Monday, December 14, 2009
|This two stanza poem, by me, "Ode to Bookstore and Dinner Out, in Spring," is a fractured homophone of the two final stanzas of Keats' majestic "Ode to Autumn."|
Ode to Bookstore and Dinner Out, in Spring
The author haunts inside the stone store,
brick and mortar. I look for her to find,
caressing pages on a beige/blue carpet floor,
her soft hair lifted by no window but by the wind
of a door revolving. Others are found asleep,
drowsy in fumes of coffee, as piped songs hook
like twilight shadows of twin-stalked flowers crook
an urban elder. Old New Yorker. A gleaner keeps
re-shelving. Kids returning. Laden cart, each book
confected by a press, with painted look,
pimps my loyal roost. Each someone’s child.
You’d think I rooster, hour by hour, but I run.
Here is hungry Spring. When are harvest days?
Don’t think of them, we have our corner diner too.
Above dinner, tight clouds vice to a shatter or a fake.
No way in this wet season to not begin to be.
“See, son, rivers, Hudson, Seine, Tigris, mourn
that human fish who hopes moss only grows north.”
Over-thinking our clues to what lives or dies
is frowned on by my cool-bodied gulls just born.
Idol contestants sing; and now with treble soft
your waitress whistles at a sketch of Lara Croft,
as, outside, bluebirds dive bomb from the skies.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
|Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find|
|Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,|
|Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;||15|
|Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,|
|Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook|
|Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:|
|And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep|
|Steady thy laden head across a brook;||20|
|Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,|
|Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.|
|Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?|
|Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—|
|While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day||25|
|And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;|
|Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn|
|Among the river-sallows, borne aloft|
|Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;|
|And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;||30|
|Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft|
|The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;|
|And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.|
Monday, December 7, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
So far NY has said nix to frost so the tomatoes, blessem, are still growing. Not tasty anymore but as beautiful as any well-cared for parkinglot (have you seen A Serious Man?). Pictured here is a white yellow variety that in the flanken of summer was as delicious as the true fruit each of us was promised upon Edenic arrival, and behind it a little "sweet million" cherry tomato.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
In the middle of the road of my life
I awoke in the dark wood
where the true way was wholly lost
I'm sure you too hear this first stanza of the Inferno sometimes in darker hours. I've been hearing it lately, enough even to recall and reclaim that some sun rays rise and point the straight within a page, and terror subsides, but I can't finish the sentence there because only a few stanzas on the jaguar comes and has spots and paces and won't let him pass. Still, at least you're moving again, if only side to side.
Friends, bleaders, Fonz, I am attempting an arise. But enough about me, how you doin'? I may be half vulcan half falcon (yes, I mean balloon boy), but I have feelings too. And when I go outside, yes, yesterday I went outside and I did it again today and intend a threepeat this evening to teach. So yeah when I go outside people look kind of miserable around the eyes. Some of them are sufficiently distracted as to not actually be miserable, and of course, some of them are neutral, and yes, I'm getting to it, some of the sweet bastards are actually happy and healthy. But it's kind of nice to be seeing these eyes that way, because either I'm projecting grief on minds that are actually at play in the field of their teams and dinner choices or I'm seeing what is really there but also not there, and either way it's weird and bad and good to be feeling especially empathic. So I guess Betazoid.
I've been down and out a few weeks, if you like your writers fluish, let's say that then, but the girl was more honestly bluishs. This though is a note to claim revival, the author awakens to find she is convalescing in a wonderful life. I have at least a sense of sun rays, and an intimation that I the jaguar can be outlasted.
I have a regular Weds blog at the Best American Poetry site and after having not posted quite regularly these past bunch of weeks, I managed happily to post today, so have a look if you feel like it.
Fonzie, I'm just not the type to jump the shark, but I was feeling awfully like a Triumph hovering over Jaws. I know it couldn't have been easy for you either, so much pressure, such ridiculous expectations, living in someone else's family, banging on things to make them work. I just want you to know that I admire your courage and sympathize completely with the anguish of it. I am holding you in cupped hands in my minds eye, and Fay Wray is holding me, and the ape's got her. Lois Lane has the ape, and Superman has Lois Lane. "You've got me? Who's got you?!"
Well, for what it's worth, I've got you and I think probably the Green Lantern has me. Because the Green Lantern lives by poetry and does the best he can. That's Fay above, of course. I considered the other easily available shots of her, but if you look you'll see that the idea of them paired with a blog post about an ice patch of depression makes them utterly terrifying.
So right Fonz, feel the love and take it one heartbeat at a time, but, you know, take it.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Tonight I'm going back to my old school to a memorial for a professor who was more a mentor to me than anyone else, and then we were friends, though we weren't in much contact, but here and there, over two decades. I've been asked to speak and am honored to do so, but feeling the weight of it. Anyway, nice bridge ay? Yesterday we went to the flee market they hold under this thing on Sundays. Man they got some good eats there, by the way. Many strange and misplaced matters, historical widgets and lost lots. Love bright sunlight on bric-a-braque ephemera.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Those who find the sun in every sorrow
may yet cry thunderstorms when in their hiding.
Not rarely, who teaches hope can barely borrow
what it takes to make it through a day’s colliding,
that is why they talk so much of hope. Tomorrow
and today are both a moment in aligning;
joke is that the hawk-heart is a swallow
by night. Who hears the music also hears the sighing.
By night who sees light, by day so sees the harrow,
but never ruled by sun nor star as law abiding,
no, the bilious cloud that knows of sorrow
comes at its whim, as does its twin: the dove arising.
Be kind to us we singers of delight,
we sing because we sigh in day and night.
From my second poetry book, Funny.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
In the practical, it's not ideal to post a poem and then hope it finds a journal home, to post is to publish to a degree. whereas after publishing a poem somewhere, posting it is fine too. So for efficiency, why not only post poems that have been published, and save the sweet young things at home? Because sometimes something new gets stuck in my head and I just want to say it out loud and show it to friends so much that I sacrifice its future upon my desire. What desire? I wonder, and guess it is a desire for communion. Which reminds me of the subject of the poem.
A Marriage of Love and Independence
When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes
When in the course of human events it becomes
I all alone beweep my outcast state
necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands
and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
which have connected them with another and to assume
and look upon myself and curse my fate
among the powers of the earth,
wishing me like to one more rich in hope
the separate and equal station to which the Laws
featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them,
with what I most enjoy contented least
We, therefore, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name,
Haply I think on thee,--and then my state
and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
solemnly publish and declare, That these united Colonies
from sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate;
are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
every 44 minutes or so a cannon would go off and the children would go running at their mothers. fun!
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Devious formulations. Let my epistemological nightmare be your good fortune.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Saturday, August 1, 2009