Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[Angeline]

*

 

[Tathagata]

We're doing the may pole crepe streamer sugar kool aid dance,
with cowlicks and pigtails,
short checkered knee pants and white socks,
and Buster Browns.

It is one of those endless days, before time, before school,
where each day is a vacation, an adventure, a fresh slate
It is the mind I try and get back to
through meditation and drugs and music and sex, and finally
through writing.


Card tables bearing bowls of Frito's and Cheeto's
Wise Potato chips and split silver mushrooms of jiffy pop.
Dixie cups of zarex, we call "bug juice"
The boys drink it and gag and pretend to be poisoned
we stagger around retching and laughing
the girls are not amused


Performing some pagan ritual in suburban back yards in the early 60's
I can't recall if it was before or after Dallas..
the sun was bright..people laughed
the world would always be this way...

welcoming spring with a sucrose powered mania
and noticing skirts for the first time


Sonic booms and cigarettes and moms all sipped beer..or a cocktail
I think they were Tom Collins'
Tall frosted glasses that looked like tubes from the mad laboratory
sometimes Jekyll and Hyde potions

grab bag of goodies and real fake tattoos
made from food coloring that lingered for weeks
only blue..just like uncle Chickys anchor
he got fighting Japs.



there are railroad tracks next to the house and a marsh with tadpoles
but you cant really have any fun in dress clothes
you can eat candy and cake and get wired
and watch the grown up drink and laugh and you realize years later they were all hitting on each other
but mom was smiling so I guess it was ok

and the boys play army and the girls aren't allowed to climb trees in dresses

we stand in the middle of the street and play games
it's a dead end
we can draw with chalk on the street
bases and " goals"
hide and seek but don't go near Old Man Browns house
I got in trouble once
( already)
he said something to me out his front door
I think I told him to mind his own business
( I was no older than 5..and it was probably something worse...something I heard around the house from my father)
I could have told him to go shit in his hat
Now I'm not allowed near there
he told my parents and I got spanked
asshole

The streetlight come one and we know the day is over
there will be a bath
we have managed to get dirty after all
and as your putting your pajamas on your mother says something about Mimi Roberts
how cute she is...and how she seemed to like you.

Liked me?
jesus don't tell anyone




and later that night as your body winds down
you think about those skirts

 

[sipawitz]

68

 

[foehn]

Re: the shadow of old stones

Tath - i may have your fifteen billion edits beat here. i have so many, this poem is clogging my hard drive.

snowing up there yet? and you guys are lucky the jets lost saturday.


The Shadow of Old Stones


In this pagan city,
twilight skinnies to a silence.
We pray, bask in memory
of a cloistered sun, denying,
like a dying Sunday, the identity
of our own tomorrow,

unable to tell with certainty
why we cling
or who had placed us
in the temporary clarity
of such a miracle of light.

How are we to know just when
a day begins to suffer,
to darken and unravel
in a constellation of need? How
are we to know just when
our pain will surrender
and perceive a fallen angel
or create another delicate god?

Isn’t is so human to invent something    (typo)
more fragile than yourself, to doubt
you could ever trust a light
that would desert you, leave you
to desperate seclusion, to the clawing
of unbalanced hands?

This is the night of falling.

Perhaps, the wasted grace we seek
is trembling in some corner,
calling down the saints
to ease its ashes back to a time
when a promise was enough,
when there was no distrust
to divide prophecies. We

worship with borrowed beads,
the fingers of old Italians, twist
the circles thin and accept descent,
the collapse into heavy stillness,
the moist misery of Monday’s
unholy rain below god’s window,
in the dark and dirt,
among his discarded favors,
lost of a lightness only love
can hold and measure. We

retreat into lauds and vigils,
scrape the streets of ancestors
for faith, digging
for a monastic spirituality
of self, that air of certainty

breathed once in stories of lands
we heard as children, set
in our lungs like life,
the gospel of young starlight
jeweled on pious eyes. We

search, through a wheeze
of constant mourning,
for grandmother’s black shawl,
for her husband’s uneasy crossing,
for the hope and crucifixes
they brought on ships from Po valleys,
the hills of Monte Rosa, arriving
under a torch with solid things,
in the sudden breath and rightness
of a new white light.

In the blindness, we hear
those rocks, the lamentations
of a lost simplicity,
of every plum that hit a cart,
every plucked grape,
every lean of limb and ladder,
every moan from branches
and beliefs as they bent.

How are we to know which
of the old and sacred stones
will be our shade, or the shadow
that our coat of dirt will wear?

I wanted to comment on this poem earlier. I'm in awe. I love the enjambments of "We" (ending several stanzas). I love the rhythms, the tone, the diction, the imagery, the meditative paths I'm led down. The next-to-last stanza is a complicated morass of cascading clauses. I love that, too. I love the parallelisms, metaphors, similes. I was almost ready to think that "the moist misery of Monday’s" was too much alliteration, but had to decide that I love that line, also. I started to jump with an "Aha!" on there being a "grandmother," and then "her husband." I then realized it was perfect. I love many of the fresh phrases: "twilight skinnies," "search, through a wheeze/ of mourning" — and many others. I loved the single, prominent stanza that held just one line. Still arguing with myself about whether the "god" (just the one instance in line 39) should be capitalized. Still arguing about whether "Shadow" in the title should have been plural...

All right. Now I've commented.

 

[Angeline]

*

 

[foehn]

Re: Rhapsody in Muse

Rhapsody in Muse

Daddy played opera.
Joan Sutherland mezzo'd
from the blonde wood hi fi,
ringing past vinyl scratch.
Bellini would be proud
of her, La Stupenda
singing Roma to its knees.

I crossed mine, shut my ears,
rode my Schwinn away
from that owl talk. True,
Brahms was cool. I dug
Stravinsky's bones, dinosaurs
dawning in a new harmonic
then trudging to extinction
past the dining room table,
more stately than grandparents.

One day a raucous howl
hooted, a rhapsodic piano
rolled out big as my city.

Oh Gershwin!

Play Manhattan skyscrapers
straight up. Play avenues
of symphony bright as streetlamps
shining on our city life,
our weary wonder and jaded wisdom
sidewinding in alleys, through traffic,
but sometimes broken free,
snapping taps on midnight's
jazzy joy.

Wow. That last stanza is genius. Why is this in the "construction zone"? Oh, maybe you wanted a critique...

Well, I did think the title was a little "cutesy," especially considering the heights the poem rose to, for me. You might rethink it... maybe just nix a word or two... up to you, of course.

The "Daddy" as first word was endearing to me... and a wicked set-up for the last stanza, where the assumed daughter winds up witnessing "jazzy joy."

There's a time lapse in the first stanza that I thought should have been more clear. "Bellini would be proud..." Bellini's death preceded the birth of Ms. Sutherland by about a century.

Nice words! I thought "owl talk" was particularly apt. I have to confess, I'm not a big fan of opera, in general, but your poem here won't let me go. However, later, with "One day a raucous howl/ hooted..." bugs me, partly on account of the previous owl reference. Part of me wanted to shout, "Typo!" – but then it would be a cliche, and we know you don't do those. Personally, I would revise that phrase.

From there on, in my sometimes less-than-humble opinion, it's perfect, in more ways than I wish to elaborate on here.

Fine, very fine work!


~

 

[Angeline]

Re: Re: Rhapsody in Muse

Wow. That last stanza is genius. Why is this in the "construction zone"? Oh, maybe you wanted a critique...

Well, I did think the title was a little "cutesy," especially considering the heights the poem rose to, for me. You might rethink it... maybe just nix a word or two... up to you, of course.

The "Daddy" as first word was endearing to me... and a wicked set-up for the last stanza, where the assumed daughter winds up witnessing "jazzy joy."

There's a time lapse in the first stanza that I thought should have been more clear. "Bellini would be proud..." Bellini's death preceded the birth of Ms. Sutherland by about a century.

Nice words! I thought "owl talk" was particularly apt. I have to confess, I'm not a big fan of opera, in general, but your poem here won't let me go. However, later, with "One day a raucous howl/ hooted..." bugs me, partly on account of the previous owl reference. Part of me wanted to shout, "Typo!" – but then it would be a cliche, and we know you don't do those. Personally, I would revise that phrase.

From there on, in my sometimes less-than-humble opinion, it's perfect, in more ways than I wish to elaborate on here.

Fine, very fine work!


~

Thank you, thank you thank you! I am submitting this--along with a few other poems--later today to a jazz site that "wants to see more" of my poems. I had sent them Lester Leaps In and Pops. I love Rhapsody in Muse, but I was still feeling like it wasn't quite where it should be--your suggestions really help.

 

[Angeline]

*

 

[Angeline]

*

 

[PatCarrington]

Re: What Basie Knew

Four/four and you get there baby.

Find the space between notes,
the sweet spot that swings
harder than sound because that
is your body's elemental song.

You are bioprogrammed
to resonate, to rock from inside out,
pat feet, bump hips,
and let your limbs sway.
You'll jump your blues away.

Basie knew the center
holds the circle. Watch him
roll back from the keys. Nonchalant,
a cigarette dangles, his head bops
but his big eyes are fixed
on some distant siren.

Get your tonics together now.
Slide in and out of time.
Stretch pointed, a starfish
awash in rhythm waves
that surf back, smile your soul
in smooth splanky jazz.

really hitting the hard drive for these, eh, ange?

it's really good stuff.

Play Manhattan skyscrapers
straight up. Play avenues
of symphony bright as streetlamps
shining on our city life,
our weary wonder and jaded wisdom
sidewinding in alleys, through traffic,
but sometimes broken free,
snapping taps on midnight's
jazzy joy.

...............that is just lovely!!

i'll get into them for you when i get back.

i guess i'll have miles and satch and all your heroes in the cd player on the way home.

 

[foehn]

Rhapsody

Yes Yes Yes, Anna....

Falls beautifully into my mind like that.

Perhaps a comma after "hoot commenced" and a hyphen between "hi" and "fi" ... I have my reasons, but that is really minor crap, peripherally related to a majorly good poem.

I need to get back to some of my own work! *sigh*

 

[Angeline]

Re: Re: What Basie Knew

really hitting the hard drive for these, eh, ange?

it's really good stuff.

Play Manhattan skyscrapers
straight up. Play avenues
of symphony bright as streetlamps
shining on our city life,
our weary wonder and jaded wisdom
sidewinding in alleys, through traffic,
but sometimes broken free,
snapping taps on midnight's
jazzy joy.

...............that is just lovely!!

i'll get into them for you when i get back.

i guess i'll have miles and satch and all your heroes in the cd player on the way home.

I have two more to do--and not just free verse! Nothing wrong with a good jazz sonnet or terzanelle--if you get the phrasing right they work.

Good man! I recommend Kind of Blue and Louis Armstrong Meets Oscar Peterson.

You are sooo in trouble now that you've asked me for jazz recs.




my sweetheart is gonna be so jealous when i tell him about the game tomorrow.

 

[Angeline]

Re: Rhapsody

Yes Yes Yes, Anna....

Falls beautifully into my mind like that.

Perhaps a comma after "hoot commenced" and a hyphen between "hi" and "fi" ... I have my reasons, but that is really minor crap, peripherally related to a majorly good poem.

I need to get back to some of my own work! *sigh*

Yes on the comma and on hi-fi.

 

[Angeline]

*

 

[Angeline]

*

 

[Angeline]

Continental Divide

It's the West in your voice.

I understand though I've always
lived in crowds, never escaping
schtetl life, three generations
in America, in promises handed
to me by grandfathers who journeyed
past the edge of another culture
until they transformed this one.

My words strut down avenues,
or peer from tenement windows
painting spatters on oily streets
alive at midnight, full of beep
and flim-flam neon blink.

Not you.

You swim in clear streams,
pan for gold in culverts
by dirt trails that lead
to meadows, morning frost
and whinny, cabins
and overgrown logger roads.

My vistas reach from bridge
to brick, but yours unfurl
over unspoiled rivers, and you
a gentleman cowhand stand
with a six-shooter in one hand
and a rennaissance overflowing
the other.

 

[PatCarrington]

Re: Re: the shadow of old stones

I wanted to comment on this poem earlier. I'm in awe. I love the enjambments of "We" (ending several stanzas). I love the rhythms, the tone, the diction, the imagery, the meditative paths I'm led down. The next-to-last stanza is a complicated morass of cascading clauses. I love that, too. I love the parallelisms, metaphors, similes. I was almost ready to think that "the moist misery of Monday’s" was too much alliteration, but had to decide that I love that line, also. I started to jump with an "Aha!" on there being a "grandmother," and then "her husband." I then realized it was perfect. I love many of the fresh phrases: "twilight skinnies," "search, through a wheeze/ of mourning" — and many others. I loved the single, prominent stanza that held just one line. Still arguing with myself about whether the "god" (just the one instance in line 39) should be capitalized. Still arguing about whether "Shadow" in the title should have been plural...

All right. Now I've commented.

foehn -

i just noticed this. thank you for the kind words.

i do think the word "God" in line 39 should be capitalized. thank you.




ange - thank you too for the extensive critique and ideas. i just wanted to put that out here.

 

[Angeline]

Re: Re: Re: the shadow of old stones

foehn -

i just noticed this. thank you for the kind words.

i do think the word "God" in line 39 should be capitalized. thank you.




ange - thank you too for the extensive critique and ideas. i just wanted to put that out here.

You're welcome.

 

[foehn]

Re: Re: Re: Re: the shadow of old stones

You're welcome.

ditto, Pat. great poem...

 

[Angeline]

From Passion to Progress?

One window hung
in a brown wood frame
demarcates my world
with a lavendar candle
and patchouli incense
on the sill.

Inside everything is contained.
Words are stacked on disks,
warmth is preserved in walls.
Even the woman in a sweater
holds thoughts behind her skin,
wraps them in threads around her bones
tatting knots of memory~

benches and Saturday morning bike rides,
funeral black heels picking over icy sidewalks,
stepping over cracks, how slowly the river ran
on her winter white wedding day.

Inside everything is contained.
Life is constructed around details,
the cans of soup, nested spoons,
a hairbrush and earrings,
or is spun on filaments of thought,
hope weighting the fragile lines
of its own web.

Outside nothing is contained by the sky.
The wind whips snowdrifts on my deck,
raises them like foggy specters that rise
only to dematerialize as ice dust, disappear.

Outside nothing is consistent.
The table is unrecognizable as anything
but a cube, and one chair extends
a frozen arm crooked at the elbow
in laissez faire stoicism.

This morning four crows
were wrought in pine branches
like sleek iron weathervanes.

I'm still here on my side
of the glass, but when doves
burst from under the barn,
the crows came alive
and flew out of my frame
of reference.

 

[champagne1982]

The Cat's Paw

Dance a shimmer over glassine
shallows and shake the drops
away. Whisper your shivering
quiver and chuckle
where the brook comes to play
in the pebbles at the shore.
Invite day dreams into summer
glades on a wintry day, hushed
as a kitten stalking her jittery
dandelion prey. Cat's paw, kiss
my cheeks as soft as a fey
wind blows a different way.

 

[foehn]

Re: From Passion to Progress?

One window hung
in a brown wood frame
demarcates my world
with a lavendar candle
and patchouli incense
on the sill.

Inside everything is contained.
Words are stacked on disks,
warmth is preserved in walls.
Even the woman in a sweater
holds thoughts behind her skin,
wraps them in threads around her bones
tatting knots of memory~

benches and Saturday morning bike rides,
funeral black heels picking over icy sidewalks,
stepping over cracks, how slowly the river ran
on her winter white wedding day.

Inside everything is contained.
Life is constructed around details,
the cans of soup, nested spoons,
a hairbrush and earrings,
or is spun on filaments of thought,
hope weighting the fragile lines
of its own web.

Outside nothing is contained by the sky.
The wind whips snowdrifts on my deck,
raises them like foggy specters that rise
only to dematerialize as ice dust, disappear.

Outside nothing is consistent.
The table is unrecognizable as anything
but a cube, and one chair extends
a frozen arm crooked at the elbow
in laissez faire stoicism.

This morning four crows
were wrought in pine branches
like sleek iron weathervanes.

I'm still here on my side
of the glass, but when doves
burst from under the barn,
the crows came alive
and flew out of my frame
of reference.

My heavens that's lovely. Can I vote for that one in the Winterotica contest?

 

[Angeline]

Re: Re: From Passion to Progress?

My heavens that's lovely. Can I vote for that one in the Winterotica contest?

No. It's not an entry.

But thank you for liking it.

 

[Tathagata]

Re: Re: From Passion to Progress?

My heavens that's lovely. Can I vote for that one in the Winterotica contest?

I think you got a little brown on your nose there foehn...you wanna tissue or somethin' ?

 

[foehn]

Re: Re: Re: From Passion to Progress?

I think you got a little brown on your nose there foehn...you wanna tissue or somethin' ?

That'd be nice, thanks...



(i just like good stuff. it's good stuff, or it isn't. if it isn't, or if I don't think it is, i don't say so.)