the summer of 68
half empty bottle of Boone's Farm apple
blue jeans soft with the scent of patchuli
he looked up at me, crumpled
the yellow sheet of notebook paper
tossed it back at my face
said i was a "fucking genius"
as if he had said i was a narc
then he got up from the shade of
the only tree around, snatched the poem up
smoothed the wrinkles against his thigh
handed it back and smiled. i, well
i said i was " just fucking nuts, is all."
"but babe, it really does suit you."
yeah, did back in 68
still does, yeah, damn straight it does!
Sunday, July 31, 2005
just an update, the wedding i mentioned, it was amazing , 20 people in the bridal party, not counting the bride and groom! they were beautifully oufitted and the food was wonderful. me, i was happiest at the cookie table!
in italian-american families around here there's a tradition of having a huge table filled with mounds of the most delicious home made cookies. they take tons of work, but usually everyone from the grandmas on down pitch in(and i'm not being sexist here, one of my favorite cousins was a pastry chef,now executive chef, i think, at a very nice hotel)
this cookie table was exceptional and i've been attending weddings for many years, delicate, beautifully decorated cookies and an assortment that made me tingle(yeah, goodies will do that for me too!!!)
so you see, i went just looking for a few smiles and was happily surprised.
sometimes the fates smile upon me. i hope they smile for you as well! s
in italian-american families around here there's a tradition of having a huge table filled with mounds of the most delicious home made cookies. they take tons of work, but usually everyone from the grandmas on down pitch in(and i'm not being sexist here, one of my favorite cousins was a pastry chef,now executive chef, i think, at a very nice hotel)
this cookie table was exceptional and i've been attending weddings for many years, delicate, beautifully decorated cookies and an assortment that made me tingle(yeah, goodies will do that for me too!!!)
so you see, i went just looking for a few smiles and was happily surprised.
sometimes the fates smile upon me. i hope they smile for you as well! s
Saturday, July 30, 2005
one woman's planting season
i am still
rich with the scent of
dark, moist earth, the promise
of green leaves and curling tendrils
a fertile field opened to your plow
your seed,
and when
i am no longer,
as time goes by
and winds shift direction
i will become a meadow
bright with purples and pinks
alive with bees and butterflies.
i am still
rich with the scent of
dark, moist earth, the promise
of green leaves and curling tendrils
a fertile field opened to your plow
your seed,
and when
i am no longer,
as time goes by
and winds shift direction
i will become a meadow
bright with purples and pinks
alive with bees and butterflies.
Friday, July 29, 2005
when i was quite ill a few years back, i wrote down what i wanted for my wake, no funeral, no viewing, a cremation and a party. the plans were lost in a flood. i haven't felt the need to write anything down yet, to rewrite or change plans. it doesn't much matter to me anymore other than my ashes are scattered in a beautiful woods and that this be my funeral poem, tho no one will be there to read it. i love neruda. this poem, it really has special meaning . KNOW.
Tonight I Can Write
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, ' the night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance'
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes i loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight,I can write the saddest lines.
To think that i do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's, she will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
Because through nights like this one i held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that i lost her.
Though this be the last pain she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
pablo neruda,
from the book, TWENTY LOVE SONGS AND A SONG OF DESPAIR
no, i think it better left unread at my funeral, but held in someone's, heart.
Tonight I Can Write
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, ' the night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance'
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes i loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight,I can write the saddest lines.
To think that i do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's, she will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
Because through nights like this one i held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that i lost her.
Though this be the last pain she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
pablo neruda,
from the book, TWENTY LOVE SONGS AND A SONG OF DESPAIR
no, i think it better left unread at my funeral, but held in someone's, heart.
traces
oh yes, there's a
little bit of me
in everything of you, there's
a whisper of me around each corner
there i am , sitting
at your table , here i am
smiling in your bathroom mirror, is
that my scent on your pillow
the feel of my skin, remembered
on your fingertips? yes
the taste of me is in your mouth.
what was that?
what brushed against your heart in passing?
that was me,
in everything of you.
oh yes, there's a
little bit of me
in everything of you, there's
a whisper of me around each corner
there i am , sitting
at your table , here i am
smiling in your bathroom mirror, is
that my scent on your pillow
the feel of my skin, remembered
on your fingertips? yes
the taste of me is in your mouth.
what was that?
what brushed against your heart in passing?
that was me,
in everything of you.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
i am very excited to have another guest poet. his name is gary blankenship. gary is a grand poet and can do something ,with skill and heart, that i will not even attempt. he pens amazing haiku and other forms of Asian poetry. he also writes of his home and his life with words that give the reader the simple beauty of his day to day life and his travels. these are two of his poems that i picked to share with my readers. more of his work can be found on his website and on the links there to other sites he works in.
his site is, www.mindfirerenew.com
this poem is a favorite of mine.
The Father Poem
I have no father
poem. Blood or step.
I have
no mother poem,
though i should. She
canned pickles and spoke
her mind.
I have a grandfather
poem - where
his barn burns when he no longer
owns the barn.
I have a grandmother
poem. She was a saint
and raised seventeen children
on chicory and buttermilk biscuits.
I have started a poem
about my children. They will not
write a father poem.
Winter Comes Round Every Year
In the green bright growth of spring,
all the world seems to blossom,
all the sounds are voices of the young.
In spring, winds may topple nests,
rain may drench gardens,
but there is always time for games,
always a place to play.
In the high hard heat of summer,
all the petals seem to melt,
even thunder's voice is hoarse.
In summer, the earth may parch
and growth may slow to a crawl,
but there is always ground to clear,
always fruit to pick.
In the low yellow haze of autumn,
all the dress seems tattered rage,
all the voices muddled mutes.
In autumn, frost may chill our bones
and the days seem much too short,
but there's always wood to stack,
always memories to sort.
When winter comes around
around too soon again,
always bare to black bone,
always silent as white jays.
We forget where we were,
where we are,
and how to get where we are going.
thanks again gary
his site is, www.mindfirerenew.com
this poem is a favorite of mine.
The Father Poem
I have no father
poem. Blood or step.
I have
no mother poem,
though i should. She
canned pickles and spoke
her mind.
I have a grandfather
poem - where
his barn burns when he no longer
owns the barn.
I have a grandmother
poem. She was a saint
and raised seventeen children
on chicory and buttermilk biscuits.
I have started a poem
about my children. They will not
write a father poem.
Winter Comes Round Every Year
In the green bright growth of spring,
all the world seems to blossom,
all the sounds are voices of the young.
In spring, winds may topple nests,
rain may drench gardens,
but there is always time for games,
always a place to play.
In the high hard heat of summer,
all the petals seem to melt,
even thunder's voice is hoarse.
In summer, the earth may parch
and growth may slow to a crawl,
but there is always ground to clear,
always fruit to pick.
In the low yellow haze of autumn,
all the dress seems tattered rage,
all the voices muddled mutes.
In autumn, frost may chill our bones
and the days seem much too short,
but there's always wood to stack,
always memories to sort.
When winter comes around
around too soon again,
always bare to black bone,
always silent as white jays.
We forget where we were,
where we are,
and how to get where we are going.
thanks again gary
this came yesterday. It is a wonderful and well deserved appointment for Dr. Jim Bennett. The head of my poetry workgroup.
in august 2005 Jim Bennett will be taking up post for two years as port of Liverpool poet in residence under the auspices of world heritage historic waterfronts and land falls group. Part of his duties will be to hold readings and workshops on the subject of the historic waterfront and to produce a " poetry sculpture" which will be exhibited at the pier head during 2008 when Liverpool will become the European capital of culture.
from October 2005 until July 2006 Jim will also serve as visiting writer for new York harbor. The intention is to tie these two places together in a book which will be written and collated by Jim and published together with drawings and photographs of new York harbor and Liverpool water front.
Alex Simons of world heritage said " combining these two posts presents an exciting artistic opportunity. We are sure that a poet of jim's ability will produce a piece of work which will be outstanding and present a real contribution to the cultural links between these two great harbor cities."
between 1996 and 1998 Jim Bennett was poet in residence for the Seaside Heritage Trust and as a result produced an acclaimed collection of poems published as "Drums at New Brighton" ( starwood 1998 ) he was born in Liverpool and lives only five minutes drive from the city centre. He teaches at the University of Liverpool and for the WEA and is managing editor of the internet site "the poetry kit" and he is known internationally as a prize winning poet and performer. His book of poetry "the man who tried to hug clouds" (bluechrome 2004 reprinted 2005 ) won the prize for the best poetry book 2004 at the Berlin festival. Jim has won three DADA fest awards for performance and has twice won the BEAT festival award for poetry.
jim's site, http://www.poetrykit.org/jim
in august 2005 Jim Bennett will be taking up post for two years as port of Liverpool poet in residence under the auspices of world heritage historic waterfronts and land falls group. Part of his duties will be to hold readings and workshops on the subject of the historic waterfront and to produce a " poetry sculpture" which will be exhibited at the pier head during 2008 when Liverpool will become the European capital of culture.
from October 2005 until July 2006 Jim will also serve as visiting writer for new York harbor. The intention is to tie these two places together in a book which will be written and collated by Jim and published together with drawings and photographs of new York harbor and Liverpool water front.
Alex Simons of world heritage said " combining these two posts presents an exciting artistic opportunity. We are sure that a poet of jim's ability will produce a piece of work which will be outstanding and present a real contribution to the cultural links between these two great harbor cities."
between 1996 and 1998 Jim Bennett was poet in residence for the Seaside Heritage Trust and as a result produced an acclaimed collection of poems published as "Drums at New Brighton" ( starwood 1998 ) he was born in Liverpool and lives only five minutes drive from the city centre. He teaches at the University of Liverpool and for the WEA and is managing editor of the internet site "the poetry kit" and he is known internationally as a prize winning poet and performer. His book of poetry "the man who tried to hug clouds" (bluechrome 2004 reprinted 2005 ) won the prize for the best poetry book 2004 at the Berlin festival. Jim has won three DADA fest awards for performance and has twice won the BEAT festival award for poetry.
jim's site, http://www.poetrykit.org/jim
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
6 o' clock news/ porn
sitting in flickering dark
watching the 6 o'clock news
on a 32 inch screen
human degradation in
bright colors
and stereo surround sound
fire and flood
closeup bloody murder
telepromters read by
pretty people
far removed
from the whole dirty business
of real life
well paid pimps
for all us news johns
getting cheap thrills from
the agony whores
going down on the screen
sucking us off each night at 6.
sitting in flickering dark
watching the 6 o'clock news
on a 32 inch screen
human degradation in
bright colors
and stereo surround sound
fire and flood
closeup bloody murder
telepromters read by
pretty people
far removed
from the whole dirty business
of real life
well paid pimps
for all us news johns
getting cheap thrills from
the agony whores
going down on the screen
sucking us off each night at 6.
i wrote ,"6 o'clock news/porn", because i am a news junkie and it struck me that the news has become more graphic for the sake of ratings which of course means money. that the producers demand and the on air talent has to perform. that we are like the johns, in the dark, anxious and horny for release, or perhaps as i said, junkies, looking for that fix. s
Sunday, July 24, 2005
neighborhood whore
i knew a whore once, didn't know that she was
not at first, can't judge a book, ya know.
she was a
tiny , blue eyed
blonde, never
had a chipped nail
or a run in her stockings
white teeth, red lipped, perfect pout
dimpled smile
soft voiced she was.
odd it seemed to me
that she had so many boyfriends, some coming
3 or 4 or more a day, except
on sundays, she was a church going woman
mass every sunday, still
she used the men like kleenex
yeah, she was a whore, after all.
i knew a whore once, didn't know that she was
not at first, can't judge a book, ya know.
she was a
tiny , blue eyed
blonde, never
had a chipped nail
or a run in her stockings
white teeth, red lipped, perfect pout
dimpled smile
soft voiced she was.
odd it seemed to me
that she had so many boyfriends, some coming
3 or 4 or more a day, except
on sundays, she was a church going woman
mass every sunday, still
she used the men like kleenex
yeah, she was a whore, after all.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
thought i'd write a bit about how i want my poems to be taken. i try to write poems that let each reader bring their own experiences into the piece. i try not to be too specific. i do go over and over each poem to see to it that i as the poet am not preaching or trying to teach a point of view . i'd like to think my works can be universally felt. that every person that reads a poem of mine can relate to it in some way, if only to fantasize how they might feel or react.
i really try to evoke feeling in my readers, more than demonstrate my ablities(small, i admit) to craft along a certain form or specific rule. i remember back (many years ago, i admit to that as well!) in grade school, i could diagram the hell out of a sentence, down the blackboard and onto the floor if need be! now, i have come to the stage, and age, where i want emotions, i want feelings. when i am gone, no one will care, nor will i have touched anyone with diagraming sentences, but i just may have given someone, somewhere, a smile, or a laugh or a fist clenched in rage or indignation, or made someone shake their head in bewilderment or given someone a memory or a fantasy and a bit of pleasure in the sensuality of life and love or just the heat of a good sexy read. enjoy, s.
i really try to evoke feeling in my readers, more than demonstrate my ablities(small, i admit) to craft along a certain form or specific rule. i remember back (many years ago, i admit to that as well!) in grade school, i could diagram the hell out of a sentence, down the blackboard and onto the floor if need be! now, i have come to the stage, and age, where i want emotions, i want feelings. when i am gone, no one will care, nor will i have touched anyone with diagraming sentences, but i just may have given someone, somewhere, a smile, or a laugh or a fist clenched in rage or indignation, or made someone shake their head in bewilderment or given someone a memory or a fantasy and a bit of pleasure in the sensuality of life and love or just the heat of a good sexy read. enjoy, s.
valentine' s dinner
the words are carefully chosen, pleasingly placed
like the knives and forks, silver serving pieces, artfully
folded linen napkins. waterford goblets hold intentions
fresh flowers, arranged low enough for
pleasant spoken nothings. a table, set to be admired
but i look close and find spots of dried egg on the
knife edge and small black bugs hide in the pale green
leaves.
the words are carefully chosen, pleasingly placed
like the knives and forks, silver serving pieces, artfully
folded linen napkins. waterford goblets hold intentions
fresh flowers, arranged low enough for
pleasant spoken nothings. a table, set to be admired
but i look close and find spots of dried egg on the
knife edge and small black bugs hide in the pale green
leaves.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Thursday, July 21, 2005
" We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another, unevenly.We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, foreward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations."
anais nin
anais nin
dreams, a small word
a fragile word, so
few letters
small space on the page
hard to write about, but
easy to rip up
tear up, a throw away word.
tiny thing, a
better off staying
on the point of my pencil word.
needs, in black on white, a
little thing, but an exquisitely
painful word most times
dreams.
torn and crumpled
tossed out.
too small to matter,
much.
a fragile word, so
few letters
small space on the page
hard to write about, but
easy to rip up
tear up, a throw away word.
tiny thing, a
better off staying
on the point of my pencil word.
needs, in black on white, a
little thing, but an exquisitely
painful word most times
dreams.
torn and crumpled
tossed out.
too small to matter,
much.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
this is one of my MOST favorite things, so, i want to share it. good things should be shared and enjoyed.
Long night : unable to sleep
The moonlight, how breakingly bright.
Calling, someone seems calling.
Into the empty air, I answer "yes?"
anonymous ( # 4 of the Zi Ye series ) translated by Wai - Lim Yip
this has a very personal meaning for me. i know, i just know, i came across this because i was meant to find it.
Long night : unable to sleep
The moonlight, how breakingly bright.
Calling, someone seems calling.
Into the empty air, I answer "yes?"
anonymous ( # 4 of the Zi Ye series ) translated by Wai - Lim Yip
this has a very personal meaning for me. i know, i just know, i came across this because i was meant to find it.
the poem, these words, MY words, seems simple, but crafting poems on the subjects of poems and poem writing usually is much harder than it would seem. poems on poems can be annoying and sappy at best and godawful at their worst, but i've written two so far ( i can be self destructive at times! ). this and one published in an on-line anthology from the pk list. that poem is called , MY WORDS. it is in the pk anthology 2004, "in no particular order" i am proud that i managed in my years writing to have come up with two passable poems on poems.
these words, MY words
are in your face
words, hey
feel THIS words
come on, feel it, isn't it something?
FEEL this and cry
feel it
and die, just a little bit
just, enough
you, yes, YOU
crawl into my bed words
let me words
DO ME, words
dance me, sing you
MY words
be me, words
FUCK YOU
words
need me, love me, even
hate me words, it doesn't
matter words, just read, just READ
my words.
are in your face
words, hey
feel THIS words
come on, feel it, isn't it something?
FEEL this and cry
feel it
and die, just a little bit
just, enough
you, yes, YOU
crawl into my bed words
let me words
DO ME, words
dance me, sing you
MY words
be me, words
FUCK YOU
words
need me, love me, even
hate me words, it doesn't
matter words, just read, just READ
my words.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
mom's eyes
are my eyes, my daughter's eyes
are mine.
mother's look straight ahead, caught forever
in a child's face that always stares at me when
i dust the mahogany "whatnot" that holds
photos and bric a brac. old
but not antique memories.
her shiny black hair in a bowl cut,
a three year old crosslegged in
a too big chair, her high buttoned shoes make me
think of my grandma and the time she must have had
every day, button hook in hand, patience at an end.
i look at my mom's eyes and wonder,
was i what she wanted from life?
(am i what my daughter hoped? )
are my eyes, my daughter's eyes
are mine.
mother's look straight ahead, caught forever
in a child's face that always stares at me when
i dust the mahogany "whatnot" that holds
photos and bric a brac. old
but not antique memories.
her shiny black hair in a bowl cut,
a three year old crosslegged in
a too big chair, her high buttoned shoes make me
think of my grandma and the time she must have had
every day, button hook in hand, patience at an end.
i look at my mom's eyes and wonder,
was i what she wanted from life?
(am i what my daughter hoped? )
to my readers, please remember to hit "ARCHIVES" to read all the posts. my poetry blog has become too large for just one page. (it seems i am i am entranced with this blogging thing ) one of the poems i've gotten the most and most positive feedback on over the years is in the archives, "pool night..." it is intense and intimate and mine.
thanks much. sherry
thanks much. sherry
Monday, July 18, 2005
Sunday, July 17, 2005
these dead of mine
i know them well
and they know me.
who are yours,
do they come in sleep or waking
to comfort or to curse things done
too late or not at all, with
tender smiles or earned disdain?
will they come
at life's last gasp and rattle
to guide with gentle hands?
i know my dead
too well,
and they know me.
i know them well
and they know me.
who are yours,
do they come in sleep or waking
to comfort or to curse things done
too late or not at all, with
tender smiles or earned disdain?
will they come
at life's last gasp and rattle
to guide with gentle hands?
i know my dead
too well,
and they know me.
my head aches ( a love poem? )
my head aches
coming off a dream
drunk with the
taste of you, still
in my mouth
brain swollen to
bursting, full
of imagined touches
kisses that swallowed us
whole, promises
tender and rich
flowing from
you to me
i wrap myself around them
holding them inside, legs
shut tight as i
will them to grow.
my head aches
coming off a dream
drunk with the
taste of you, still
in my mouth
brain swollen to
bursting, full
of imagined touches
kisses that swallowed us
whole, promises
tender and rich
flowing from
you to me
i wrap myself around them
holding them inside, legs
shut tight as i
will them to grow.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Friday, July 15, 2005
amputation
heartache dims but is not
forgotten, like phantom pain
from severed limb it
creeps up on a soul,
unaware
and brings the amputation,
fresh and bloody
nerves sing the knife's song
anew
it renders us undone and begging
all the while, we know
in our gut, a lost cause
it is over before
our mind forms the
first plea,
or tries to strike
a bargin
with god.
this was first published in alchemy, online poetry magazine, in 1999
heartache dims but is not
forgotten, like phantom pain
from severed limb it
creeps up on a soul,
unaware
and brings the amputation,
fresh and bloody
nerves sing the knife's song
anew
it renders us undone and begging
all the while, we know
in our gut, a lost cause
it is over before
our mind forms the
first plea,
or tries to strike
a bargin
with god.
this was first published in alchemy, online poetry magazine, in 1999
Thursday, July 14, 2005
no poem today, just a quote or two. this is from a letter written by thomas jefferson to mrs. h. harrison in 1816. " i never told my own religion nor scrutinized that of another. i never attempted to make a convert, nor wished to change another's creed. i am satisfied that yours must be an excellent religion to have produced a life of such exemplary virtue and correctness. for it is by our lives and not our words that our religion must be judged." and this one from the Buddha on belief from the kalama sutta, is one of my favorites. " do not believe in anything simply because you have heard it. do not believe simply because it has been handed down for many generations. do not believe in anything simply because it is spoken or rumored by many. do not believe in anything simply because it is written in holy scriptures. do not believe in anything merely on the authority of teachers, elders or wise men. believe only after careful observation and analysis, when you find that it agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of one and all. then accept it and live up to it." just a few things to mull over.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
a note for anyone looking at all of the really worthwhile charities out there and trying to decide which one to send those hard earned dollars to, one of the really fine ones for the patients with a genetic disease few really know much about and that is woefully undervalued and terribly misunderstood even tho it is more prevalent than most other genetic diseases combined, one in every 4000 births, is NF1, neurofibromatosis aka wrongly, as elephant man's disease. a wonderful site for research on a cure and info for families is, www.ctf.org , children's tumor foundation, check it out.
one last poem of mick's, because this says so much.
Rwanda
10 years old
with an AK 47
his tribe have killed their tribe
back and forth
across the frontline
that used to be a road
running between the villages
but now it's a frontier
littered with flyblown corpses
including those of his parents
the journalist asked him
" why are you a soldier?"
the kid didn't know
" i just am."
Rwanda
10 years old
with an AK 47
his tribe have killed their tribe
back and forth
across the frontline
that used to be a road
running between the villages
but now it's a frontier
littered with flyblown corpses
including those of his parents
the journalist asked him
" why are you a soldier?"
the kid didn't know
" i just am."
two poems here by a guest poet/artist/singer songwriter that i am pleased to claim as a friend tho we've never met face to face. his name is mick moss and he lives in england. i hope you enjoy them. they are" Funeral of a Dead Good Poet" and "Butterfly Rage"
Funeral of a Good Dead Poet
When your light had gone
We came to see you off
at the great sand stone edifice
battered by a bitter wind
and cold as death inside
the mock gothic vaulted cavernous space
echoed with appropriately poetic words
as poet followed writer followed poet
with tales of a life lived large
eulogy for a fat boy bullied
but creative and curious
who wanted to paint everything
even the paving slabs in Canning Street
who believed that communication was bigger
than the limitations of language
a trumpeter played a muted blues
the last jazz rites
and i thought of angry young men
rule breakers and risk takers
a generation who were among the first
to say "fuck you"
only eloquently
i misread the programme and could have sworn
" commendation " read " comedian "
one wouldn't have been out of place
as top turn after top turn read or played or sang
I wasn't the only one of the capacity crowd
who felt the desire to applaud
Roger McGough reminded us that Dylan Thomas begged us
not to go quietly when our light goes
I came away feeling
like I always do after a funeral
That they are not for the dead
nor about death
but for the living
and about life.
Butterfly Rage
In my English garden
a gentle summer breeze
as a delicate little butterfly
fluttered on a rose
It cost a fortune
to rebuild my house
in the Caribbean
so i squashed
the little bastard.
(there's a good explaination for this poem. you can ask mick himself. )
mick's website with links to his songs, artwork etc. is www.geocities.com/emcsquareduk
i'm hoping for more of my fellow poets to allow me to post a few of their works here as well.
just waiting for some e-mail replies.
hope you enjoyed mick's poems.
he's a keeper.
Funeral of a Good Dead Poet
When your light had gone
We came to see you off
at the great sand stone edifice
battered by a bitter wind
and cold as death inside
the mock gothic vaulted cavernous space
echoed with appropriately poetic words
as poet followed writer followed poet
with tales of a life lived large
eulogy for a fat boy bullied
but creative and curious
who wanted to paint everything
even the paving slabs in Canning Street
who believed that communication was bigger
than the limitations of language
a trumpeter played a muted blues
the last jazz rites
and i thought of angry young men
rule breakers and risk takers
a generation who were among the first
to say "fuck you"
only eloquently
i misread the programme and could have sworn
" commendation " read " comedian "
one wouldn't have been out of place
as top turn after top turn read or played or sang
I wasn't the only one of the capacity crowd
who felt the desire to applaud
Roger McGough reminded us that Dylan Thomas begged us
not to go quietly when our light goes
I came away feeling
like I always do after a funeral
That they are not for the dead
nor about death
but for the living
and about life.
Butterfly Rage
In my English garden
a gentle summer breeze
as a delicate little butterfly
fluttered on a rose
It cost a fortune
to rebuild my house
in the Caribbean
so i squashed
the little bastard.
(there's a good explaination for this poem. you can ask mick himself. )
mick's website with links to his songs, artwork etc. is www.geocities.com/emcsquareduk
i'm hoping for more of my fellow poets to allow me to post a few of their works here as well.
just waiting for some e-mail replies.
hope you enjoyed mick's poems.
he's a keeper.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
holiday
stacked up the newspapers
the last three days still folded
neatly unread.
my good high heels lay on the floor
one, half under the bed. don't care
black silk skirt a dark stain in the corner.
i can feel the damp white linen of my blouse
sticking to my breasts, the back of a pearl earring
pokes at me, guess i put it on to tightly this morning
just now realizing how annoying it has been,
like a buzzing fly
determined.
i think i'll close my eyes, and go away.
stacked up the newspapers
the last three days still folded
neatly unread.
my good high heels lay on the floor
one, half under the bed. don't care
black silk skirt a dark stain in the corner.
i can feel the damp white linen of my blouse
sticking to my breasts, the back of a pearl earring
pokes at me, guess i put it on to tightly this morning
just now realizing how annoying it has been,
like a buzzing fly
determined.
i think i'll close my eyes, and go away.
Monday, July 11, 2005
people ask
" what do you do?" not,
" how are you?"
how are you, seems too intimate anymore
or maybe, just could be
they just don't care,
to pretend to care, but
"what do you do?" well,at least
that could be interesting.
never know when the answer might be
" CEO" of blah blah." or
"i'm the president of a third world banana republic!"
(take your pick of countries, most suck at geography or world affairs)
OR the answer might even be "convicted felon." perhaps
"pervert!"
"what do YOU do?" i'm asked, usually while trying
to get a drink from the bartender or find the ladies room
without looking like i need it. " what DO you do?"
"me?"
well, lets see, "nothing, i don't DO much of anything."
why bother explaining that i'm a poet. that i write, that
i fucking stay up nights looking for just THE right word
the PERFECT word. typing and deleting and retyping
printing it out, ripping it up. sweaty and working on
another ulcer. beating myself up and wondering.
WHY?
"what do you do?" smarmy, well dressed, over educated
male or female, really doesn't matter who.
"what do i do?"
"i make bricks."
" what do you do?" not,
" how are you?"
how are you, seems too intimate anymore
or maybe, just could be
they just don't care,
to pretend to care, but
"what do you do?" well,at least
that could be interesting.
never know when the answer might be
" CEO" of blah blah." or
"i'm the president of a third world banana republic!"
(take your pick of countries, most suck at geography or world affairs)
OR the answer might even be "convicted felon." perhaps
"pervert!"
"what do YOU do?" i'm asked, usually while trying
to get a drink from the bartender or find the ladies room
without looking like i need it. " what DO you do?"
"me?"
well, lets see, "nothing, i don't DO much of anything."
why bother explaining that i'm a poet. that i write, that
i fucking stay up nights looking for just THE right word
the PERFECT word. typing and deleting and retyping
printing it out, ripping it up. sweaty and working on
another ulcer. beating myself up and wondering.
WHY?
"what do you do?" smarmy, well dressed, over educated
male or female, really doesn't matter who.
"what do i do?"
"i make bricks."
river rocks
waves, knife edged
steel grey sharpness
slicing away at the river rocks.
cold raw silverskied day
you can see them
tightly packed
under the bridges of the three rivers.
dirty blankets, stained cardboard
muted colors, dulled hopes endure.
eyes as hard as the wet stones
staying
while the river flows away.
waves, knife edged
steel grey sharpness
slicing away at the river rocks.
cold raw silverskied day
you can see them
tightly packed
under the bridges of the three rivers.
dirty blankets, stained cardboard
muted colors, dulled hopes endure.
eyes as hard as the wet stones
staying
while the river flows away.
most of the poets that i know have websites along with some who have chapbooks or books published. i worked on getting a website up and running. it gave me headaches trying to work it out. then i found blogging. this seemed to suit not only my desire to get my poems out there on my own, previously they were published on other's e-zines or in indie lit mags . most are still in my files some have been edited or rewritten with the wonderful help of the amazing and amazingly different and talented poets from the pk list. i recommend researching the main poetry kit site and go from there. it is crammed full of things that will be of great benefit to anyone that loves words. so, i will post poems and thoughts about poetry and whatever might come to mind.
sparrow
i've seen angels smile as
scabby junkies shared a
blood stained needle
and huddled close, seeking heaven.
watched and written pretty words
as devils danced in delight
outside a hospital room while
sacred words in mumbled monotone
sped a soul to heaven.
saw christ in a drunk's
sloppy grin and found buddha's calm
in the bottom of a shot glass.
it's been written that
god sees the sparrow fall,
but does he look for me?
hey god, do you look and
smile at me,
trying to find heaven.
patterns
your tongue is sharp
honed to a fine edge.
the things you say
slash me at times, wounds
deep and gaping.
the bones of my soul show
white under red.
but most often the words are
tiny nicks,
scratches here and there,
patterns,
tattooed on my self esteem.
tribal scarifications
brand me yours.
pool night 1996
i sit quiet in the corner
just a bit of darker shadow
turned sideways from the light
coming yellow down on the
one decent pool table.
watching you laugh, drinking
with the rest. you stroke your stick
i can see you like the feel
of it's smooth wood
familiar to your fingers.
me, i'm thinking
i wanna be the pool table, soft
worn felt you're leaning across,
want you to be that stick.
the shot, as you stroke.
wanna be the corner pocket.
i swallow hard when you
tilt your coors up and
drink deep. i need to be your thirst.
shifting my weight a bit on my seat
i think about you
being that bar stool.
i would be the smokey air that
you suck in before the click of
the balls hitting. hell
i'd settle for being the cigarette
between your lips.
2 a.m. by the grimy neon clock
behind the bar, another pool night done.
you won a few of your games, i
haven't played at all.
after reading again, bukowski
his love, was i think
that dog from hell.
i think that.
times he fucked lovelessly
times he fucked loveless
times he loved
fuckless.
sometimes i think he wasn't
but most times i think he was
bukowski.
a date with neruda
after work on a friday, a
quick stop at a bookshop down the street
unlocking the backdoor, coat tossed at the
kitchen table, misses
who cares, as i
hurry up the narrow stars to
my small bedroom, turning on the
lights
as i head for the bed and
the intimacy of pillows and mattress,
the book is hard in my hands and the pleasures i
seek, fullfilled as i read,
me and pablo, between the sheets.
wicked fingers
bruised sky
swells around
the rising moon
backlight
for sharpened branches,
dark wicked fingers
point toward heaven
accusing god.
jewel box
each stolen moment, every
glance with head tilted so
no one notices
a brush of hand against hand
as we pass, warm
skin to skin
quick opened mouth kisses
wet and too few
strung together
i wear as jewelry
more costly that pearls.
i've seen angels smile as
scabby junkies shared a
blood stained needle
and huddled close, seeking heaven.
watched and written pretty words
as devils danced in delight
outside a hospital room while
sacred words in mumbled monotone
sped a soul to heaven.
saw christ in a drunk's
sloppy grin and found buddha's calm
in the bottom of a shot glass.
it's been written that
god sees the sparrow fall,
but does he look for me?
hey god, do you look and
smile at me,
trying to find heaven.
patterns
your tongue is sharp
honed to a fine edge.
the things you say
slash me at times, wounds
deep and gaping.
the bones of my soul show
white under red.
but most often the words are
tiny nicks,
scratches here and there,
patterns,
tattooed on my self esteem.
tribal scarifications
brand me yours.
pool night 1996
i sit quiet in the corner
just a bit of darker shadow
turned sideways from the light
coming yellow down on the
one decent pool table.
watching you laugh, drinking
with the rest. you stroke your stick
i can see you like the feel
of it's smooth wood
familiar to your fingers.
me, i'm thinking
i wanna be the pool table, soft
worn felt you're leaning across,
want you to be that stick.
the shot, as you stroke.
wanna be the corner pocket.
i swallow hard when you
tilt your coors up and
drink deep. i need to be your thirst.
shifting my weight a bit on my seat
i think about you
being that bar stool.
i would be the smokey air that
you suck in before the click of
the balls hitting. hell
i'd settle for being the cigarette
between your lips.
2 a.m. by the grimy neon clock
behind the bar, another pool night done.
you won a few of your games, i
haven't played at all.
after reading again, bukowski
his love, was i think
that dog from hell.
i think that.
times he fucked lovelessly
times he fucked loveless
times he loved
fuckless.
sometimes i think he wasn't
but most times i think he was
bukowski.
a date with neruda
after work on a friday, a
quick stop at a bookshop down the street
unlocking the backdoor, coat tossed at the
kitchen table, misses
who cares, as i
hurry up the narrow stars to
my small bedroom, turning on the
lights
as i head for the bed and
the intimacy of pillows and mattress,
the book is hard in my hands and the pleasures i
seek, fullfilled as i read,
me and pablo, between the sheets.
wicked fingers
bruised sky
swells around
the rising moon
backlight
for sharpened branches,
dark wicked fingers
point toward heaven
accusing god.
jewel box
each stolen moment, every
glance with head tilted so
no one notices
a brush of hand against hand
as we pass, warm
skin to skin
quick opened mouth kisses
wet and too few
strung together
i wear as jewelry
more costly that pearls.
some thoughts on poems and on my poems. i think all poems just as all paintings or acting or any of the arts that one does, contain bits and pieces of one's personality , life experiences and a healthy dose of imagination. the ablity to put oneself in another's shoes, or at least attempt to do so helps, as does an empathetic inclination, tho not always. some artists have been and are childishly self centered and egotistical, but still there has to be something in them that can bring words or brush strokes or notes of music or dance to move others or they would fall by the wayside and give up. my poems are bits and pieces, of me, of others i've encountered on my path through this life or of people and things that i've read about mixed in with a good imagination(i hope) i know other poets that work differently, but there is, at least that i have seen, bits of them that shine through.
freedom
my cat sits
on the sill
licking at the cold glass
and i
wonder does she
lick to feel the smoothness
of the glass against her
rough tongue or
to taste the impossiblity
of freedom.
(first published in APJ, 1999 )
jeans
you take my
small
hips, in your
big hands, too
big hands and
pull me on
to
you, fit me
to you,on
you, over
you like putting
on
socks, or a pair
of
jeans, with just as much
thought you
wear me, like
you bought
me
at
k mart.
been
i was a granddaughter
until eight years ago. i am
a daughter for maybe
a year or two more
perhaps three.
i have been a mother
these thirty years past, a grandmother
possibly, never.
i was a good wife, until
i realized that wife meant
less than i could be.
i was, i've been, i
am, everything
but me.
my hands
oh lord, are turning into
my grandma's hands,
not my mother's, oh no.
her's were too harsh, too quick with
angry movement. no.
my hands are my grandma's,
endless twistings
in silent rosary pleadings.
i pray, without the beads
using grandma's hands.
180 lbs.
ribs and hipbones, too white skin
nipples turned upward
from flat childlike breasts.
i am almost a child agian,
almost.
i laugh like a child,
thinking that it is this child's form
with a woman's eyes, unblinking,
knowing
that you would have me under you
almost hidden by you, and your heated
needful push.
where were you, when i looked like a woman?
where was the fucking lust when i weighed
180 lbs.
anorexia
little deaths
tiny bites
from a life
inch by inch
eating myself up
year after year
haute couture suicide
slow and oh,
so chic.
(two notes. i was flattered when i submitted this for comments and critique to my poetry group because more than one member thought that i must be anorexic to have written about it in such a way and well. i'm not, never have been. also a note of interest pointed out to me by a member"little deaths" translates to,"petit mort" in french and is used to discribe an orgasm. puts an interesting spin to the poem.)
angel at the bar
i paint my nails
black
and drink white russians
i dance just
to feel another's touch
making myself smile to
see
what it feels like
learning to fly with a broken
wing
and god, i'm getting over you.
(this is one of a series of " bar room" poems that will someday become a booklength work.)
my cat sits
on the sill
licking at the cold glass
and i
wonder does she
lick to feel the smoothness
of the glass against her
rough tongue or
to taste the impossiblity
of freedom.
(first published in APJ, 1999 )
jeans
you take my
small
hips, in your
big hands, too
big hands and
pull me on
to
you, fit me
to you,on
you, over
you like putting
on
socks, or a pair
of
jeans, with just as much
thought you
wear me, like
you bought
me
at
k mart.
been
i was a granddaughter
until eight years ago. i am
a daughter for maybe
a year or two more
perhaps three.
i have been a mother
these thirty years past, a grandmother
possibly, never.
i was a good wife, until
i realized that wife meant
less than i could be.
i was, i've been, i
am, everything
but me.
my hands
oh lord, are turning into
my grandma's hands,
not my mother's, oh no.
her's were too harsh, too quick with
angry movement. no.
my hands are my grandma's,
endless twistings
in silent rosary pleadings.
i pray, without the beads
using grandma's hands.
180 lbs.
ribs and hipbones, too white skin
nipples turned upward
from flat childlike breasts.
i am almost a child agian,
almost.
i laugh like a child,
thinking that it is this child's form
with a woman's eyes, unblinking,
knowing
that you would have me under you
almost hidden by you, and your heated
needful push.
where were you, when i looked like a woman?
where was the fucking lust when i weighed
180 lbs.
anorexia
little deaths
tiny bites
from a life
inch by inch
eating myself up
year after year
haute couture suicide
slow and oh,
so chic.
(two notes. i was flattered when i submitted this for comments and critique to my poetry group because more than one member thought that i must be anorexic to have written about it in such a way and well. i'm not, never have been. also a note of interest pointed out to me by a member"little deaths" translates to,"petit mort" in french and is used to discribe an orgasm. puts an interesting spin to the poem.)
angel at the bar
i paint my nails
black
and drink white russians
i dance just
to feel another's touch
making myself smile to
see
what it feels like
learning to fly with a broken
wing
and god, i'm getting over you.
(this is one of a series of " bar room" poems that will someday become a booklength work.)
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