OWL
Having done what
winter demanded,
we tried to resurrect
ourselves in time
for spring's rehearsal.
A lilac let its
petals be a
metaphor for cruelty.
Nothing stopped the
river in its tracks (the
dam we built was
smaller than its task).
An aging owl lit
out in search of wisdom.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
EXTREME UNCTION
The seventh sense is
the ability to forget
everything in time for
death. Not as easy
as it sounds if
death's in a hurry.
Wipe your feet before
entering your coffin
and discreetly deposit
samples of yourself
in everybody's memory.
Now you are as ready as
it's possible to be under
these troubling circumstances.
The seventh sense is
the ability to forget
everything in time for
death. Not as easy
as it sounds if
death's in a hurry.
Wipe your feet before
entering your coffin
and discreetly deposit
samples of yourself
in everybody's memory.
Now you are as ready as
it's possible to be under
these troubling circumstances.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
UNAVOIDABLE
Avoiding the unavoidable
is a trick no one
in his right mind
can master. If you
want to master it,
you have to abandon
your right mind in
favor of your left
or wrong mind, whichever
one you feel more
uncomfortable in. Once
in the mind you've chosen,
imagine the unimaginable into
a mind it can't be in.
Avoiding the unavoidable
is a trick no one
in his right mind
can master. If you
want to master it,
you have to abandon
your right mind in
favor of your left
or wrong mind, whichever
one you feel more
uncomfortable in. Once
in the mind you've chosen,
imagine the unimaginable into
a mind it can't be in.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
ONLY THAT
If only only weren't the word after if so much of the time. If only this. If only that. It's an obvious waste of only's time, as only only can tell you. Also this. Not quite that. If only that that were the that that it seems unable to be.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Saturday, December 18, 2010
TO THE CHOIRMASTER
for Paul Hoover
According to Paul,
absence exists as
more than a mere
receptacle to deposit
presence in the way
you would a dime into
a blind man's tin cup.
What Paul's trying
to say (I think) is
that absence has
to already be there
for presence to be
able to enter, that absence
is tantamount to being.
for Paul Hoover
According to Paul,
absence exists as
more than a mere
receptacle to deposit
presence in the way
you would a dime into
a blind man's tin cup.
What Paul's trying
to say (I think) is
that absence has
to already be there
for presence to be
able to enter, that absence
is tantamount to being.
Friday, December 17, 2010
THOUGHTS
Some people exist mainly in their minds. I think of Beckett sending himself away so he could be alone. What was he thinking? And of Derrida and Wittgenstein running circles around themselves in an almost silly attempt to recreate themselves in time to destroy what remained with a few choice thoughts.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
THE MYSTERY
One of a poet's jobs, perhaps her or his only real job in this day and age, is to reinsert the mystery.
Friday, December 10, 2010
DE GUSTIBUS NON EST DISPUTANDUM
We don't have to defend what we like or don't like (was it Aristotle who first said so?), unless, of course, we're in an art appreciation course. "I don't know much about art, but I know what I like" is a defense I often hear from people who are also uncommonly proud of having finally mastered the elusive art of breathing.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
RESTLESS
If I were a painting,
I'd probably be an
abstract landscape
with question marks
hidden behind ever bush.
But maybe not. Maybe
I'd be a minimalist
rendering of nothing's
second cousin, or a
knuckle-headed nude
on the wall of someone's
parlor. I'm pretty sure
I wouldn't be a still life.
I'm much too restless for that.
If I were a painting,
I'd probably be an
abstract landscape
with question marks
hidden behind ever bush.
But maybe not. Maybe
I'd be a minimalist
rendering of nothing's
second cousin, or a
knuckle-headed nude
on the wall of someone's
parlor. I'm pretty sure
I wouldn't be a still life.
I'm much too restless for that.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
RON PADGETT
When reading a poem by Ron Padgett, I always wear these glasses I had specially made that allow me to see things upside down, inside out, backwards, and diagonally, all at the same time. It doesn't really help. My mind still somersaults in mysterious ways down the page behind my make-believe binoculars.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
TODAY'S THEOLOGY
Today's theology, with its bumper sticker recommending baby-stepping tippy-toed belief, as opposed to yesterday's mountain-moving plunges into darkness, is subject to periodic review by whoever the current Snake Charmer happens to be when the bell either tolls or refuses to toll.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
DE GUSTIBUS NON EST DISPUTANDUM
As the ground became
increasingly inevitable,
he began to appreciate
the subtle difference between
flying and falling.
I was, sadly, the
last in a life-long
series of last-second
realizations. But
was it the most
important one? Possibly,
though the question of
relative importance remains
ultimately a matter of taste.
As the ground became
increasingly inevitable,
he began to appreciate
the subtle difference between
flying and falling.
I was, sadly, the
last in a life-long
series of last-second
realizations. But
was it the most
important one? Possibly,
though the question of
relative importance remains
ultimately a matter of taste.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
AN APOLOGY
I write about death a lot in my poems to make you think about death so I won't have to. Sorry.
WOMAN TOO
Sometimes I let my mind
graze in the neighbor's pasture.
His grass is a lot greener
than mine, and his wife's
a woman any man in
good health would be
foolish not to covet.
I have to use a road
less traveled by to get
to the neighbor's place
because of a wall he's
built between us.
Earth's the right place for
man. For woman too.
Sometimes I let my mind
graze in the neighbor's pasture.
His grass is a lot greener
than mine, and his wife's
a woman any man in
good health would be
foolish not to covet.
I have to use a road
less traveled by to get
to the neighbor's place
because of a wall he's
built between us.
Earth's the right place for
man. For woman too.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
RENDEZVOUS
We have to stop meeting
like this. In my poems,
I mean. It's not so much
that people have begun
to talk (we've never
cared about what others
thought of us) as that
there may be other, more
interesting places to meet.
At Starbucks, for example,
over matching cups of
cappuccino. At the corner
of Anywhere and Vine,
where people touch and go blind.
We have to stop meeting
like this. In my poems,
I mean. It's not so much
that people have begun
to talk (we've never
cared about what others
thought of us) as that
there may be other, more
interesting places to meet.
At Starbucks, for example,
over matching cups of
cappuccino. At the corner
of Anywhere and Vine,
where people touch and go blind.
Monday, November 22, 2010
THE GAUNTLET
I'm postmodern when it suits me and modern, or even ante-modern, when I'd rather. What are you going to do about it?!
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Saturday, November 20, 2010
TENURE
This constant bickering over poetry, what it is/isn't, must/can't be, is becoming tedious to those of us not pursuing tenure in an MFA program. So let's settle it once and for all: There are two kinds of poems: those that are and those that are not worth reading.
SELECTED
It's always interesting to see which poems poets have left out of their "Selected Poems". Maddening, too, of course, since they inevitably leave out one or two poems you had considered (and still consider) among their best, while leaving in a few you'd rather not have to read again.
Friday, November 19, 2010
OH BROTHER
for Jerry
Was death just your latest
excuse for not getting
up in the morning? I
remember once on a
Sunday morning (after
a Saturday night had
lasted too long) Mother
got tired of trying
to shake you awake
and finally came in
with a glass of water
she poured over your
face. You wiped yourself
dry with the blanket and slept.
for Jerry
Was death just your latest
excuse for not getting
up in the morning? I
remember once on a
Sunday morning (after
a Saturday night had
lasted too long) Mother
got tired of trying
to shake you awake
and finally came in
with a glass of water
she poured over your
face. You wiped yourself
dry with the blanket and slept.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
ELEGY FOR NO ONE WE KNEW
Water we poured
through your funeral
came out the other
end as wine. Next
time we'll try harder,
if there is some kind
of "next time". Otherwise,
we won't. Someone caught
snacking on communion
wafers in the pantry
was asked to leave this
really cool death party
we threw in your honor.
Hope you enjoyed our grief.
Water we poured
through your funeral
came out the other
end as wine. Next
time we'll try harder,
if there is some kind
of "next time". Otherwise,
we won't. Someone caught
snacking on communion
wafers in the pantry
was asked to leave this
really cool death party
we threw in your honor.
Hope you enjoyed our grief.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
THE POSSIBLE
I have a damaged cathedral
to store my chances in
and a faint hope to lean on.
But I still tend to be
less than can be counted on
when the daydream fizzles.
There's an overused lightning
bolt I'm careful to avoid.
The distance between devotion
and the initial cause of
things expands, but I keep
a two-bedroom
belief in the possible under
my pillow just in case.
I have a damaged cathedral
to store my chances in
and a faint hope to lean on.
But I still tend to be
less than can be counted on
when the daydream fizzles.
There's an overused lightning
bolt I'm careful to avoid.
The distance between devotion
and the initial cause of
things expands, but I keep
a two-bedroom
belief in the possible under
my pillow just in case.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
PIRATES
Criminals hide by
being us, then leave
when the coast is clear.
A gentle dream on
mental wings lights
softly on your breast,
your wish a candle I
haven't blown out but will.
Land begins where
the water ends, while
the pirates, from whom
my thoughts are fleeing,
slip quietly away on a
memory slick with pretending.
Criminals hide by
being us, then leave
when the coast is clear.
A gentle dream on
mental wings lights
softly on your breast,
your wish a candle I
haven't blown out but will.
Land begins where
the water ends, while
the pirates, from whom
my thoughts are fleeing,
slip quietly away on a
memory slick with pretending.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
THE PLUMS
for Elaine Equi
The still life he ate
and replaced with an
apology (thanks, Elaine)
tasted even better
than it looked. And,
of course, it sounds
great when we paint
it with our ears
(inner or outer,
depending on whether
we read the poem aloud).
Sight, taste, sound, smell.
We hold those plums
in our hands.
for Elaine Equi
The still life he ate
and replaced with an
apology (thanks, Elaine)
tasted even better
than it looked. And,
of course, it sounds
great when we paint
it with our ears
(inner or outer,
depending on whether
we read the poem aloud).
Sight, taste, sound, smell.
We hold those plums
in our hands.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
NAIL
The brain, knowing
it can never come
down here, not even
through the gap uncertainty
leaves in things, reaches
out for something out
of reach. A hole
in the middle of this
closes faster than an eye that
doesn't like what it
sees. The body drags
an old hammer from
its tool chest and drives
a longer nail into itself.
The brain, knowing
it can never come
down here, not even
through the gap uncertainty
leaves in things, reaches
out for something out
of reach. A hole
in the middle of this
closes faster than an eye that
doesn't like what it
sees. The body drags
an old hammer from
its tool chest and drives
a longer nail into itself.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
FIRST DATE
Assuming you could see
me and knew my name,
would you fall deeply
in love with me or
just leave and chalk
everything up to experience?
Listen, I can't promise
anything, but I'm
pretty sure if I saw
you and knew your
name, I'd jump off
a bridge to impress you.
Then we could have dinner
or something. A movie.
Assuming you could see
me and knew my name,
would you fall deeply
in love with me or
just leave and chalk
everything up to experience?
Listen, I can't promise
anything, but I'm
pretty sure if I saw
you and knew your
name, I'd jump off
a bridge to impress you.
Then we could have dinner
or something. A movie.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
NOCTURNE
A bird decays in mid-air.
Dust and a few feathers
filtering down from above.
Meanwhile the bird
continues on through the city,
pecking out windows,
popping light bulbs with its beak,
while in sixteen darkened bedrooms
boys with gleaming rifles
begin bouncing bee-bees
off the bleached skulls of their mothers.
In other words, midnight.
In other words, the earth
hatches a silence
which is bird-like.
A small, feathered silence
that spreads its razor-like wings
and skids
noiselessly
along a seam in the night.
A bird decays in mid-air.
Dust and a few feathers
filtering down from above.
Meanwhile the bird
continues on through the city,
pecking out windows,
popping light bulbs with its beak,
while in sixteen darkened bedrooms
boys with gleaming rifles
begin bouncing bee-bees
off the bleached skulls of their mothers.
In other words, midnight.
In other words, the earth
hatches a silence
which is bird-like.
A small, feathered silence
that spreads its razor-like wings
and skids
noiselessly
along a seam in the night.
MINNESANG
Recapping the rose's
rise to fame requires
one to start somewhere
in the middle of the
Middle Ages. Not in
the exact middle necessarily
(which would be hard,
if not impossible, to
locate), but somewhere
near the middle of
the middle of the
so-called Middle Ages.
Yes, there, next to
Walther von der Vogelweide.
Recapping the rose's
rise to fame requires
one to start somewhere
in the middle of the
Middle Ages. Not in
the exact middle necessarily
(which would be hard,
if not impossible, to
locate), but somewhere
near the middle of
the middle of the
so-called Middle Ages.
Yes, there, next to
Walther von der Vogelweide.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
KNUCKLEBALL ALIBIS
Finding a good alibi's
an art like everything
else in life. The secret's
in the wrist. Think
of a good alibi as
a curveball or slider
that breaks so late
the batter has no chance.
Knuckleballs are best,
of course, when it comes
to alibis. They don't
"break" exactly. They
"bounce" off the air
like a broken balloon.
Finding a good alibi's
an art like everything
else in life. The secret's
in the wrist. Think
of a good alibi as
a curveball or slider
that breaks so late
the batter has no chance.
Knuckleballs are best,
of course, when it comes
to alibis. They don't
"break" exactly. They
"bounce" off the air
like a broken balloon.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
FOR WANDA ON HER BIRTHDAY
Having followed you
to the edge of your
footsteps and stopped,
I understand where
longing belongs and
gladly deposit it there
for safe-keeping.
I hope you have grown
young enough by now
to recognize ecstasy
again and to appreciate
(as we all should)
how busy history is
escaping from our books.
Having followed you
to the edge of your
footsteps and stopped,
I understand where
longing belongs and
gladly deposit it there
for safe-keeping.
I hope you have grown
young enough by now
to recognize ecstasy
again and to appreciate
(as we all should)
how busy history is
escaping from our books.
Monday, October 18, 2010
GRAVITY
Communion wafers drifting
down like snow from
the rafters. Other than
that, just another evening.
I think I told you
about George, who wasn't
where we left him
(when is he?), and about
Emily, who buried
herself in the back yard.
And the gradual accumulation
of gravity, of course,
around the edges, slowly
pulling us in.
Communion wafers drifting
down like snow from
the rafters. Other than
that, just another evening.
I think I told you
about George, who wasn't
where we left him
(when is he?), and about
Emily, who buried
herself in the back yard.
And the gradual accumulation
of gravity, of course,
around the edges, slowly
pulling us in.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Elaine Equi's RIPPLE EFFECT: NEW AND SELECTED POEMS
I've been rereading Elaine Equi's poems. A unique poet with an unusually wide range. She can be witty (even silly at times), poignant, profound (sometimes all three in the same poem). Always sassy and in-your-face. I recommend her.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
AUGUST AGAIN
My eyes crawl like ants
over Cezanne's delicious
fruit. It must be August
again. The months fly by
so fast now it's almost
always later than I think
(earlier than I dare dream,
though, now that I
actually do think).
Time to turn off
the gas again and live
longer than my parents
did or could, who had
no way of knowing.
My eyes crawl like ants
over Cezanne's delicious
fruit. It must be August
again. The months fly by
so fast now it's almost
always later than I think
(earlier than I dare dream,
though, now that I
actually do think).
Time to turn off
the gas again and live
longer than my parents
did or could, who had
no way of knowing.
YOU KNOW
The mortician's daughter
in the town I grew
up in was hot.
We all wanted her.
Sort of. Maybe she
was blond or something,
or maybe she had
big, you know, eyebrows.
I honestly don't remember.
But I do remember she
managed to be hot, despite
what her father did
to our dearly departed before
dropping them into the darkness.
The mortician's daughter
in the town I grew
up in was hot.
We all wanted her.
Sort of. Maybe she
was blond or something,
or maybe she had
big, you know, eyebrows.
I honestly don't remember.
But I do remember she
managed to be hot, despite
what her father did
to our dearly departed before
dropping them into the darkness.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
HELLO
You had me at "hello",
but then you said
something else that I
didn't like nearly as well
as I had liked your
"hello" (the "hello"
was a really good one),
so I never called you
like I said I would.
Sorry about that. In
case we should ever
run into one another
again, I'd appreciate it
if you'd stop at "hello".
You had me at "hello",
but then you said
something else that I
didn't like nearly as well
as I had liked your
"hello" (the "hello"
was a really good one),
so I never called you
like I said I would.
Sorry about that. In
case we should ever
run into one another
again, I'd appreciate it
if you'd stop at "hello".
Sunday, October 10, 2010
TOO
When the mirror begins
resembling you too closely,
look away. Save what's
left for another day, knowing
it will be there when you
need it. What won't be
there won't matter much,
stuck, as it always is,
in the all-but-used-up
future tense of time.
Redeem your coupons
while you may.
Don't do anything
while you mayn't.
When the mirror begins
resembling you too closely,
look away. Save what's
left for another day, knowing
it will be there when you
need it. What won't be
there won't matter much,
stuck, as it always is,
in the all-but-used-up
future tense of time.
Redeem your coupons
while you may.
Don't do anything
while you mayn't.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Friday, October 8, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
RHINO
The rhinoceros, of course,
ends with us not knowing
where the nose goes
while elsewhere a rose
goes on smelling sweet
without its name. (Would
we were the same.) The
'the' in 'there' might as
well be a 'duh' (almost
is, truth to tell). Hope
you're half as swell
as you often seem to
be in this dream I keep
having about the two of us.
The rhinoceros, of course,
ends with us not knowing
where the nose goes
while elsewhere a rose
goes on smelling sweet
without its name. (Would
we were the same.) The
'the' in 'there' might as
well be a 'duh' (almost
is, truth to tell). Hope
you're half as swell
as you often seem to
be in this dream I keep
having about the two of us.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Friday, October 1, 2010
THEN
Because the air has been
replaced by music,
my car won't start.
I kick one of the round
rubbery circles the car
rests on and tell it to
get a move on. It
doesn't budge. Then my
pencils start thinking
they're something else
and don't jot down
some really great ideas
I suddenly find myself in
possession of. Then they do.
Because the air has been
replaced by music,
my car won't start.
I kick one of the round
rubbery circles the car
rests on and tell it to
get a move on. It
doesn't budge. Then my
pencils start thinking
they're something else
and don't jot down
some really great ideas
I suddenly find myself in
possession of. Then they do.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
TOMORROW
Yesterday I enjoyed
not raking the leaves
off the lawn almost
as much as I enjoyed
not having a lawn
to rake the leaves off
of (I live in a condo).
I'm pretty sure I'll
enjoy not painting
the kitchen tomorrow
even more than I enjoyed
not painting it last
year about this time because
another friend had just died.
Yesterday I enjoyed
not raking the leaves
off the lawn almost
as much as I enjoyed
not having a lawn
to rake the leaves off
of (I live in a condo).
I'm pretty sure I'll
enjoy not painting
the kitchen tomorrow
even more than I enjoyed
not painting it last
year about this time because
another friend had just died.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
NEXT WEEK
On one of the numerous
occasions when I was not
kidnapped by Indians
I came across an article
entitled "No, Not This".
I didn't read the article
(for reasons that should
be obvious) and have continued
not reading it to this day.
Yesterday I didn't die again.
I may not tomorrow either,
though tomorrow is, of course,
purely hypothetical. I'm planning
to not visit Mars again next week.
On one of the numerous
occasions when I was not
kidnapped by Indians
I came across an article
entitled "No, Not This".
I didn't read the article
(for reasons that should
be obvious) and have continued
not reading it to this day.
Yesterday I didn't die again.
I may not tomorrow either,
though tomorrow is, of course,
purely hypothetical. I'm planning
to not visit Mars again next week.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
RETIRED
My friend John, a retired
homicide detective, said that
he and his partner were sent
to investigate a complaint.
A woman had called to report
that her next-door neighbor
hadn't been seen for days
and that her dog was making
a lot of noise from inside the house.
Forcing their way into the house,
my friend and his partner found a woman
dead on the kitchen floor, her dog
having eaten what John lovingly
described as "the best parts of her".
My friend John, a retired
homicide detective, said that
he and his partner were sent
to investigate a complaint.
A woman had called to report
that her next-door neighbor
hadn't been seen for days
and that her dog was making
a lot of noise from inside the house.
Forcing their way into the house,
my friend and his partner found a woman
dead on the kitchen floor, her dog
having eaten what John lovingly
described as "the best parts of her".
Sunday, September 12, 2010
DEAN GETS ANNOYED
What annoys me most is the number of dead poets out there who are still breathing. No, I'm not saying what you think I'm saying, and, yes, that's exactly what I'm saying.
INADVERTENT
I once walked a mile in someone
else's shoes before noticing my
mistake. I immediately turned
around, retraced my steps, and
replaced the shoes outside someone's
door. It could have been anyone's
door, I guess, but it wasn't. It was
someone's door. The
shoes had been left there
for someone else to shine.
I wasn't someone else,
so I didn't shine the shoes.
I just left them there,
outside someone's door.
I once walked a mile in someone
else's shoes before noticing my
mistake. I immediately turned
around, retraced my steps, and
replaced the shoes outside someone's
door. It could have been anyone's
door, I guess, but it wasn't. It was
someone's door. The
shoes had been left there
for someone else to shine.
I wasn't someone else,
so I didn't shine the shoes.
I just left them there,
outside someone's door.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Paul Hoover
Paul Hoover, one of my two favorite poets and a long-time friend, has just won the Frederick Bock award for a group of poems that appeared in the June 2010 issue of Poetry Magazine. Congratulations to Paul. The poems are great!
Monday, September 6, 2010
Friday, September 3, 2010
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
SONG OF THE TOUCHED DOG
A touched dog wags
automatically. He
eagerly awaits
what no one wants.
He's no cat, the touched
dog, trapped in no mystery
beyond the bone he
buried by mistake.
His memory's a mine
shaft he falls into in the dark.
The touched dog is
only what you think he is,
a sleeping pet someone let
lie at the feet of man.
A touched dog wags
automatically. He
eagerly awaits
what no one wants.
He's no cat, the touched
dog, trapped in no mystery
beyond the bone he
buried by mistake.
His memory's a mine
shaft he falls into in the dark.
The touched dog is
only what you think he is,
a sleeping pet someone let
lie at the feet of man.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
DIVERSIONS
It recently occurred to me
that not dying is a lot
of fun. I try to do it
by not doing it as much
as I can. Other stuff
gets in the way, of
course, like golf, which
I don't play and wouldn't
enjoy if I did because
of all the sand traps
and artificial lakes.
I'd rather go to the beach
and not swim than spend
the whole day not playing golf.
It recently occurred to me
that not dying is a lot
of fun. I try to do it
by not doing it as much
as I can. Other stuff
gets in the way, of
course, like golf, which
I don't play and wouldn't
enjoy if I did because
of all the sand traps
and artificial lakes.
I'd rather go to the beach
and not swim than spend
the whole day not playing golf.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
WHEN
When shooting an arrow,
allow for the wind.
Before predicting the future,
erase what cannot happen.
When cutting corners,
avoid invisible pitfalls.
Before climbing a tree,
check for bashful bears.
When breaking bread,
tiptoe past the penthouse.
While leaning this way or that,
embrace unlikely lovers.
When doomed to happen again,
proceed without your pistols.
When shooting an arrow,
allow for the wind.
Before predicting the future,
erase what cannot happen.
When cutting corners,
avoid invisible pitfalls.
Before climbing a tree,
check for bashful bears.
When breaking bread,
tiptoe past the penthouse.
While leaning this way or that,
embrace unlikely lovers.
When doomed to happen again,
proceed without your pistols.
Monday, August 23, 2010
PROMISES
A new set of rules
has moved in next door
and barks like a rotten
philosopher. Nothing
can be done about this
because, as the wind
reminds us, rules
are rules and breaking
them leads to sorrow,
calamity, and other
niceties too numerous to
matter. I'm over here
minding my manners and
breaking promises one by none.
A new set of rules
has moved in next door
and barks like a rotten
philosopher. Nothing
can be done about this
because, as the wind
reminds us, rules
are rules and breaking
them leads to sorrow,
calamity, and other
niceties too numerous to
matter. I'm over here
minding my manners and
breaking promises one by none.
Friday, August 20, 2010
WAG
Sometimes my dog
barks at nothing.
Or barks at what
he thinks (wrongly)
is something. This
would be a lot truer
if I had a dog. But
I don't have one, and,
in fact, I'd like take
this opportunity to congratulate
myself on not getting one.
I can't tell you how wonderful
it is not to have to listen
to all that barking.
Sometimes my dog
barks at nothing.
Or barks at what
he thinks (wrongly)
is something. This
would be a lot truer
if I had a dog. But
I don't have one, and,
in fact, I'd like take
this opportunity to congratulate
myself on not getting one.
I can't tell you how wonderful
it is not to have to listen
to all that barking.
THE JANUARY SONNETS
1
We begin the day thinking
we will write a sonnet.
But how quickly everything
turns to prose. Quiet
letters at the beginning
tell us that. What
else do they tell us?
That we are careless,
too careless perhaps?
That life is like that,
a gradual turning
to prose? Then
each of us must take
a stand, pro or con,
2
and if the judgment goes
against us, well, that's
life, isn't it? We die,
and our death is described
in prose, because when
you come right down
to it, we weren't important
enough for a sonnet.
And that's the sad thing,
death without a form
to funnel it into, getting
rid of it that way,
the way we would some
foul liquid no one
3
wanted to drink.
But can you blame us?
By now it probably has
little pieces of stink-
ing stuff all over it.
And who knows what
diseases are inside it
as silent as liquid bells,
but with fingers that
reach out to strangle
our most delicate whim?
And in the end what
can we do but swim
for it, and what
4
can we do in the end
but drown, hoping
a sonnet will bring
our death to something
great like a fast game
of baseball? And if it doesn't
happen, well, we mustn't
give up because there's
still prose to put it
into the way we would
some nose that wasn't
pretty or a car that
brought us nothing but grief
along that long highway of life.
5
Sometimes the beginning's
a true beginning.
Then everyone breathes
a little easier, heaves
a sigh as the rime
falls closer to the end.
And isn't that what we've
always wanted, time
that we could bend
the way a plumber
does a pipe that
doesn't fit? Or
maybe that's not it
after all. Beginning's
6
are like that, never
betraying the end
until quite a bit later.
No, they are not
at all like the friend
who feels he's got
to tell us about the movie
we had wanted to see,
but can't now because,
let's face it, he's
robbed us of whatever chance
we had to experience
whatever it was we
thought we
7
wanted to experience.
Is it just by chance
that we now find
ourselves at the beginning
of sonnet number seven
(and that, in fact, the seventh
line is already upon us,
then gone like some
jet-propelled moment
we had wanted to savor
but couldn't because,
let's face it, "time
marches on")? Rime
does too, only
8
not quite as fast.
But does it matter?
Isn't this the twentieth
century, complete with
automobiles that almost
drive themselves and
"liberated" verse? Not
to mention bananas
(did I almost forget
to mention bananas?).
So you see, my friend,
rime isn't everything, and,
if we are lucky, life goes
on even in prose.
1
We begin the day thinking
we will write a sonnet.
But how quickly everything
turns to prose. Quiet
letters at the beginning
tell us that. What
else do they tell us?
That we are careless,
too careless perhaps?
That life is like that,
a gradual turning
to prose? Then
each of us must take
a stand, pro or con,
2
and if the judgment goes
against us, well, that's
life, isn't it? We die,
and our death is described
in prose, because when
you come right down
to it, we weren't important
enough for a sonnet.
And that's the sad thing,
death without a form
to funnel it into, getting
rid of it that way,
the way we would some
foul liquid no one
3
wanted to drink.
But can you blame us?
By now it probably has
little pieces of stink-
ing stuff all over it.
And who knows what
diseases are inside it
as silent as liquid bells,
but with fingers that
reach out to strangle
our most delicate whim?
And in the end what
can we do but swim
for it, and what
4
can we do in the end
but drown, hoping
a sonnet will bring
our death to something
great like a fast game
of baseball? And if it doesn't
happen, well, we mustn't
give up because there's
still prose to put it
into the way we would
some nose that wasn't
pretty or a car that
brought us nothing but grief
along that long highway of life.
5
Sometimes the beginning's
a true beginning.
Then everyone breathes
a little easier, heaves
a sigh as the rime
falls closer to the end.
And isn't that what we've
always wanted, time
that we could bend
the way a plumber
does a pipe that
doesn't fit? Or
maybe that's not it
after all. Beginning's
6
are like that, never
betraying the end
until quite a bit later.
No, they are not
at all like the friend
who feels he's got
to tell us about the movie
we had wanted to see,
but can't now because,
let's face it, he's
robbed us of whatever chance
we had to experience
whatever it was we
thought we
7
wanted to experience.
Is it just by chance
that we now find
ourselves at the beginning
of sonnet number seven
(and that, in fact, the seventh
line is already upon us,
then gone like some
jet-propelled moment
we had wanted to savor
but couldn't because,
let's face it, "time
marches on")? Rime
does too, only
8
not quite as fast.
But does it matter?
Isn't this the twentieth
century, complete with
automobiles that almost
drive themselves and
"liberated" verse? Not
to mention bananas
(did I almost forget
to mention bananas?).
So you see, my friend,
rime isn't everything, and,
if we are lucky, life goes
on even in prose.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
LATER
When someone you love
suddenly drops dead,
don't bother to finish lunch.
You can eat later.
In fact, you can do
everything later. Have to,
actually, because of some
definition of what's true.
You can't (I guess I'm
saying) do anything
earlier than now. If
you try (and some have,
apparently), you will
die sooner than before.
When someone you love
suddenly drops dead,
don't bother to finish lunch.
You can eat later.
In fact, you can do
everything later. Have to,
actually, because of some
definition of what's true.
You can't (I guess I'm
saying) do anything
earlier than now. If
you try (and some have,
apparently), you will
die sooner than before.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
CERTIFIED
The truth has a darkness
of its own to return to
after what happens happens.
I won't say it hides there,
but waves curling up
onto the shore have
no idea where it is.
Questions hanging like
hooks from the mouths
of those who care remain
unanswered. Things recently
forgotten refuse to turn
around in time to tell
us where we've been.
The truth has a darkness
of its own to return to
after what happens happens.
I won't say it hides there,
but waves curling up
onto the shore have
no idea where it is.
Questions hanging like
hooks from the mouths
of those who care remain
unanswered. Things recently
forgotten refuse to turn
around in time to tell
us where we've been.
Friday, August 6, 2010
YOU
Writing as I always try
to out of nowhere,
I end up here where
you are. And though
I don't know your name
or why you breathe,
I use you to wonder
about things that
you aren't, but could be
if your hair were longer.
I hope this is okay
with you, and that
you're not secretly planning
to turn into who you aren't.
Writing as I always try
to out of nowhere,
I end up here where
you are. And though
I don't know your name
or why you breathe,
I use you to wonder
about things that
you aren't, but could be
if your hair were longer.
I hope this is okay
with you, and that
you're not secretly planning
to turn into who you aren't.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Sunday, August 1, 2010
STILL
Success chooses its victims
carefully, carving the correct
wound into each system.
The onlooker cannot
buy back his innocence.
Because it is all one,
it is everywhere,
but only as actual
as indifference allows.
The edge of your footprint
trembles as you contemplate
moving forward.
It is impossible to overestimate
the importance of standing still.
Success chooses its victims
carefully, carving the correct
wound into each system.
The onlooker cannot
buy back his innocence.
Because it is all one,
it is everywhere,
but only as actual
as indifference allows.
The edge of your footprint
trembles as you contemplate
moving forward.
It is impossible to overestimate
the importance of standing still.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
APOLOGY
I'm not dead yet.
I will be, of course,
someday (I might be
now, as you're reading
this--I don't know when
the "now" you're reading
it in is). If I'm
already dead as you're
reading this, I hope
you'll forgive me for
having lured you into
reading it under false
pretenses. I didn't mean
to. I didn't know I was dead.
I'm not dead yet.
I will be, of course,
someday (I might be
now, as you're reading
this--I don't know when
the "now" you're reading
it in is). If I'm
already dead as you're
reading this, I hope
you'll forgive me for
having lured you into
reading it under false
pretenses. I didn't mean
to. I didn't know I was dead.
BEFORE
There's a lot to be thankful
for. We're not dead yet's
a good example (though
we will, of course, be
one day irrevocably).
I don't enjoy fishing
because I tend to see
things from the fish's
perspective. I always
think, "If I were a fish..."
Not being fish is
another thing we can
be thankful for, I guess,
though we, of course, are.
There's a lot to be thankful
for. We're not dead yet's
a good example (though
we will, of course, be
one day irrevocably).
I don't enjoy fishing
because I tend to see
things from the fish's
perspective. I always
think, "If I were a fish..."
Not being fish is
another thing we can
be thankful for, I guess,
though we, of course, are.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
THERE
An almost white, whispered
rumor of you is all
I had to go on. So
much for insufficient
beginnings. Word of you
had been heard escaping
through the usual cracks
in what we remember
of parting's sweet sorrow.
Under every surface
there is, of course,
a second surface we
can never quite get to.
I will look for you there.
An almost white, whispered
rumor of you is all
I had to go on. So
much for insufficient
beginnings. Word of you
had been heard escaping
through the usual cracks
in what we remember
of parting's sweet sorrow.
Under every surface
there is, of course,
a second surface we
can never quite get to.
I will look for you there.
Monday, July 26, 2010
HISTORY LESSONS
The Romans liked making
water go where they wanted
it to. The Greeks by this
time didn't give a damn.
Hitler held a halo
of burnt Jews above
his head and said,
"Love me for who I am."
Amazingly, some people did.
Napoleon had his head
up his ass when he thought
he could conquer Russia.
Not even the Russians have
been able to do that.
The Romans liked making
water go where they wanted
it to. The Greeks by this
time didn't give a damn.
Hitler held a halo
of burnt Jews above
his head and said,
"Love me for who I am."
Amazingly, some people did.
Napoleon had his head
up his ass when he thought
he could conquer Russia.
Not even the Russians have
been able to do that.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
GRATEFUL
I remember once wondering
whether eating a peach would
be okay under the circumstances
I happened to find myself in.
I don't really remember much
about the circumstances, but
I remember quite vividly
the peach itself and what
it tasted like when I finally
got up the courage to
eat it under whatever the
damned circumstances were.
It tasted like a peach, a fact
for which I will always be grateful.
I remember once wondering
whether eating a peach would
be okay under the circumstances
I happened to find myself in.
I don't really remember much
about the circumstances, but
I remember quite vividly
the peach itself and what
it tasted like when I finally
got up the courage to
eat it under whatever the
damned circumstances were.
It tasted like a peach, a fact
for which I will always be grateful.
ALWAYS
About a hundred yards
east of where eternity
fell into a rut yesterday
I found your damaged
angel. I picked it up,
of course, dusted it off
the way I normally do,
and brought it back to you.
We will, of course, start
over, the way we always do
in our two competing eternities.
If you get there first, of course,
I'll stop and wait for you
the way I almost used to.
About a hundred yards
east of where eternity
fell into a rut yesterday
I found your damaged
angel. I picked it up,
of course, dusted it off
the way I normally do,
and brought it back to you.
We will, of course, start
over, the way we always do
in our two competing eternities.
If you get there first, of course,
I'll stop and wait for you
the way I almost used to.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
REAL
On the day we all
agreed to agree that
diamonds and gold
have value, a tree
appeared on the horizon.
The next day the tree
was gone, a victim
of what makes us wonder.
I am telling you this
not because of anything
actual, but because of
certain irregularities that
have been uncovered in
the center of what makes us real.
On the day we all
agreed to agree that
diamonds and gold
have value, a tree
appeared on the horizon.
The next day the tree
was gone, a victim
of what makes us wonder.
I am telling you this
not because of anything
actual, but because of
certain irregularities that
have been uncovered in
the center of what makes us real.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
THE 'YOU' POEMS
People sometimes ask me who the "you" in my poems is. Except when the "you" is me, I don't think it's ever any one person, or even just one person necessarily. Sometimes it may be. I'm not exactly sure myself. It occurs to me that it might, in at least some cases, be what Martin Buber referred to as the "other".
Monday, July 12, 2010
CAUSE
I have often used
metaphor to relocate
from one useless state
of being to another, but,
to my credit, I have never
not enjoyed the illusion
such activity frolics in.
I have felt the soft
underbelly of the source
of everything not nailed down
and wondered where its
unexploded center was.
I have not yet had cause
to create myself out of nothing.
I have often used
metaphor to relocate
from one useless state
of being to another, but,
to my credit, I have never
not enjoyed the illusion
such activity frolics in.
I have felt the soft
underbelly of the source
of everything not nailed down
and wondered where its
unexploded center was.
I have not yet had cause
to create myself out of nothing.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
HEAVEN
(David Lynch)
In heaven everything
is fine. You can buy
lunch there for a dime.
Get to it by bus
if you have to, or
aeroplane. Be on time.
In heaven happiness
explodes like an old
apple in a movie
(the one with oozing
eyes that are ickier
than they are lovely).
In heaven everything
barks louder than it bites.
(David Lynch)
In heaven everything
is fine. You can buy
lunch there for a dime.
Get to it by bus
if you have to, or
aeroplane. Be on time.
In heaven happiness
explodes like an old
apple in a movie
(the one with oozing
eyes that are ickier
than they are lovely).
In heaven everything
barks louder than it bites.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
HORSES
What's this I hear
about you failing
again to get near
enough to the railing
to fall overboard and drown?
It's hard sometimes to own
one's own success,
much less
the success that somebody else's.
Trying to take the pulses
of people with hearts
that race puts, I feel, a number of carts
before an equal number of horses.
And then we die, of courses.
What's this I hear
about you failing
again to get near
enough to the railing
to fall overboard and drown?
It's hard sometimes to own
one's own success,
much less
the success that somebody else's.
Trying to take the pulses
of people with hearts
that race puts, I feel, a number of carts
before an equal number of horses.
And then we die, of courses.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Monday, July 5, 2010
BIRTHDAY POEM FOR ASAD
Let this be the beginning
of something gaudy enough
to be greater, even, than God.
It is, after all, the birthday
of one who wasn't
here before his birthday.
(What cold days those
were, the ones you chose
not to be here on.)
How thankful we are
you decided to arrive.
It's not even close to when
it is when you're not here
being so absolutely only you.
Let this be the beginning
of something gaudy enough
to be greater, even, than God.
It is, after all, the birthday
of one who wasn't
here before his birthday.
(What cold days those
were, the ones you chose
not to be here on.)
How thankful we are
you decided to arrive.
It's not even close to when
it is when you're not here
being so absolutely only you.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
IMPRISONED
One of my better memories
is imprisoned in amber
like a semi-precious insect.
Do you remember me?
I was the one behind
the guy you insisted
on looking away from
at the dance. If,
by chance, our eyes
had met that night,
we might have met again
behind some billboard.
But you were looking elsewhere
at everything you saw there.
One of my better memories
is imprisoned in amber
like a semi-precious insect.
Do you remember me?
I was the one behind
the guy you insisted
on looking away from
at the dance. If,
by chance, our eyes
had met that night,
we might have met again
behind some billboard.
But you were looking elsewhere
at everything you saw there.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
WHEN
I love it when a thing
turns out to be not
worth doing, but only
when I haven't done it yet.
When I have done it
and it turns out to be
not worth doing, I
drop whatever I am
into the nearest bucket
and quickly wash myself.
Then I feel at least
a little wetter. This
seems to be happening every
other Tuesday at noon.
I love it when a thing
turns out to be not
worth doing, but only
when I haven't done it yet.
When I have done it
and it turns out to be
not worth doing, I
drop whatever I am
into the nearest bucket
and quickly wash myself.
Then I feel at least
a little wetter. This
seems to be happening every
other Tuesday at noon.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
PIP
I like you, and I think
you are a nice person
because of the bubbles.
Perhaps there are other reasons,
too, I don't want to kill you.
The way excitement
sometimes wiggles out
of you on its way
to becoming a worm.
By the way, have I ever
remembered to remind you
what a pip I think you are?
I should have, and I could
have yesterday of all days.
I like you, and I think
you are a nice person
because of the bubbles.
Perhaps there are other reasons,
too, I don't want to kill you.
The way excitement
sometimes wiggles out
of you on its way
to becoming a worm.
By the way, have I ever
remembered to remind you
what a pip I think you are?
I should have, and I could
have yesterday of all days.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
JOURNEYS
My mother was an excessively devout Catholic, my father a devoutly stubborn agnostic. I was raised Catholic, but, being a male, gradually journeyed back into the footsteps of my father.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
ALSO
When it waxes, we weep.
When it wanes,we cry.
The difference is a disciple
of trying, an uninvited
guest of why we dream.
The heat's unbearable,
of course, because heaven's
always just around some
corner. The wind,
forgotten in its branches,
gets lost again looking
for us. Cold
stars describe what
won't be true about us long.
When it waxes, we weep.
When it wanes,we cry.
The difference is a disciple
of trying, an uninvited
guest of why we dream.
The heat's unbearable,
of course, because heaven's
always just around some
corner. The wind,
forgotten in its branches,
gets lost again looking
for us. Cold
stars describe what
won't be true about us long.
RETURN
Light comes from me
in the correct way when
my head is on fire
and my feet are rooted
in darkness. I am more
myself at such moments,
which occur only as often
as accuracy allows.
When nothing is the case
(which is only the case
when you say so), I let
myself become you again.
Perhaps you notice me
inside you like a baby.
Light comes from me
in the correct way when
my head is on fire
and my feet are rooted
in darkness. I am more
myself at such moments,
which occur only as often
as accuracy allows.
When nothing is the case
(which is only the case
when you say so), I let
myself become you again.
Perhaps you notice me
inside you like a baby.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
RESCUED
I remember how they found
you, in a dream, wrapped
in that old coat Agnes
let you look younger in.
You were the ex-president
of every event you attended,
though still longing for
more or less of the same.
Because your location
was a well-guarded secret,
we had to look for you
in all the wrong places.
Now we can't remember
who you were.
I remember how they found
you, in a dream, wrapped
in that old coat Agnes
let you look younger in.
You were the ex-president
of every event you attended,
though still longing for
more or less of the same.
Because your location
was a well-guarded secret,
we had to look for you
in all the wrong places.
Now we can't remember
who you were.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
One Man's Opinion
A poem shouldn't be harder for me to read than it was for the poet to write. Just a thought. It seems to me that many of us are trying either too hard or not hard enough or both.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
JANUARY
Somewhere inside my soul
I try to talk about this
in a way that will make
you be drawn to me.
I sing of the me you
are in one last
early try to let you live.
If I imagine myself
in your absence, nothing
manages to happen.
But in the wild light
of January I invite us
both into a secret sorrow
and turn the meaning off.
Somewhere inside my soul
I try to talk about this
in a way that will make
you be drawn to me.
I sing of the me you
are in one last
early try to let you live.
If I imagine myself
in your absence, nothing
manages to happen.
But in the wild light
of January I invite us
both into a secret sorrow
and turn the meaning off.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Paul Hoover
It was Paul Hoover who first introduced me to the works of Paul Hoover. Thanks, Paul. Paul's latest book of poems, 56 SONNETS, is magical, funny, and flarfy.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
THE RAPTURE
An unusual haze,
having lingered for days,
rose up and started to change
into an animal so strange
hitherto empty phrases filled
themselves with meaning.
Light
pierced the night
in spots the dark had missed.
Heating devices hissed
our warnings. Cleaning
fluid appeared where spilled
milk had splattered.
None of it actually mattered,
since the earth soon collapsed
into a gorgeous heap of ashes.
God
appeared in the shape
of a cod
fish eating a grape.
An unusual haze,
having lingered for days,
rose up and started to change
into an animal so strange
hitherto empty phrases filled
themselves with meaning.
Light
pierced the night
in spots the dark had missed.
Heating devices hissed
our warnings. Cleaning
fluid appeared where spilled
milk had splattered.
None of it actually mattered,
since the earth soon collapsed
into a gorgeous heap of ashes.
God
appeared in the shape
of a cod
fish eating a grape.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
AIR
Unmade mistakes wait
impatiently around the corner.
I think of a promise's
moist petals as I press
you into the pages
of this book. You were
wet when I met you,
alive with what mattered
more than breath.
Now you are paler
than the last memory
I have of you standing
outside, looking around
for traces of the air.
Unmade mistakes wait
impatiently around the corner.
I think of a promise's
moist petals as I press
you into the pages
of this book. You were
wet when I met you,
alive with what mattered
more than breath.
Now you are paler
than the last memory
I have of you standing
outside, looking around
for traces of the air.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Thanks, Barry
It was, in fact, Barry Schechter (author of the amazing novel, THE BLINDFOLD TEST) who first introduced me to the works of Peter Handke and Donald Barthelme.
Monday, May 10, 2010
ELECTRIC
There was no time
left in my clock
(whose tick was missing)
when I went in
to check up on yesterday.
A door that didn't
close behind me seemed
not to know what to do.
The moon kept track
of what couldn't happen
(the dish and the spoon
both frozen in place)
as I carefully made my way
away from what seemed electric.
There was no time
left in my clock
(whose tick was missing)
when I went in
to check up on yesterday.
A door that didn't
close behind me seemed
not to know what to do.
The moon kept track
of what couldn't happen
(the dish and the spoon
both frozen in place)
as I carefully made my way
away from what seemed electric.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Or So It Would Seem
Roussel's accidentally surrealistic writings remind me of the way rain sometimes falls without seeming to mean to.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
BIRTHDAY POEM FOR SAID
Because you are so much more
than you seem to see
in the mirror we call "you",
we'd like to take this opportunity
to remind you of yourself.
Look! There you are again
being brighter than April
in all its glory is. And
there you stand where only
you can be. Because we're not
you (since only you are), we'd
like to invite you to a
party we throw in your
honor every time we think of you.
Because you are so much more
than you seem to see
in the mirror we call "you",
we'd like to take this opportunity
to remind you of yourself.
Look! There you are again
being brighter than April
in all its glory is. And
there you stand where only
you can be. Because we're not
you (since only you are), we'd
like to invite you to a
party we throw in your
honor every time we think of you.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
ANYTHING ELSE
Landscape and logic tweaked
by longing, a lunging, I guess
you'd call it, into the nearly
unknown. The perhaps wafted-
away no-color of days whose
ends are frayed. Then watching
a better-known version of it
still circling the drain long
after the plug has been pulled.
A kind of almost incomplete
spookiness that gives meaning
to it (without meaning to,
of course), because there is, after
all, no clear evidence of anything else.
Landscape and logic tweaked
by longing, a lunging, I guess
you'd call it, into the nearly
unknown. The perhaps wafted-
away no-color of days whose
ends are frayed. Then watching
a better-known version of it
still circling the drain long
after the plug has been pulled.
A kind of almost incomplete
spookiness that gives meaning
to it (without meaning to,
of course), because there is, after
all, no clear evidence of anything else.
COW
Something almost wooden now
mimics a fear of forgetting to grow.
A not too noticeable cow
grazes in the meadow.
Excitement tries hard to wrest
indifference from its nest
above the fray. At night
everyone sings who can,
though the very sight
of something causes a man
to paralyze himself
and place his weapon on a shelf
just out of reach. Wow,
someone thinks with a half-
opened mouth, I'd love to eat that cow!
Something almost wooden now
mimics a fear of forgetting to grow.
A not too noticeable cow
grazes in the meadow.
Excitement tries hard to wrest
indifference from its nest
above the fray. At night
everyone sings who can,
though the very sight
of something causes a man
to paralyze himself
and place his weapon on a shelf
just out of reach. Wow,
someone thinks with a half-
opened mouth, I'd love to eat that cow!
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Recent Treasures
Recent books I have greatly enjoyed: Barry Schechter's THE BLINDFOLD TEST (an amazing novel by an amazing writer). Paul Hoover's POEMS IN SPANISH (probably Paul's best book of poems ever). And Ron Padgett's YOU NEVER KNOW and HOW TO BE PERFECT (two great books of poems by the masterful Mister Ron).
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Ron, a Language Poet?
When my son, Said, took an English course at UC Berkeley taught by Lyn Hejinian, she said in one of her lectures that Ron Padgett was a language poet. Now, Ron has always been one of my favorite poets, maybe even my favorite poet, period. And I have never thought of him as a language poet. He is, I think, many kinds of poets at once, and that's one of the things that makes him so great. Yeah, there's some language poetry in him (or, I should say, some poetic techniques he uses that the language poets, who came later, have borrowed from him, John Ashbery and Kenneth Koch), but he has a lot of moves that the language poets don't have, and probably don't even approve of, since they tend to be a bit dogmatic in their attitude toward poetry. Interesting thing is that Lyn Hejinian is one of the few language poets whose work I actually enjoy reading, and I enjoy reading her work because, to me, it's not really all that similar to what is normally categorized as language poetry. Maybe we should stop attaching labels to poetry. Maybe it's enough to read a poem and either like it or not like it, or do something in between liking it and not liking it. Yeah, let's do that.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
SAME
Driving the meaning
as hard as I can into the
wood that keeps it,
I nevertheless insist
on being the one I am.
It's the same old similar
story: No one's ready
to leave. On the outer
boulevards, cars careen
into subtler ways of
solving some of the riddles.
Smudges appear all
over the place, replacing
the hands that held them.
Truth becomes this hole
hopes get funneled into.
An irresistible heaviness
in trees remains the same.
Driving the meaning
as hard as I can into the
wood that keeps it,
I nevertheless insist
on being the one I am.
It's the same old similar
story: No one's ready
to leave. On the outer
boulevards, cars careen
into subtler ways of
solving some of the riddles.
Smudges appear all
over the place, replacing
the hands that held them.
Truth becomes this hole
hopes get funneled into.
An irresistible heaviness
in trees remains the same.
Monday, April 19, 2010
About (My) Poetry
I never think of myself as being part of this or that school or movement when I write poetry (or anything else). I'm not a language poet, except when I am. I'm not a poet of the New York School, except when I am. I'm not a traditional poet, except when I am. I'm not any of those things, except when I'm all of them.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
SLOWLY
Seems like it's always
almost morning out here
where the music is.
A stalled moment flows
in fits, then stops again.
A tree the wind's
trying to uproot
clenches its fist
in defense of inertia.
Horses share an old joke
in the only barn
that matters. A language
the light can't master
slowly translates itself.
Seems like it's always
almost morning out here
where the music is.
A stalled moment flows
in fits, then stops again.
A tree the wind's
trying to uproot
clenches its fist
in defense of inertia.
Horses share an old joke
in the only barn
that matters. A language
the light can't master
slowly translates itself.
Friday, April 16, 2010
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