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 |  A new book to house this year's (and future years) NationalPoetryMonth's daily poems. |
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I'm writing once again this year. This book is my special event place for thirty special poems. Here for National Poetry Month in 2018, I'm participating but life has not been kind in the last 15 months, so I'm not always in writing mode. |
| 1: where is sorrow if nothing be forgotten? leave now? but return! on such a sweet morrow surely joy will abound 2: such sweetness in today's last embrace blotted tears only accelerate the next first kiss 3: to leave, wherefore? I cannot part from moonlight reflecting in your eyes lovely invitation no, not to leave! 4: a hundred times goodnight I bid the fading sun your eyes, your soul keep my image sweet that I may share the morning 5: when all is said gentle words linger on starlight they do not die like pain thrusting in my heart come swiftly sweet dawn! five Shakespearean tanka on "such sweet sorrow" [2018.30.4...a] |
| no, it's not called dissertation defense I wrote a title in Arial caps: incineration fence it deals with companies fabricating barbed wire in the pre- and post desolation of Nazi quagmire yes, of course I can tweak intonation a bit (enunciates distinctly) decades of racist shit now try out a whisper, seduce but not too bold there are millions of bodies rotting in the cold but isn't history a continual spiral of genocide now's the moment for a Pirandello aside (we caper through philosophy in search of reason all fate delivers is complacent sighs of treason) we open next month on Broadway [2018.29.4...a] |
| This is not what I intended. Creating millions of life forms to highlight the diversity of perfection. And one -- although if he looks farther than the center of his own shadow -- will discover other animals possess the power to reason and emote, yet he created religions that no longer honor my perfection. Each branch of Tree of Faith shares roots in the strong foundation of the symbol "Do unto others. » "Thou shalt not » has become selfish in the name of my god. Man has cast aside the shadow that truly guides and burnt by the light, which contains as much blight, has forgotten simplicity, good and the truth of love, understanding and acceptance. Man's greatness dwindles. His honor clogs the rain’s purity. This is not what I intended. Precipitating death serves nothing but vileness. Blossoms and forests cannot rise up and fight their own extinction. The animal kingdom can no longer survive. The winds and oceans, irritated to their cores by man's disregard, are rising with empathy for my inner turmoil. Their intensity grows like disappointment. Will you listen now, before endless night strikes yet another time to wipe away life? Will my words fall as faint whispers upon the deafening isolation you create around yourself? His words left unchecked [2018.28.4...a] |
| their language is onomatopoeias they are wind whisperers all but one still listen they embrace mountains with boldness stronger than cement their lessons maintain timelessness their steadfast presence grounds rivers and protects fertile plains their summits reach towards prayer man, complex and self-important didn't try to listen or admire or question their greater necessity instead, his quest for comfort ripped away bark, wood and pulp man never looked at their peace and like infertile mulch, he forgot their wisdom after he weakened their numbers he forgot to replant their strongholds, they became ornaments, lost, no longer pillars for life trees, unlike dreams veering to nightmare cannot defend themselves and slowly lose their godship to the animal kingdom they continue to guard earth's ancestral soul its pulse mutating like the cooling of lava that will break only man's lifeline their falling majesty [2018.27.4...a] |
| I have magical pockets filled with oceans, sunsets & bouquets lint, of course, & a lost sock the washing machine surrendered as a surprise just as I had finally thrown out the first one orphaned two months ago, an oyster's pearl, still a baby a small meditation bell, a clown's nose two cinnamon sticks & apple seeds, small vials of Dead Sea sand & stardust, beach pebbles & a flame from the Statue of Liberty a book of famous quotes from guys like Shakespeare & the Dalai Lama, a smile which I hope is more contagious than the sun my pockets never empty come, laugh with me & surprise me with your joy small things found in unlikely places [2018.26.4...] |
| vagueness from days that wave at keys swept out to sea, they reappear in your sable coat, to haunt my hands covered in wet sand my prayer, my words, my years yearn to tame obsession this trauma since Zurich backtracks life in my dreams vagueness cries and swells to unseal itself from forgotten fears to tame the mountain of this unplanned effleurage: a kiss on your lips my prayer, my words, my years yearn to tame obsession this trauma since Zurich backtracks life in my dreams vagueness caged in memory's cells I review this last vision, distant secrets threaded into sand courting my confused soul’s troubled death my prayer, my words, my years yearn to tame obsession this trauma since Zurich backtracks life in my dreams The dead city, lighter than words [2018.25.4…a] ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** THE MOTIVATION BEHIND THIS POEM Original texts and their translations 1) Mohammed Dib, poet plus légère de mots /// lightest words et la vague /// & the wave qui se dissipe /// that disappears en tout ensablement /// in the sand’s wetness qui se divulgue /// that reveals itself en oubli /// in forgetfulness sur un ensemble de lèvres /// on a set of lips la vague celle /// the wave, the one qui distribue le secret /// that spreads the secret d'une mort confuse /// of a troubling death 2) from the opera by Erich Wolfgang KORNGOLD Die tote Stadt // The dead city Aria Mein Sehnen, mein Wähnen, /// My yearning, my obsession, es träumt sich zurück. /// they take me back in dreams. ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** First text created from sound simplification and imitation. days of vagueness /// wave keys the sea weeps /// and disappear haunt your sable coat /// in wet sand my prayer, my words /// my years yearn to try obsession its trauma since Zurich /// they make me track my dreams keys die and bulge /// that unseals itself a nobleman /// forgetting sure of ensemble levers /// a kiss on the lips my say, my words /// my years yearn to try obsession its trauma since Zurich /// they make me track my dreams vague cells /// the last wave keys to distribute secrets /// threading secrets dunes of mortified confusion /// trouble death my say, my words /// my years yearn to try obsession its trauma since Zurich /// they make me track my dreams ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** How this came to be: I often binge listen to new music. For the last few days, I've been listening to this year's series of masterclasses by opera mezzo Joyce DiDonato's from Carnegie Hall. One of the singers, a baritone, presented an aria from Korngold's opera, both of which I did not know. The aria "Mein Sehren, Mein Wähnen" has captivated me since. The lines I have chosen from this text act as a refrain in the aria; I thought they should have the same place in my poem combining texts from two languages into my native one. YouTube will give those interested many incredible versions of this aria. |
| press a button, the hologram of my life stops spinning fat nauseous cells are burned away click play, no pain, no difference image: hope plus a cure, image: hope plus a longer life, add adjectives: happier, more loving, patient accepting, without warning I spin back into that hologram hell needing to be stopped, hit pause: doubt breaks apart the link between throat and voice, tears emerge contained from nowhere a hologram should know numbness claims other parts of my body my soul quivers again and the skirmish resumes, at night’s vigil I list accomplishments in one column, like soldiers ready for battle and dark horrors on the thirteenth page of bad luck, balance stymied peace tottering but for no reason my liver can hold responsible I drink only water, fruit juice and herbs the magic garden to rid myself of the burn and its nasty snail-slow trail, the nausea only grips my mind, flip switch at this thought the hologram cannot think without my brain and I accept the role of my own general in a fight that cannot be won but only be slowly tamed by counting the hours one flipped switch at a time untitled battle [2018.24.4...a] |
| deep in the whitened forest where night shadows reveal only the thinest dark outlines of trees snowfall slows and clouds clear her vaporous voice listen and moonlight illuminates her white kimono pearly iridescence of translucent white skin a wild mane of icicle hair eyes deeper than midnight she floats beguiling white from whiteness with only yearning instead of tears young boys tell tales of her apparition in words of forlorn sadness when she speaks to them they hear, all in unison you are not my son all wished to be the one to bring her another moment of happiness before she melted again into the winter night a yuki-onna tale [2018.23.4…a] https://hyakumonogatari.com/2013/12/18/yuki-onna-the-snow-woman/ |
| he forms characters with drops of rain agile brush catching definition from the clouds for kindship family & intent he pricks a finger & mixes his own redness to electrify brush magic for sadness, solitude & growth he must tame wind so brush loses anything brusk catching sky blue requires more than a hue called patience for love & life & renewal seek invitation & wait upon timeliness death for it must be brushed beneath no stars can only come from midnight’s ink he is blind to its forms before the characters dry he sprinkles stardust to add eternity just enough to remember only words he, the messenger is a comet's tail calligrapher [2018.22.4…a] |
| 1: the plums were for my mother she died while you were away 2: the fruit you ate were large purple grapes from Japan, you never had any taste 3: red, juicy plums, filled with sweet-tooth yearnings, or those, I meant to say, of expecting mothers 4: Margarita, our third-floor neighbor told me her plums disappeared last night what else do you take from her? 5: the real ones are always in the fruit bowl it’s amazing you still digest wax so well 6: forgive you? what offering did you leave in their place? 7: have I ever mixed plums in the morning smoothie? I buy them for you, to nourish your guilt 8: left on the unset breakfast table: they were a gift for your mother and her sudden arrival I’ve left for an undramatic weekend 9: I have forgiven infidelity and bankruptcy you can taste my sweet, ice-box shoulders at bedtime 10: this is just to say I found the no-longer-secret bank account, emptied most of it elsewhere, and changed your password plums are a beggar's luxury now snark on a midnight snack [2018.21.4…a] After William Carlos Williams "This is just to say" https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/just-say |
| here flow no more than his thirty-one words I cannot add the smallest touch to bend his intent & sway translated thus into my own heartbeat and hunger for humor morning banks drunk erasing themselves your [¿laughing?] curve makes the sacrifice to die as do embers & even childhood [¿games of tag?] because it had lighted the face beyond climbs until intruding on candor I'm sure he smiled his effect content to affect mystery to a simple limpid scene playing with imagination’s wile after "light as a sign" by Mohammed Dib [2018.20.4...a] |
| possibly poppies distill choice or hallucinogenic mushrooms crazed cravings of fast California freeways in the 60s the danger of losing control that one last hell-breaking time waking, the welcome stubbed toe throb or a heart finally on the starting block the abyss called falling in love a rose by any other name ... [2018.19.4...a] |
| we, the people, choke on the sweet pills to gloss over or spruce up c'est la vie medicine that kidnaps the dailyness millions of other toy soldiers who rush upright through Christmas elbowing, an exercise in sleep apnea pipe dreams filled with the dazzle of cheap colored tap water the parched quest for a human teddy bear to warm up morning coffee the chatter of Valentines, a single forgettable day to celebrate tables not set for two, the cat eats on the floor and mirrors growl to “who’s the fairest?” time runs out like a marathon and c'est la vie offers a lumpy hospice bed hoping, even though it's our absence now someone will say a nice word or two and won't disrupt the tombstone engraved with a stupid c’est la vie wasn't there something outstanding like fireworks or walking on the moon? when the bargaining table is tilted [2018.18.4...a] |
| this in-betweenness chuchoté, à demi-mot capsules of time, hidden relics frozen ice, tundra, silence this unexpectedness a declaration of love, whispered, a slight suggestion a deathbed mea culpa eyes with such intenseness still vibrating this last smile touched with the grace of La Joconde her immortalness a mother's swan song beautiful and blue-ish [2018.17.4...a] Author's note: "chuchoté, á demi-mot" is roughly translated at the beginning of the 4th stanza. |
| Breakfast for two, too early. Sans romance the cat and I share only hunger. Precision scalpels each hour into tasks and likes, lists for tomorrow, forgotten items at the grocers, the day's first wild card. I huff and puff against aching joints and return, buying extras not intended. Next interruption, the phone. Landline. Not friends. People with unique accents selling poorly explained items. I don’t let them try and politely hang up. Laundry to dry, two loads every week adds no stress. Need a new rack. I used to write you letters filled with details how I occupied my solitary weeks when there were interesting this-&-that's for telling. The opera, theatre, cinema, gallery openings. To spite fear, I went out alone waiting for you to return and enhance my idea of romance. We are old in our ways now. Of the two of us, the cat is stingy sharing our meager space. You told me to expect the doorbell to ring in a few hours. Of touch and go laughter. I never learned to bake at proper temperatures. Happiness comes out either soggy or too crispy. Leftovers are normally food for entwined thought. To add a pinch of unexpectedness [2018.16.4...a] |
| who other than Dr. Seuss added blue dye to scrambled eggs fuchsia is a lovely color not only suited for blossoms more orphaned children, asylum refused, Liberty's dream is shrinking it takes hours to say goodbye, not destined to become farewell, like a fading rose, clouds marring sunset silk headscarves to wipe tears then a few more zealots dropped more bombs ... rain aphrodisiac, a carafe of Bordeaux, soft jazz illuminating candlelight, thunder fails but sudden lightning blinds the sweetness ... where hope is trapped by the thorns of rubble ... birdsong and gardens are untimely, beauty pushes through somehow the notion of Eden was born with the skies, oceans and continents ... in a world where death gains a trophy for mundaneness So many closed doors [2018.15.4...a] |
| 1: because is the commonest reason it answers all and nothing 2: and if our favorite colors are not even complementary 3: book of revelations: the doctor wants a journal how, when, where 4: who speaks loudest? the me asking aloud or the other responding rubbish? 5: why is still my favorite question why do I still love you? 6: and trust you with the last embers of my life? that's a mother's role 7: the fear is not of death but knowing nothing about that first tomorrow afterwards 8: can we talk too much? the others say yes can we discuss this? 9: today I feel only morbidity and not the poetry of accomplishment 10: if bears could talk about caves and hibernation, I’d listen 11: the first step is wet and undefined I still growl, but that’s fear speaking 12: spring has not sprung the trap door so I can gaze again at beauty 13: forests are filled with charms few lucky ones can be found in cities 14: I am mulch not yet processed into a fine soul 15: after Cordelia’s first frozen touch I lost my sixth sense of warmth 16: sleep is turmoil and tumultuous restlessness with no empowerment 17: I reached the “do not open beyond” date, I missed my first kiss 18: hunger returns like a tortoise losing the race not just for food 19: protecting nothing, I need to live (scribbled on a napkin) 20: first dissociation: white a dictionary of hieroglyphs 21: second: love knowledge is not ever enough 22: what is missing then? empathy 23: the chair squeaks as I squirm each month I am lighter 24: I have a renewed appetite wasting time is nirvana 25: can you still define hope? only on the nights I dream further conversations from the other chair [2018.14.4...a] |
| The chair is rarely empty. Strangers come and sit in the drafty warmth of my home. They are dead. If we talk, the cat opts for two choices: to hiss or curl up at their feet. He always avoids me in these instances of spiritual diversion. Not that I pray, mind you, but meditation seems to have awakened by resonance with things not completely human. Some complain. On bad days, more frequent as I approach their nebulous natures, so do I. Complain. Our subject matters vary. A life/death cleaving. My ghosts have mastered lessons in tolerance. Their regrets are for absences never lived, never the banality of bemoaning traffic jams or the second full month of rainy days. Never a word of hate. They all carry the same scars. Mine. My childhood fears. My dance with the overbearing Cordelia, because none of us like naming the C word aloud. On days I enjoy the vivacity of not-yet-gone visitors who occupy their chair -- for they always visit one by one -- they amuse me and create extra wind rattling windows or electrical disturbances, like cell phones suddenly going dead. They are patient. Those still alive are not. I head the list. Few are erudite but all play my poetry game. Their lines are mostly abysmal clichés of comic book gore, medical errors and urban war scenes that I temper as best I can with tit-for-tat opposites. Peace helps us coexist. They think I make an excellent future candidate for their club. The second armchair [2018.13.4...a] |
| can't set my head on a straight path towards healing stuck in a sticky what if rut where this disease has left my body (now in wellness) but invades my tranquility with vile indecent thoughts that death maybe strays close unnameable [2018.12.4...a] Fibonacci form. Lines of 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 8, 5, 3, 2, 1 and 1 syllables. |
| today like all the others is mired in the haywiring of monotonous routine variation is a goal wholesome like balancing oats with cough medicine fruit and chocolate with bus stops to the hospital though vital its past visits and success pass though a present where my body refuses to recall it's time to move on, forget and laugh caught with the mantra thread I am good and perfect wellness that I align with hourly chimes and soon on a sometime day I'll gladly watch unfold I'll celebrate with clamor and fervor the return of the word normal another after effect [2018.11.4...a] Experiments in spacing instead of punctuation. Not happy with the result. Does anyone know how to add more than one space between words without resorting to the Indent ML? |
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