butter's stuff: the good, the ugly, and the incomplete

[butters]

version 1

absurd

dreams of satsumas with tiny hands
and melting dolls with eastern europian names
a white house turned shades of deep pink
and frantic games of musical chairs
where there are too many chairs
and not enough players
and the bobble-heads
are climbing on the table
looking for indian ropes suspended in disbelief
tricks to climb as floodwaters rise
above the chins of the serious children
reluctant to abandon their chairs
determined to go down with their rudderless captain...

i want to find rabbit holes
the temptation of glass-stoppered bottles
a choice to be made
the dichotomous dangers of eat and drink me's
perspective
fitting in
or not fitting
hand me a paddle
let me steer my dream-raft clear
of such badly sketched political metaphors
and wild queens shrieking
"Off with their heads!!"


version 2

when the white house blushed
...absurd dreams
satsumas with tiny hands
and melting dolls with east-european names
a white house turned shades of deep pink
at frantic games of musical chairs
with too many chairs
not enough players

and the bobble-heads
are climbing on tables
looking for indian ropes suspended in disbelief
tricks to climb as floodwaters rise
above the chins of the serious children
reluctant to abandon their chairs
determined to go down with their rudderless captain...

 

[butters]

reworked oldie, still silly but accepted for publication at OAF Sept. 13th 2023

relativity theory

if you
were only
as thin as
one atom
one
wide
one
tall
one
deep
you can bet your atomic arse
electrons would still think you're fat​

 

[butters]

visiting mum

when i think of you
i recall how you'd rock me gently
when i fretted;
that never repeated image of you
in a mini-dress chatting with your friend
on a glorious summer's day
as i lay in my pram, feet to sky.

i see you now
busy in the kitchen
cooking, and how
the angle of your arms flex
turning the mangle, flattening sheets;
your broad, short feet—size3—on the treadle
of the busy Singer
as you run up curtains made over
from the neighbour's discards,
and how you bite off the thread
rather than look for scissors.

i relive those caught moments:
with you in the farmer's field
bent over, picking potatoes
for a little income,
how you had to ask that small boy
to leave me alone—no, i couldn't be your girlfriend;
and that day on the train
taking three of us to the zoo,
where you waited outside for us
saying you'd rather read your book
(you could only afford to pay for us);
the days you cried
because of my father;
the day you flew in
like a wild cat
ripping the belt out of his hands
before he could hit us with it...

i remember no unkind words from you
when i dropped the precious doll
smashing her porcelain head
—i was little and you only blamed yourself;
i wonder if you remember
the two times you ever struck me...
i do, and they were more than well-deserved;
in a small house overspilling with kids
i admire your restraint

i remember your absence
which didn't really feel too bad
always people about, knowing you'd return
from working and working and working;
how you'd love to watch Dr. Kildare,
Crossroads, and Coronation Street;
the cake you made for my nuptials
how long it took you
such care and love involved
and how i was too wrapped up
in other small dissatisfactions
with other people's plans
to tell you at the time
how much i loved it.

perhaps the things i recall best,
the omnipresence of books
how you shared with us all
a love of the written word
classics to comedy
everything inbetween
except, god forbid, Barbara Cartland,

that and the day you dressed in cherry red
in a pant suit you made
topped with that pill-box hat—
how you'd cut up the cereal box
to make its shape
covered it in matching fabric
and used a black shoelace
to form a small knot on its crown
and how it perched perkily
held in place by shirring elastic
on the side
of your bobbed black hair
as you applied the last
of your best,
rarely used
blood red lipstick,
lifted your chin
and did a little twirl.

 

[butters]

Kyiv's botanical garden 5/14/23

it's Sunday
as residents of
and visitors to
Kyiv
seek sanctuary
from the violence
shading their world

discover relief
in gentle assaults
fragrant explosions
bright bombs of colours

in a garden of
one thousand lilacs
people bloom
as they stop
to smell the flowers




n.b it is at this time of the year that the lilacs are at their peak in Kyiv's botanical garden, drawing thousands of visitors each year for the wonderful scent and sight of them in full bloom

might change the title

 

[butters]

"Occupy your imagination...or someone else will" David Zinn, chalk artist

don't we all have imaginations?
some more visited than others
some a place of temporary residence only
a summer home
others
a palace of many rooms
a permanent abode
where windows may be flung wide
to allow in light
air
gauze a-flutter
all shades of life
death

i feel sad for those ignored habitats
closed for all seasons
windows shuttered
heavy curtains denying sun
even as utility bills are paid
on automatic renewal
because these unloved spaces
keys under the mat
are ripe for stealthy break-ins
the trespass
unsanctioned occupation
and in the darkness
fear multiplies
mutates
fills each room, each hallway
closet, recess, crawlspace
as paranoid ugliness
picks up the phone
dials out

 

[butters]

before we reach our sunless seas

in life's rivers
rounded stones
shaped & smoothed
by time & tides
water glides past them
over beds of gravel

those further from the flow
feet buried in dirt
jut more sharply
all angles & fractures
splinters exposed
yet softened by moss
stains of oxidisation

in the blue distance
aloof, craggy peaks
snow-capped year round
weighed down by ice—
even they have rainier days
& meltwater resumes
its slow
patient
work



revised:


before we reach our sunless seas

in life's rivers
rounded stones
shaped & smoothed
by time & tides
water glides past them
over beds of gravel

those further from the flow
on banks & in fields
expose sharper angles
fractures softened by moss
stains of oxidisation

in the blue distance
aloof, craggy peaks
snow-capped year round
weighed down by ice—

but even they have rainier days
& meltwater resumes
its slow
patient
work

 

[butters]

spirals

from the far-flung arms
of galaxies
to the inner chambers
of a nautilus shell

tight-furled fiddleheads
to double-helixes and
hurricanes spawned
by solar-warmed oceans

the whorl of a sunflower
fingerprints
bathwater that drains
down the plug holes of hemispheres

as man reaches for the metaphysical
religions and architecture
music, sculpture, painting, dance, song, poetry
all beg, borrow and steal
plagiarise with a heavy hand
art imitating life


v.2

spirals

...from far-flung arms
of galaxies
to inner chambers
of a shell

tight-furled fiddleheads
double-helixes
& hurricanes spawned
by solar-warmed oceans

in whorl of a sunflower
fingerprints
& bathwater that drains
down the plug holes of hemispheres.

Feet in clay
man's nature has him reach
for that beyond his touch:
the metaphysical

religions, architecture
music, sculpture, painting, dance, song & poetry
all beg, borrow and steal
plagiarise with a heavy hand
art imitating life

 

[butters]

i spent so long in the dark
so many years
operating on auto-pilot
protecting my world
by standing still
not reacting
absorbing the ills
so they couldn't spread
be inflicted on my kids

life outside the house an act
indoors, the same

lies to prevent an explosion
contain, contain, contain
parameters shrunk
balancing on one tile
of a shattered floor
over the boiling pits of his promises

freedom is a solid floor
a blue sky overhead
the ability to speak the truth
without fear of detonation
and the burden of knowing
my kids were still harmed
by my decisions

 

[butters]

on the naming of pets

people weigh
& ponder
consider & discard
seek to choose a special word
a cute or pithy phrase
for shits & giggles
by which to call their critters—
animals that have no need
of our quixotic choices

if we'd only stop our noisy brains
engage the listening gears
& mute the mouth
we might understand them better
as north to south
from dry to wetter
they strive to teach dumb humans
to comprehend their names

 

[butters]

Phoenix Valley Times

"Renowned local blind artist wows ceramic world with his new phase, ripping up the rule books to produce brave, genre-shattering, colour-clash co-ordinations and finishes to inspire and delight even the most jaded amongst us. Fabuloso!"



the blind potter

clay sings to him
guides his touch
a shared pleasure
as slick fingers coax
a softly swollen curve
a slender neck
a shoulder, lip or foot

sighs beneath his hands
as he feels his way
reads each ripple
deftly redirects
each anomaly
to perfection

his muscled legs
ease the wheel
to still

temporarily sated
he breathes each timeless moment
neither knowing nor caring
he's confused his decorative glazes

-----o-----o-----o------

 

[butters]

thanks, @AlinaX ... tidying up the version i dropped during a live write. i prefer it this way around

 

[AlinaX]

I don't often dip into Poetry, but this was a delight.

 

[butters]

I don't often dip into Poetry, but this was a delight.

thanks for your time, eyes and comment

 

[butters]

if you're gonna drops names, do it well
some rule about show over tell
if dropped with a clang
like a lead ying and yang
it's hard for a polemic sell

 

[butters]

The Cliff

How precariously we live
between now and a bad decision

between one breath
blink
beat
and the next

the past an anchor
as we strive to reach
beyond.

Gravity's a greedy bitch
snapping at our hold
on precipitous life
suspended as we are
in ascent
tasting the burn
as tendons strain
toes slip
and fingers bleed.

We fear to look up
afraid to see the dislodged debris
of others' choices
as it hurtles toward us
threatens to rip us
from the cliff.

 

[Lazaran]

The Cliff

How precariously we live
between now and a bad decision

between one breath
blink
beat
and the next

the past an anchor
as we strive to reach
beyond.

Gravity's a greedy bitch
snapping at our hold
on precipitous life
suspended as we are
in ascent
tasting the burn
as tendons strain
toes slip
and fingers bleed.

We fear to look up
afraid to see dislodged debris
—fallout of others' choices—
as it hurtles toward us
threatens to rip us
from the cliff.

You do realize that your work, and that of some others here, is intimidating AF, right???

Sooooooo good, but sooooooo intimidating.

 

[butters]

intimidating doesn't sound good; thankyou, of course, but it shouldn't be.
i am often in awe of other poets here... now i find i can be less awed (having come to terms that we're all traveling the same path at our own speed) which makes it easier to enjoy reading them!

this one was nagging at 1.30a.m so i had to get out of bed, jot down its bones and teased it out this morning.

 

[Lazaran]

intimidating doesn't sound good; thankyou, of course, but it shouldn't be.
i am often in awe of other poets here... now i find i can be less awed (having come to terms that we're all traveling the same path at our own speed) which makes it easier to enjoy reading them!

this one was nagging at 1.30a.m so i had to get out of bed, jot down its bones and teased it out this morning.

It was meant as the highest compliment.

I would liken it to when someone performs amazingly on any stage, and then the next person on that stage has to follow them and try to measure up. It’s intimidating.

You guys set the bar really high.

I have read a few things here that are worthy of serious recognition from serious people in the field, imho.

And I like to pride myself on being able to spot talent, among other things.

So carry on. Your efforts are appreciated.

 

[42Below]

intimidating doesn't sound good; thankyou, of course, but it shouldn't be.
i am often in awe of other poets here... now i find i can be less awed (having come to terms that we're all traveling the same path at our own speed) which makes it easier to enjoy reading them!

this one was nagging at 1.30a.m so i had to get out of bed, jot down its bones and teased it out this morning.

I learnt to write in the dark. Years ago I kept a scrapbook on my nightstand. When the workings of a poem woke me I would scrawl it down in the dark and go back to sleep.

I really like that sentiment ‘…at our own speed’.

 

[butters]

I learnt to write in the dark. Years ago I kept a scrapbook on my nightstand. When the workings of a poem woke me I would scrawl it down in the dark and go back to sleep.

I really like that sentiment ‘…at our own speed’.

i used to keep a pad and pen on the nightstand, too, but that phase of poetry coming overnight slowed right down so i rarely find i need to write in the middle of the night again.
seems it's more a case of when i feel under emotional stress that the night poetry comes.. which is why i used to write so much of it years back. I think this one came about because our dog went missing for 3 days and i was convinced she was dead. She's back and barking

p.s

thanks for the read and like, @Angeline

 

[42Below]

i used to keep a pad and pen on the nightstand, too, but that phase of poetry coming overnight slowed right down so i rarely find i need to write in the middle of the night again.
seems it's more a case of when i feel under emotional stress that the night poetry comes.. which is why i used to write so much of it years back. I think this one came about because our dog went missing for 3 days and i was convinced she was dead. She's back and barking

p.s

thanks for the read and like, @Angeline

Lol I transitioned to my phone. Happy to hear your best friend is back and barking.

 

[butters]

conduits of living

a whistle
is incomplete
its purpose unresolved
without the breath of life

we are the rigid flute
the clarinet
oboe
trumpet, trombone
& tuba

ready and awaiting manipulation
to create notes ethereal
down the scales
to the resonant power of ore
yet still
without breath
remain dead silent

 

[42Below]

Kyiv's botanical garden 5/14/23

it's Sunday
as residents of
and visitors to
Kyiv
seek sanctuary
from the violence
shading their world

discover relief
in gentle assaults
fragrant explosions
bright bombs of colours

in a garden of
one thousand lilacs
people bloom
as they stop
to smell the flowers




n.b it is at this time of the year that the lilacs are at their peak in Kyiv's botanical garden, drawing thousands of visitors each year for the wonderful scent and sight of them in full bloom

might change the title

Why change the title? I mean did you?

 

[butters]

Why change the title? I mean did you?

ha, i may have added 'botanical gardens' where before it might have been just Kyiv and the date... i really don't remember for sure, but that's likely the thing; probably wasn't confident enough readers would understand the relevance/importance of the botanical gardens to Kyiv especially during the war.

p.s thanks for the time to read and comment. appreciated.

 

[Lazaran]

The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big Round Things
working title: John Dies at the End

As I Lay Dying,
it's Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil
and Something Wicked This Way Comes
Where the Wild Things Are:

The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse
plot To Kill a Mockingbird
in The Elephant Tree,
and The Grapes of Wrath
are not A Thousand Splendid Suns;

Invisible Monsters--
they're Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
and asking When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops?

I Was Told There'd Be Cake
in The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul,
but it's just Another Bullshit Night in Suck City,
Trainspotting in a Brave New World,
contemplating The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake.

Don't Pee on My Leg and Tell Me It's Raining;
The Moon is a Harsh Mistress
and Nostradamus Ate My Hamster in Lunar Park.
It's No Country for Old Men...
It's all Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.
I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell.

Well-Behaved Women Seldom Make History
but understand The Importance of Being Earnest;
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
maybe more The Baby Jesus Butt Plug
than Life, the Universe and Everything.
Ah well,
For Whom the Bell Tolls...

John Dies at the End.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


credits:


The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big Round Things by Carolyn Mackler
working title: John Dies at the End by David Wong

As I Lay Dying,
by William Faulkner
it's Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil
by John Berendt
and Something Wicked This Way Comes
by Maurice Sendak
Where the Wild Things Are:
by Ray Bradbury

The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse
by Robert Rankin
plot To Kill a Mockingbird
by Harper Lee
in The Elephant Tree,
by R.D. Ronald
and The Grapes of Wrath
by John Steinbeck
are not A Thousand Splendid Suns;
by Khaled Hosseini

Invisible Monsters--
by Chuck Palahniuk
they're Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
by Jonathan Safran Foer
and asking When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops?
by George Carlin

I Was Told There'd Be Cake
by Sloane Crosley
in The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul
by Douglas Adams
but it's just Another Bullshit Night in Suck City...
by Nick Flynn
Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh in a Brave New World,
by Aldous Huxley
contemplating The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake.
by Aimee Bender

Don't Pee on My Leg and Tell Me It's Raining;
by Judy Sheindlin
The Moon is a Harsh Mistress
by Robert A. Heinlein
and Nostradamus Ate My Hamster by Robert Rankin in Lunar Park.
by Bret Easton Ellis
It's No Country for Old Men...
by Cormac McCarthy
It's all Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.
by Seth Grahame-Smith
I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell.
by Tucker Max

Well-Behaved Women Seldom Make History
by Laurel Thatcher Ulrich
but understand The Importance of Being Earnest;
by Oscar Wilde
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
by Milan Kundera
maybe more The Baby Jesus Butt Plug
by Carlton Mellick III
than Life, the Universe and Everything;
by Douglas Adams
For Whom the Bell Tolls...
by Ernest Hemingway

John Dies at the End by David Wong
__________________

You were right; I loved this!!!

The choice of titles used to convey the feeling / message elevated this to another level.

Evocative choices indeed.

BRAVO!!!