fan coral's vertical array
all for fun and beauty until POW
your air has fled you're in the cave, no Tom
to save you now. Just so we go for broke
for all that glitters in the proverb
face mask whether fogged or vented
fresh water muddies what you thought was ease.
Oh please. Keep your mind on pressure, ami,
before this boat lets drop another rider --
if only we could plan this from a desk!
Orca bulk menaces like Orson
your fingers ridiculous and reedy
reserve tank holds more air to draw
you give yourself a moment to adapt
nothing in the midst is solid
how will you provide, provide?
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Image, Diction and Rhetoric, a Book Report
Tony Hoagland, “Altitudes, a Homemade Taxonomy: Image, Diction, and Rhetoric”
from Sofistikashun: Essays on Poetry and Craft, © 2006, Graywolf Press.
A Book or More Accurately Chapter Report
by Laura Gamache
As Kundalini Yoga describes the seven power centers, or chakras, of the body, Tony Hoagland describes the three poetry power centers as image, diction and rhetoric, listed in ascending order from where they arise in the human body. I like his idea, and the light way he acknowledges but distances himself from the judgement that higher is better. Sharon Olds’ image is not inferior to Wallace Stevens’ rhetoric, though I think he knows we will secretly continue to think so.
Image is the most potent force in poetry, he says, continuing, “the ability of images to carry complex information is tremendous.” For examples, he uses “My Son the Man” by Sharon Olds and “Tu Do Street” by Yusef Komunyakaa.
As the instinct underlying image is visual, that underlying diction is auditory, intellectual and alert to inflections of weight and implication. Diction, as defined here by Hoagland, is “speech that is consciously making reference to the history of its usage.” He uses for example Galway Kinnell’s “Sheffield Ghazal 4: Driving West.”
Poets are often wary of using rhetoric for its dangers of emptiness and impersonality. Hoagland identifies poetic rhetoric as relational speech signifying attitude rather than delivering information. To make his point, he uses Larry Levis’s poem, “A Letter,” which begins:
It’s better to have a light jacket on days like this,
Than a good memory.
He chooses Wallace Stevens’s poem, “The Well Dressed Man with a Beard” to show rhetoric’s power and its emptiness, Mary Ruefle’s “Trust Me” for her rhetorical muscle, and John Ashbery’s “Decoy” for his rhetorical virtuosity.
Good poems, all poems, our poems, he says, come from an interweaving of all three chakras. The best, as in Paul Goodman’s “Birthday Cake,” combine and integrate them “into powerful, unprecedented poetry,” that is “full of feeling and fully engaged in that feeling, but also offers shifting perspective on its feeling.” Consciousness adds power, and I will be aware of the presence and interplay of these three power centers in my poems as I revise them.
from Sofistikashun: Essays on Poetry and Craft, © 2006, Graywolf Press.
A Book or More Accurately Chapter Report
by Laura Gamache
As Kundalini Yoga describes the seven power centers, or chakras, of the body, Tony Hoagland describes the three poetry power centers as image, diction and rhetoric, listed in ascending order from where they arise in the human body. I like his idea, and the light way he acknowledges but distances himself from the judgement that higher is better. Sharon Olds’ image is not inferior to Wallace Stevens’ rhetoric, though I think he knows we will secretly continue to think so.
Image is the most potent force in poetry, he says, continuing, “the ability of images to carry complex information is tremendous.” For examples, he uses “My Son the Man” by Sharon Olds and “Tu Do Street” by Yusef Komunyakaa.
As the instinct underlying image is visual, that underlying diction is auditory, intellectual and alert to inflections of weight and implication. Diction, as defined here by Hoagland, is “speech that is consciously making reference to the history of its usage.” He uses for example Galway Kinnell’s “Sheffield Ghazal 4: Driving West.”
Poets are often wary of using rhetoric for its dangers of emptiness and impersonality. Hoagland identifies poetic rhetoric as relational speech signifying attitude rather than delivering information. To make his point, he uses Larry Levis’s poem, “A Letter,” which begins:
It’s better to have a light jacket on days like this,
Than a good memory.
He chooses Wallace Stevens’s poem, “The Well Dressed Man with a Beard” to show rhetoric’s power and its emptiness, Mary Ruefle’s “Trust Me” for her rhetorical muscle, and John Ashbery’s “Decoy” for his rhetorical virtuosity.
Good poems, all poems, our poems, he says, come from an interweaving of all three chakras. The best, as in Paul Goodman’s “Birthday Cake,” combine and integrate them “into powerful, unprecedented poetry,” that is “full of feeling and fully engaged in that feeling, but also offers shifting perspective on its feeling.” Consciousness adds power, and I will be aware of the presence and interplay of these three power centers in my poems as I revise them.
NaPoWriMo 24
Rhodie buds swell to Christmas lights as I pass
tolerating shade like me and Yew
this spring when winter cannot seem to stop,
that which was to be demonstrated, not.
Robin drops straw, dips, flies off with more --
a million tales in this not so naked city acre.
Sprays stop rot and encourage blossom set
in the 40s here, but 59 degrees in Oslo.
English ivy pushes itself upwards
I yank its fingers from fir trunk furrows
jump away as it falls around my arm.
Sky thickens from gray to puce,
alder splats spent catkins as it sways
above the wavering chicken windvane.
Maples begin within asphalt crack
and in spaces between decking.
Last year's thumbthick seedlings hide
in the prickly hawthorne between yards.
For all I have missed I wish to be forgiven.
tolerating shade like me and Yew
this spring when winter cannot seem to stop,
that which was to be demonstrated, not.
Robin drops straw, dips, flies off with more --
a million tales in this not so naked city acre.
Sprays stop rot and encourage blossom set
in the 40s here, but 59 degrees in Oslo.
English ivy pushes itself upwards
I yank its fingers from fir trunk furrows
jump away as it falls around my arm.
Sky thickens from gray to puce,
alder splats spent catkins as it sways
above the wavering chicken windvane.
Maples begin within asphalt crack
and in spaces between decking.
Last year's thumbthick seedlings hide
in the prickly hawthorne between yards.
For all I have missed I wish to be forgiven.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
NaPoWriMo 23
Handmaid's Lament
Practicing my vocab, I see alar
angel above the lintel with his bow
his genitalia are not (is not?) clad.
This is bad. I am called to cope --
scrub scabrous jets to clear the spa
coax strangling caul from Hera's lily
mix potions for Adonis's hipflask
whet stone and sharpen his epee
wangle wanton weeds to please Estee
time plods through but she erases
traces -- I know. I plucked the rose
and juiced the thousand ants --
most secret of all alchemic arts
I keep it all with key and hasp
shoo nudie cherub from ivy.
troubadour arrives, toss lei
across koi pond,confiscate dirks
investigate progress of the imp
Jack of all black arts, I'm only
fingerpoint from murder, skim
algae for Narcissus at his seat
Millenia and yet he won't mature
I muse on a move to Boise.
Practicing my vocab, I see alar
angel above the lintel with his bow
his genitalia are not (is not?) clad.
This is bad. I am called to cope --
scrub scabrous jets to clear the spa
coax strangling caul from Hera's lily
mix potions for Adonis's hipflask
whet stone and sharpen his epee
wangle wanton weeds to please Estee
time plods through but she erases
traces -- I know. I plucked the rose
and juiced the thousand ants --
most secret of all alchemic arts
I keep it all with key and hasp
shoo nudie cherub from ivy.
troubadour arrives, toss lei
across koi pond,confiscate dirks
investigate progress of the imp
Jack of all black arts, I'm only
fingerpoint from murder, skim
algae for Narcissus at his seat
Millenia and yet he won't mature
I muse on a move to Boise.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
NaPoWri Mo 22
I scrape carefully at the price sticker
pasted across Mozart's profile
this is no metaphor, I plucked
this chocolate from the plastic pail
at the grocery checkout stand
"Mozart Herz'l" from the Austrian cafe
on the way to your D.C. newsroom
before we knew your dad had cancer
I carefree under the Calder mobiles,
meeting you underground for tea.
----
Mozart's measured sweetness
survives the oboeist's combover. In our era
I listen on YouTube, my heart open, avid.
Too many needles in the internet haystack
and Google finds them. I needn't go a mile.
Bach's passion on foot across Germany
to hear an organ. I can hear eleven
any hour.
---
Humane Impulse of the Lyric
After Hearing Ed Hirsch at Intiman Theater
He wanted to write an American poetry
intellectually robust but with heart. Modernists
were cold and their fascistic tendencies, Elliot,
Pound, not unrelated. Poetry precedes prose
and there is poetry in every culture - he doesn't
want ours to be the one to drop the ball.
The tendencies of poetry are two: elegy and
celebration. Time for more celebration. At his age
he says it too has darkness, not a poetry for the young.
"Give me back my father," he began, emotional
high C, embracing Tsvetaeva's short poem power.
He warmed with help from Mandelstam,
Milosz, Zbigniew Herbert, Adam Zagajewski.
Poetry is social, he said, conjured more poets -
Paul Celan to say poems are messages in bottles -
the poet sends one out, you find it, it is yours.
Ninito Neruda glimpsing another child's hand
through a fence hole, exchanging wheeled sheep
for his treasured resinous cone - gift for gift,
writing and reading, humane impulse of the lyric.
pasted across Mozart's profile
this is no metaphor, I plucked
this chocolate from the plastic pail
at the grocery checkout stand
"Mozart Herz'l" from the Austrian cafe
on the way to your D.C. newsroom
before we knew your dad had cancer
I carefree under the Calder mobiles,
meeting you underground for tea.
----
Mozart's measured sweetness
survives the oboeist's combover. In our era
I listen on YouTube, my heart open, avid.
Too many needles in the internet haystack
and Google finds them. I needn't go a mile.
Bach's passion on foot across Germany
to hear an organ. I can hear eleven
any hour.
---
Humane Impulse of the Lyric
After Hearing Ed Hirsch at Intiman Theater
He wanted to write an American poetry
intellectually robust but with heart. Modernists
were cold and their fascistic tendencies, Elliot,
Pound, not unrelated. Poetry precedes prose
and there is poetry in every culture - he doesn't
want ours to be the one to drop the ball.
The tendencies of poetry are two: elegy and
celebration. Time for more celebration. At his age
he says it too has darkness, not a poetry for the young.
"Give me back my father," he began, emotional
high C, embracing Tsvetaeva's short poem power.
He warmed with help from Mandelstam,
Milosz, Zbigniew Herbert, Adam Zagajewski.
Poetry is social, he said, conjured more poets -
Paul Celan to say poems are messages in bottles -
the poet sends one out, you find it, it is yours.
Ninito Neruda glimpsing another child's hand
through a fence hole, exchanging wheeled sheep
for his treasured resinous cone - gift for gift,
writing and reading, humane impulse of the lyric.
Monday, April 21, 2008
NaPoWriMo 21
Lake surface appears to move towards town
action that can be lifted off from thing
though the geese blown out of their V
a thousand feet above us are inseparable
from the movement of their wings which fight
we can tell, even down here, to stay
together and stay their course. now
two V's, now a V and a wandering line,
geese forging ahead of the group like
the strongest from the peloton pressing
forward, pumping calf muscles intent
on what? These birds no longer migrate.
After snowmelt we surprise
a starling from its mailbox nest. It rockets
like comic superhero from the stick
mess on top of a soppy folded phonebook.
You want to know why I think this is.
action that can be lifted off from thing
though the geese blown out of their V
a thousand feet above us are inseparable
from the movement of their wings which fight
we can tell, even down here, to stay
together and stay their course. now
two V's, now a V and a wandering line,
geese forging ahead of the group like
the strongest from the peloton pressing
forward, pumping calf muscles intent
on what? These birds no longer migrate.
After snowmelt we surprise
a starling from its mailbox nest. It rockets
like comic superhero from the stick
mess on top of a soppy folded phonebook.
You want to know why I think this is.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
NaPoWriMo 20
Ye Gods and Little Fish Hooks
Holy crap! he says as the day begins
April 20 and the sky awash with flakes
hillside tree limbs and cabin roofs,
our neighbor's new boat lift white.
In front of me, Lake Chelan undulates
gray near shore, melds into weather
overhead and around us. Will we
see color open from six stiff-necked
tulips or will their lips stay sealed?
Arbor grapes with leaf buds the size
of bebes and our apricot blossoms
falling with the snow. Where are
the birds today? Can the fishes see
it snowing?
Holy crap! he says as the day begins
April 20 and the sky awash with flakes
hillside tree limbs and cabin roofs,
our neighbor's new boat lift white.
In front of me, Lake Chelan undulates
gray near shore, melds into weather
overhead and around us. Will we
see color open from six stiff-necked
tulips or will their lips stay sealed?
Arbor grapes with leaf buds the size
of bebes and our apricot blossoms
falling with the snow. Where are
the birds today? Can the fishes see
it snowing?
Saturday, April 19, 2008
NaPoWriMo 19
Auto Penitence
Forgive me others for I have directed
another to fill the oil receptacle
of my vehicle with water to the brim
I have turned the key, oblivious
to grim consequence, and I have
phoned AAA in willful ignorance
of my error. I have stood haughty
and sniggering at the piddly belief
a boy held that water would spew
and burn us if we did not wait two
hours for the engine to cool. I chided
him "you silly" for his ignorance
as I turned the oil receptacle cap,
turning my face away from water
contained to my left. My ego grown
godly my haughtiness knew no
bounds as I bid him from his carwash
hose to pour. "How much?" he asked
and I said, "More!"
Forgive me others for I have directed
another to fill the oil receptacle
of my vehicle with water to the brim
I have turned the key, oblivious
to grim consequence, and I have
phoned AAA in willful ignorance
of my error. I have stood haughty
and sniggering at the piddly belief
a boy held that water would spew
and burn us if we did not wait two
hours for the engine to cool. I chided
him "you silly" for his ignorance
as I turned the oil receptacle cap,
turning my face away from water
contained to my left. My ego grown
godly my haughtiness knew no
bounds as I bid him from his carwash
hose to pour. "How much?" he asked
and I said, "More!"
Friday, April 18, 2008
NaPoWriMo 18
I'm dancing you know how along the ave
alive no matter how they tssk
how long till everything that romps
is dead and I'm destructive as I lag
Greenland's new streams scour ice
waterfalls larger than Niagara erase
landmass as I test new sheets for ply
no one repairs old monitors, dot matrix
compulsive hoarders all. I hop
to buy I am too scared to sweep
am I willing to discard protective arts
in my shame I blame the USA
pulp another paper for oped
Go on and dive, I'll stay on top
lick ice cream from the dasher
I have seen coral in the ocean
gray and broken as cadaver teeth
Kodachrome! Bring me the nice bright colors
bring me the greens of summer
make me think all the world's a sunny day
But does Obama wear a flag pin?
Hillary owes us a statement about cum!
I have acquired ADD, a product of this era
the rich build city ships that only dock
each year. Pandemics, water wars
will circle their magic gardens, dun
them after songbirds grey whales fall.
alive no matter how they tssk
how long till everything that romps
is dead and I'm destructive as I lag
Greenland's new streams scour ice
waterfalls larger than Niagara erase
landmass as I test new sheets for ply
no one repairs old monitors, dot matrix
compulsive hoarders all. I hop
to buy I am too scared to sweep
am I willing to discard protective arts
in my shame I blame the USA
pulp another paper for oped
Go on and dive, I'll stay on top
lick ice cream from the dasher
I have seen coral in the ocean
gray and broken as cadaver teeth
Kodachrome! Bring me the nice bright colors
bring me the greens of summer
make me think all the world's a sunny day
But does Obama wear a flag pin?
Hillary owes us a statement about cum!
I have acquired ADD, a product of this era
the rich build city ships that only dock
each year. Pandemics, water wars
will circle their magic gardens, dun
them after songbirds grey whales fall.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
NaPoWriMo 17
1960
Nobody on our street played bop
when health meant you ate meat.
We listened to Limelighters - folk
with brains my mother said, no Burl
Ives, no Kingston Trio in our house.
I longed to dart, I didn't know elan.
One fun thing would make her tire.
Shopping cart before the barcode
when drinking meant teacup.
Maynard G. Krebs had a weirdo pad,
Zelda tried too hard. Me too.
TV was the latest thing and comics
made you dumb. I snuck one.
Nobody on our street played bop
when health meant you ate meat.
We listened to Limelighters - folk
with brains my mother said, no Burl
Ives, no Kingston Trio in our house.
I longed to dart, I didn't know elan.
One fun thing would make her tire.
Shopping cart before the barcode
when drinking meant teacup.
Maynard G. Krebs had a weirdo pad,
Zelda tried too hard. Me too.
TV was the latest thing and comics
made you dumb. I snuck one.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
WaPoWriMo 16
My nose fills with feathered dusty light in the shed
urine stench and squack, winged flurry,
yolk stained purple egg trays under the workbench
squat fridge beneath the hanging bulb,
each warm oval filched and nested for a moment
in my palm, miraculous and tan.
---
MAKE WAY FOR YOUR CHILDREN'S ERA!
Now it's eighty six and shoo
so what you were a lovely egg
you ain't no twenty six
you're old, you smell,
we have no time for ethos
we'll shoot you like the tsar
look at you your pants all wet
you cannot read small lettering
your emotions too, so much ado --
go in your sleep if we're in luck
don't come to live with us.
--
I should post a disclaimer with that one.
urine stench and squack, winged flurry,
yolk stained purple egg trays under the workbench
squat fridge beneath the hanging bulb,
each warm oval filched and nested for a moment
in my palm, miraculous and tan.
---
MAKE WAY FOR YOUR CHILDREN'S ERA!
Now it's eighty six and shoo
so what you were a lovely egg
you ain't no twenty six
you're old, you smell,
we have no time for ethos
we'll shoot you like the tsar
look at you your pants all wet
you cannot read small lettering
your emotions too, so much ado --
go in your sleep if we're in luck
don't come to live with us.
--
I should post a disclaimer with that one.
In honor of the the first Essential Poems Reading, which will take place at 7pm, April 30, and feature poets Rebecca Loudon and Paul Hunter, Paul Hunter has brought a batch of his beautiful Woodworks Press poetry broadsides to Madison Essential Baking Cafe, where they will be on display and for sale from now through April 30. Broadsides are matted, covered with archival glass and ready to hang in your house. Each is a limited edition printing, signed by the poet, and for sale, as they appear, for $60.00/each. Broadsides on display include:"This Room" John Ashbery
"Song in the Off Season" Rafael Campo
"Spring About to Happen" Lawrence Ferlinghetti
"The Anatomy of Mushrooms" Sherman Alexie
"Russian Letter" John Yau
"Touch Me" Stanley Kunitz
"Storm at West Beach" Kurt Beattie
"The Gift" Carolyn Kizer
"Selection Process" Charles Simic
"Tulip Field, MacLean Road" Samuel Green
"In the Canyon" William Meredith
Each is a numbered limited edition, letter press printed 8 1/2 x 11 inches on archival papers with multiple-color press work and woodcut illustrations.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
NaPoWriMo 15
Mineralite structure defines opal
ugly gumption fills the toad
Refind Bogachiel on this map
Don't choose only at the deli
squirrel shares color with the hare
mugclub mits on microbrew ale
a penny for your etiquette
we have eternity to rot
wonder at ginzu knives' hundred uses
take time and take your pique
it all has value Bogus Basin
on Sol Duc trail and off the menu
So here is where we are, Egad!
Hesitate you lose. The Frankest
sourpuss, picklepuss, gloomy gus
urges latex gloves and tongs
cautions delays, defy them too
cedars do not emulate sequoias
pursue your pencil to its stub
Quillayute moves as does the Ural
Dig beneath the soil it's fiery
golden geese emerge from beans
poplars' sticky gum makes balm
Ungulates look forward to the rut
feldspar and copper form turquoise
missives take the sky along this arc
who cares what Joseph did to Essau
the sentimental crap from Noel
do-si-do my way just don't say Doh!
I'll miss my life more than its data.
ugly gumption fills the toad
Refind Bogachiel on this map
Don't choose only at the deli
squirrel shares color with the hare
mugclub mits on microbrew ale
a penny for your etiquette
we have eternity to rot
wonder at ginzu knives' hundred uses
take time and take your pique
it all has value Bogus Basin
on Sol Duc trail and off the menu
So here is where we are, Egad!
Hesitate you lose. The Frankest
sourpuss, picklepuss, gloomy gus
urges latex gloves and tongs
cautions delays, defy them too
cedars do not emulate sequoias
pursue your pencil to its stub
Quillayute moves as does the Ural
Dig beneath the soil it's fiery
golden geese emerge from beans
poplars' sticky gum makes balm
Ungulates look forward to the rut
feldspar and copper form turquoise
missives take the sky along this arc
who cares what Joseph did to Essau
the sentimental crap from Noel
do-si-do my way just don't say Doh!
I'll miss my life more than its data.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)