MIKHAIL LERMONTOV'S LOVE
(1814-1841)
birthday October 3
His eyes are still on us
not embittered
like an onion or radish
for a Russian son not selfish
but with good humor
even now his wise voice
at the door sill is heard
not since Pushkin
in the graying air
of our neighborhood
there is a choice songbird
also along the Neva
who hears of a lyric poet
at his last duel in death
near the paradise river bed
under the blond light
your memory is borne
on an October dawn,
for a fool rarely knows a poet
until through the night
an emerging sunshine appears
as we eye the moving length
and breadth of a sailing swan
of many gazing years
who passes though waves
taking its slavish wading toll
yet still has her wings
we remember and love you
Lermontov on your birthday
within every rainbow shade,
our soul faces your spirit
which sings in a chorus
to us of a poet's way
writing "The Hero of our Time"
with brave embracing words
sharing your tears in rhyme.
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
WALLACE STEVENS BIRTHDAY
October 2 1879-1955
October, as red leaves
expire on the fields
under oak tree rings
by a chorus of songbirds
along a bus route
over Hartford's roads sing
we remember your spoken words
by an open border of woods
in classic crystal breezy moods
shielding us with an expanse
on a translucent nimbus light
in a number of sky clouds
raining down with winds
on tendril green meadows
in rows of wild flowers
at our own solitude
when you spoke to us
Wallace Stevens of beauty
in our storms
by open wells glittered
and ready for the sunshine
by river beds
to keep us in winter forms
over a long devotion of poetry
under snow blanketed sentences
knowing of you in our dorms
from your reading gestures
at our slumbers to be warm
as your surely fruitful phrases
allow us each day to be reborn.
expire on the fields
under oak tree rings
by a chorus of songbirds
along a bus route
over Hartford's roads sing
we remember your spoken words
by an open border of woods
in classic crystal breezy moods
shielding us with an expanse
on a translucent nimbus light
in a number of sky clouds
raining down with winds
on tendril green meadows
in rows of wild flowers
at our own solitude
when you spoke to us
Wallace Stevens of beauty
in our storms
by open wells glittered
and ready for the sunshine
by river beds
to keep us in winter forms
over a long devotion of poetry
under snow blanketed sentences
knowing of you in our dorms
from your reading gestures
at our slumbers to be warm
as your surely fruitful phrases
allow us each day to be reborn.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
THE CAT
The cat on my Baudelaire
jumps and purrs at me
on my sofa chair
she then ignores me
curled up by the fireplace
near ingot fringed blinds
of French unhinged doors
when Bach plays me
on the harpsichord
then the cat sways
in her wood covered spot
near the open welcome mat
by bench blankets
near my learning library draw
of Rimbaud, Valery, Verlaine
and De Mello Sophia Breyner,
always alone in the morning
as a moody Autumn sun
by my university neighborhood
welcomes us in corridors
through hallways and stairs
before my Charles river run
in held up in rainy hub breaths
over the Longfellow bridge
by cool bones of Rob Creeley
at Mt. Auburn cemetery
through a chorus of songbirds
feeding and drinking by fountains
near the bird watchers club
along a melodious forest
in visions not to be forgotten
before my return to rest up
as images race before me
for my reading commentaries
near my backgammon table
where there are cards
for a game of solitaire
as a city bard out of Zion
takes up a wine cup and bread
over a solitude of words
alone from a tower of Babel
living like an exiled Daniel
among lions in Babylon
in this millennia.
The cat on my Baudelaire
jumps and purrs at me
on my sofa chair
she then ignores me
curled up by the fireplace
near ingot fringed blinds
of French unhinged doors
when Bach plays me
on the harpsichord
then the cat sways
in her wood covered spot
near the open welcome mat
by bench blankets
near my learning library draw
of Rimbaud, Valery, Verlaine
and De Mello Sophia Breyner,
always alone in the morning
as a moody Autumn sun
by my university neighborhood
welcomes us in corridors
through hallways and stairs
before my Charles river run
in held up in rainy hub breaths
over the Longfellow bridge
by cool bones of Rob Creeley
at Mt. Auburn cemetery
through a chorus of songbirds
feeding and drinking by fountains
near the bird watchers club
along a melodious forest
in visions not to be forgotten
before my return to rest up
as images race before me
for my reading commentaries
near my backgammon table
where there are cards
for a game of solitaire
as a city bard out of Zion
takes up a wine cup and bread
over a solitude of words
alone from a tower of Babel
living like an exiled Daniel
among lions in Babylon
in this millennia.
SINCE
Since I do not rise
until my motionless hour
moves me to my chair
heaven and earth is wise
to my behavior
not abandoned elsewhere
from my sleep eye dream
of exile from Toledo
picturing El Greco's "Savior"
he seems to share
my wine and bread
on my knees
when any form of despondency
or despair brings me back
from my printed galleys,
to look out from my window
at moving bocce, hockey
and soccer players
sharing the field
by the Charles river's breeze
along the dawn's sky voices
shielding over the sea's edge
by trembling branches
over the Longfellow bridge
hearing familiar birdsong
at this very moment
with shadows of visitors
on the balcony fearing the rain
as mourning doves appear
outside my studio at eleven
when listening to Verdi's
recording of the opera Nabucco
my mind is racing
by a lending library of Esperanto
waiting on my desire
in memory of the pastimes
of my reading Proust
outside the Paris Tuileries
for there is life's love in art
where time flees
what it disposes in youth
will never depart
since there is forgiving
for the living and the dead
we exist ala carte.
Since I do not rise
until my motionless hour
moves me to my chair
heaven and earth is wise
to my behavior
not abandoned elsewhere
from my sleep eye dream
of exile from Toledo
picturing El Greco's "Savior"
he seems to share
my wine and bread
on my knees
when any form of despondency
or despair brings me back
from my printed galleys,
to look out from my window
at moving bocce, hockey
and soccer players
sharing the field
by the Charles river's breeze
along the dawn's sky voices
shielding over the sea's edge
by trembling branches
over the Longfellow bridge
hearing familiar birdsong
at this very moment
with shadows of visitors
on the balcony fearing the rain
as mourning doves appear
outside my studio at eleven
when listening to Verdi's
recording of the opera Nabucco
my mind is racing
by a lending library of Esperanto
waiting on my desire
in memory of the pastimes
of my reading Proust
outside the Paris Tuileries
for there is life's love in art
where time flees
what it disposes in youth
will never depart
since there is forgiving
for the living and the dead
we exist ala carte.
TO FREE A POET
To free a poet
is to instruct our nature's lore
like an Emerson or Thoreau
we may even explore
the craggy conduits
in a lunar exploration of Mars
or an eclipse of a red moon
on a relaxed night out
like this
with an September passerby,
when the breeze rises
on your back
to remember the lost stars
and then tomorrow
as in a metamorphosis
take a noonday walk
here over the wheat fields
of Van Gogh
remembering his eye and ear
of the potato eaters,
that in a quick repast
only life's passport matters
to be stamped
when we hear or witness
the early peal of bells
before the snows arrive
on Palermo's Mount Etna
and there is intimacy
by the river beds near cats
on blankets which vanish
without any forgiven death
on the Spanish steps
when a few leaves turn crimson
and the twigs and acorns
fall on the sunflower grounds
of visitors to the museum
there on the marquee
is the poet Pasolini's film
"The Gospel According
to Saint Mathew"
is playing this Sunday,
"Lets go."
To free a poet
is to instruct our nature's lore
like an Emerson or Thoreau
we may even explore
the craggy conduits
in a lunar exploration of Mars
or an eclipse of a red moon
on a relaxed night out
like this
with an September passerby,
when the breeze rises
on your back
to remember the lost stars
and then tomorrow
as in a metamorphosis
take a noonday walk
here over the wheat fields
of Van Gogh
remembering his eye and ear
of the potato eaters,
that in a quick repast
only life's passport matters
to be stamped
when we hear or witness
the early peal of bells
before the snows arrive
on Palermo's Mount Etna
and there is intimacy
by the river beds near cats
on blankets which vanish
without any forgiven death
on the Spanish steps
when a few leaves turn crimson
and the twigs and acorns
fall on the sunflower grounds
of visitors to the museum
there on the marquee
is the poet Pasolini's film
"The Gospel According
to Saint Mathew"
is playing this Sunday,
"Lets go."
Monday, September 28, 2015
W.D. SNODGRASS'S CONFESSION
(1926-2009)
You had been
to public and private
confessional school
not only as a visitor
throwing your papers
from the artist's ashcan
and opening the draw
to the tight day dreams
in your dry eye ruminations
of erasing lines and rules
off white blackboards
in your own uniqueness
minding your own business
on the first hand shelf
of your personal darkness
to expose a current
of rolled up electric light
preparing the land way
for footsteps of the Beats
who hide in the corner
not hoarding words
by long lines in the day
not buckled in an armchair
but rushing to own
an oral profession of oracles
washing their feet
in a miracle of words.
(1926-2009)
You had been
to public and private
confessional school
not only as a visitor
throwing your papers
from the artist's ashcan
and opening the draw
to the tight day dreams
in your dry eye ruminations
of erasing lines and rules
off white blackboards
in your own uniqueness
minding your own business
on the first hand shelf
of your personal darkness
to expose a current
of rolled up electric light
preparing the land way
for footsteps of the Beats
who hide in the corner
not hoarding words
by long lines in the day
not buckled in an armchair
but rushing to own
an oral profession of oracles
washing their feet
in a miracle of words.
ROCKPORT'S DAWN
In a welter of waves
a chorus of birds
nestled on green waters
sheltering on a raft of rocks
where my kayak rests
near fallen branches
at the northeaster wind's
spoken woolly dawn
here a poet's open door
closes for an outside read
by a tree-trunk of words
my spirit catches up
after a thousand mile run
as an oak looses acorns
on crimson leaves
for a trial marathon.
In a welter of waves
a chorus of birds
nestled on green waters
sheltering on a raft of rocks
where my kayak rests
near fallen branches
at the northeaster wind's
spoken woolly dawn
here a poet's open door
closes for an outside read
by a tree-trunk of words
my spirit catches up
after a thousand mile run
as an oak looses acorns
on crimson leaves
for a trial marathon.
BY THE EASTERN SHORE
We spilled out dream words
on the white sands of love
hearing the gull voices
as budding shadows
and Greek columns of castles
rise by birdsong at noonday
by the gazebo of geraniums
remaking our blanket images
on our canvas of yellow mums
clouds dance above us
in a chorus of eraser darkness
we have our lunchtime
of choice blood oranges
answering in a witness
to nature of "No and Yes."
We spilled out dream words
on the white sands of love
hearing the gull voices
as budding shadows
and Greek columns of castles
rise by birdsong at noonday
by the gazebo of geraniums
remaking our blanket images
on our canvas of yellow mums
clouds dance above us
in a chorus of eraser darkness
we have our lunchtime
of choice blood oranges
answering in a witness
to nature of "No and Yes."
PLAYING SCHUBERT
Playing Schubert
at my first violin recital
drinking a chocolate milkshake
that my teacher Uncle Scriven
and Aunt Sarah
brought to me at rehearsal
for an energetic appearance
in the museum courtyard
when Myron my piano accompanist
makes his way on stage,
I'm in my fresh white short pants
taking my animated fiddle
into my muted hands
motioning my body language
at this moment of living out
Schubert's fantasy
as the audience falls silent
and my notes play out
until the applause still echoes
in an orchestrated harmony
of my audible still life
under the Picasso.
Playing Schubert
at my first violin recital
drinking a chocolate milkshake
that my teacher Uncle Scriven
and Aunt Sarah
brought to me at rehearsal
for an energetic appearance
in the museum courtyard
when Myron my piano accompanist
makes his way on stage,
I'm in my fresh white short pants
taking my animated fiddle
into my muted hands
motioning my body language
at this moment of living out
Schubert's fantasy
as the audience falls silent
and my notes play out
until the applause still echoes
in an orchestrated harmony
of my audible still life
under the Picasso.
Friday, September 25, 2015
TRACING YOUR IMAGES
(in memory Robert Lowell
1917-1977) passed Sept. 12
Emerging September images
as first sunlight filters
your morning presages
passages of your time
and emerges at our walk along
over these pavements
on ancient cobblestones
by your Beacon Hill history
drawing us near the river
refreshing our memory
as mineral water
assures us by Boston Common
at the stunning fountain gates
of an interweaving day
spoke to our thirst and hunger
as a chorus of songbirds
on sight read branches
are heard where oak trees
offer acorns on the Esplanade
as passing marathon
joggers run by us.
(in memory Robert Lowell
1917-1977) passed Sept. 12
Emerging September images
as first sunlight filters
your morning presages
passages of your time
and emerges at our walk along
over these pavements
on ancient cobblestones
by your Beacon Hill history
drawing us near the river
refreshing our memory
as mineral water
assures us by Boston Common
at the stunning fountain gates
of an interweaving day
spoke to our thirst and hunger
as a chorus of songbirds
on sight read branches
are heard where oak trees
offer acorns on the Esplanade
as passing marathon
joggers run by us.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
WE NEED JOHN DONNE
We need John Donne
as the sun is set
for a poet
over the pulpit
as a conduit
of words in the spirit
at least Hopkins
or a Jesuit suited
to reprimand
war as sin and injustice
or the discipline
of Ted Berrigan
Dorothy Day
or Merton
to speak for peace,
let genesis begin again
release the doves
in a metamorphosis
as birds of love
increase, let us begin
as a dramatic "no man
or woman is an island"
for we critics of fascism
are in a crisis
in a time of politic Osiris
rising as comic paganism.
We need John Donne
as the sun is set
for a poet
over the pulpit
as a conduit
of words in the spirit
at least Hopkins
or a Jesuit suited
to reprimand
war as sin and injustice
or the discipline
of Ted Berrigan
Dorothy Day
or Merton
to speak for peace,
let genesis begin again
release the doves
in a metamorphosis
as birds of love
increase, let us begin
as a dramatic "no man
or woman is an island"
for we critics of fascism
are in a crisis
in a time of politic Osiris
rising as comic paganism.
INNER CITY BLUES
In the time zone
which never sleeps
and Motown awakes
over what is inscribed
as Hebrew lettering
on a Swahili blackboard
not far from the city
a poet walks alone
by a thirsty bird sanctuary
in blocks of slow clouds
basking with his sax
in the sun
a blues voice moves this way
through tall buildings of clay
a woman over Jacob's ladder
on her staircase
is swaying under sunshine
in an unknown tongue.
In the time zone
which never sleeps
and Motown awakes
over what is inscribed
as Hebrew lettering
on a Swahili blackboard
not far from the city
a poet walks alone
by a thirsty bird sanctuary
in blocks of slow clouds
basking with his sax
in the sun
a blues voice moves this way
through tall buildings of clay
a woman over Jacob's ladder
on her staircase
is swaying under sunshine
in an unknown tongue.
A GREENHOUSE VENTURE
A younger one devours
French bread
standing there
by the greenhouse
near the playground
of slides and see saw
with a toothpick
in hand
flexing his smile and muscle
watches me reaching
on the porch for a peach
and D.H. Lawrence
not knowing what is mine
or his business
near the Blue Hills and woods
with a ruddy way to dip
and dive in Houghton's pond
when he was nineteen
a first light overcomes us
as he combs his hair
in the careless and callous
plunge into the water
here was a tourist guide
and a life guard
soon gasping for breath
only the freshman swimmer
made the purer drift of wood
float from me that saved
his raw body form
from the stranger of mouth
to mouth life from death
over the purple solitude
of a bard's bitter adolescence
he cannot fade
until the sun enfolds us
in the fresh miraculous air
of a blanked out memory.
A younger one devours
French bread
standing there
by the greenhouse
near the playground
of slides and see saw
with a toothpick
in hand
flexing his smile and muscle
watches me reaching
on the porch for a peach
and D.H. Lawrence
not knowing what is mine
or his business
near the Blue Hills and woods
with a ruddy way to dip
and dive in Houghton's pond
when he was nineteen
a first light overcomes us
as he combs his hair
in the careless and callous
plunge into the water
here was a tourist guide
and a life guard
soon gasping for breath
only the freshman swimmer
made the purer drift of wood
float from me that saved
his raw body form
from the stranger of mouth
to mouth life from death
over the purple solitude
of a bard's bitter adolescence
he cannot fade
until the sun enfolds us
in the fresh miraculous air
of a blanked out memory.
DANCING HOURS
Dancing hours
by leaves and ashes
on a September lawn
day dreaming in the margins
of living like Flaubert
reading out loud
the story tinged with grief
of Madame Bovary
still flecked
with a proud novel memory
yet wanting relief
by the Charles river bed
from an Indian summer day
heated by the sunshine
sunk down on a bench
in a sanguine dawn
of buoyant Autumn
no bird song grieves,
today the rent is due
maybe he too speaks
in a French accent
with a bottle of red wine
wanting everything new.
Dancing hours
by leaves and ashes
on a September lawn
day dreaming in the margins
of living like Flaubert
reading out loud
the story tinged with grief
of Madame Bovary
still flecked
with a proud novel memory
yet wanting relief
by the Charles river bed
from an Indian summer day
heated by the sunshine
sunk down on a bench
in a sanguine dawn
of buoyant Autumn
no bird song grieves,
today the rent is due
maybe he too speaks
in a French accent
with a bottle of red wine
wanting everything new.
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
JAMES DEAN
(1931-1955)
Sept 30 death
The light on your Porcshe
stops your car
on route 466
heaven stops its mirror
from night corridors
in a Hollywood Styx
you were once driven by
your acting mobility
now you are lost
in the lines
of cops coming by
to the suburb's neighborhood
watching adolescent bones
rise in a window shine
when the sun in your eyes
become cross-wise
listening to the radio
from a descant of melody
opening your five star doors
by unfixed road signs
in shadows of your nobility
over curbs of lantern wicks
remembering "East of Eden"
to get over any way to paradise
with a night of film clips
and a nip of white wine.
(1931-1955)
Sept 30 death
The light on your Porcshe
stops your car
on route 466
heaven stops its mirror
from night corridors
in a Hollywood Styx
you were once driven by
your acting mobility
now you are lost
in the lines
of cops coming by
to the suburb's neighborhood
watching adolescent bones
rise in a window shine
when the sun in your eyes
become cross-wise
listening to the radio
from a descant of melody
opening your five star doors
by unfixed road signs
in shadows of your nobility
over curbs of lantern wicks
remembering "East of Eden"
to get over any way to paradise
with a night of film clips
and a nip of white wine.
DIEGO VELAZQUEZ'S POWER
(1599-1660)
In the cool museum room
in the first snow of morning
after Bach, brioche
and a Spanish latte
by a chorus of airy sparrows
with laughter in the esplanade
you, Diego overwhelm us
at the hidden art wall
of your airy Bacchus
or at the supper at Emmaus
with scenes of Jesus's family
or staring at courtyard portraits
you have a Sephardic flair
which loves the valid sunshine
in your bardic divine gestures
painting in your space and time
Venus and Cupid not forbidden
by an artistic Dionysus god of wine.
Venus and Cupid not forbidden
by an artistic Dionysus god of wine.
Monday, September 21, 2015
LAST BIRDSONG
Last birdsong of a chorus
leaving us alone in the desert
with a box of harvested seeds
from the eucalyptus
for our reconciled needs
in shadows for us
along with a daughter
like heart-sick Penelope
with mourning beads left
over the boat sail waters
of a once exiled hopeless ship
waiting for a handsome son
of promise and exile
in a Ulysses' dream of return
just to see his smile
of this former warrior
as the Greek sunshine burns
and Homer writes his Odyssey.
Last birdsong of a chorus
leaving us alone in the desert
with a box of harvested seeds
from the eucalyptus
for our reconciled needs
in shadows for us
along with a daughter
like heart-sick Penelope
with mourning beads left
over the boat sail waters
of a once exiled hopeless ship
waiting for a handsome son
of promise and exile
in a Ulysses' dream of return
just to see his smile
of this former warrior
as the Greek sunshine burns
and Homer writes his Odyssey.
FALL TWILIGHT
Twilight tenderness
on beds of earth and sky
dwindling lineaments
of a great returning love
sleepless by the porch
by verandas ivy high art walls
over Fall's bonfires
of ashes on red leaves
eating fortune cookies
raspberries, pomegranates
Jaffa orange peels, grapes
newly grown and harvested
not wanting the darkness
of shooting stars above us
having candied meat
from a roasted fireplace
on a table mat
full of herbs and sunflowers
consoling us
for turning back the clock
to the exodus or Iliad
or wanting an expectant snow
we read the proverbs
to say one word
of either "Yes" or 'No."
Twilight tenderness
on beds of earth and sky
dwindling lineaments
of a great returning love
sleepless by the porch
by verandas ivy high art walls
over Fall's bonfires
of ashes on red leaves
eating fortune cookies
raspberries, pomegranates
Jaffa orange peels, grapes
newly grown and harvested
not wanting the darkness
of shooting stars above us
having candied meat
from a roasted fireplace
on a table mat
full of herbs and sunflowers
consoling us
for turning back the clock
to the exodus or Iliad
or wanting an expectant snow
we read the proverbs
to say one word
of either "Yes" or 'No."
MATISSE CUT-OUTS
(1869-1954)
Cut it out, Matisse
in your cut-outs
geometric shapes
your hand written phonetic soul
suddenly calls us after liberation
asking us to live with courage
your wall art upgrades
Vichy masks
in your apartment splicing
into a scissor forming work
in a fingered atomic clock
for our emergency rooms
in your ruminations
during an occupation
we just asking for existence
not essence or existential threats
essential for animal skins
just to make us a human miracle
in a mineral and vegetable diet
yelling in tortured German
against the wall for Freiheit,
you cut us off in a future
with sutures for survival
you are not late in your cortege
in your prestige and revival
just bandaged up by war.
(1869-1954)
Cut it out, Matisse
in your cut-outs
geometric shapes
your hand written phonetic soul
suddenly calls us after liberation
asking us to live with courage
your wall art upgrades
Vichy masks
in your apartment splicing
into a scissor forming work
in a fingered atomic clock
for our emergency rooms
in your ruminations
during an occupation
we just asking for existence
not essence or existential threats
essential for animal skins
just to make us a human miracle
in a mineral and vegetable diet
yelling in tortured German
against the wall for Freiheit,
you cut us off in a future
with sutures for survival
you are not late in your cortege
in your prestige and revival
just bandaged up by war.
PIETER BRUEGEL'S CONVERSION
In the Sixties
hearing talk
about Marx, Engels
at an urban table
while having a bagel
lox and cream cheese
then a despondent actor
arrives and leaves us
for a T.V. rehearsal
talks of "Three Sisters"
of Chekhov and "The Tempest"
by Shakespeare
with an art student
puts down a conduit of books
with her last test
discusses Pieter Bruegel's
the"Tower of Babel" and "Hell"
and his "Conversion of St.Paul"
from a Jew to Christianity,
yet not appalled as daily news
of the nation emerges on a radio
from a young future correspondent
listened to and challenged by
all these socially changed students
with their enlightened reviews
of a universal humanity
in a rudimentary manner
contrary to what was expected
so early by the morning clocks
that was able to form a quorum
in a half-eaten breakfast
as an an avant -garde poet
goes to class on Kierkegaard
which the professor
nicknames me through the year
in a quick cafeteria repast
their conversation stayed with me
though many arduous pages
in the college library
looking up a montage
of art, politics, economics
in an objective way.
In the Sixties
hearing talk
about Marx, Engels
at an urban table
while having a bagel
lox and cream cheese
then a despondent actor
arrives and leaves us
for a T.V. rehearsal
talks of "Three Sisters"
of Chekhov and "The Tempest"
by Shakespeare
with an art student
puts down a conduit of books
with her last test
discusses Pieter Bruegel's
the"Tower of Babel" and "Hell"
and his "Conversion of St.Paul"
from a Jew to Christianity,
yet not appalled as daily news
of the nation emerges on a radio
from a young future correspondent
listened to and challenged by
all these socially changed students
with their enlightened reviews
of a universal humanity
in a rudimentary manner
contrary to what was expected
so early by the morning clocks
that was able to form a quorum
in a half-eaten breakfast
as an an avant -garde poet
goes to class on Kierkegaard
which the professor
nicknames me through the year
in a quick cafeteria repast
their conversation stayed with me
though many arduous pages
in the college library
looking up a montage
of art, politics, economics
in an objective way.
HIERONYMUS BOSCH'S WAY
(1450-1516)
When stammering
for a word or design
to move my day
for a serious drawing
on paper,canvas
over a napkin
in an apron of repast
in mysterious remembrance
when out of interference
or remonstrance
a delirious picture
of Hieronymous Bosch
"The Garden of Earthly Delights"
welcomes in my mind
that space and time
will wondrously unwind
(as Paul Valery recalled
about you in prose poetry
in mastery and singularity)
like a fresh dazzling wind
and my night's memory
will recall what my search
was also all about,
the mysterious way
art expands into a morning mirror
of my anonymous history,
surviving my own abstract
revived expressionism.
(1450-1516)
When stammering
for a word or design
to move my day
for a serious drawing
on paper,canvas
over a napkin
in an apron of repast
in mysterious remembrance
when out of interference
or remonstrance
a delirious picture
of Hieronymous Bosch
"The Garden of Earthly Delights"
welcomes in my mind
that space and time
will wondrously unwind
(as Paul Valery recalled
about you in prose poetry
in mastery and singularity)
like a fresh dazzling wind
and my night's memory
will recall what my search
was also all about,
the mysterious way
art expands into a morning mirror
of my anonymous history,
surviving my own abstract
revived expressionism.
Sunday, September 20, 2015
PIRANESI'S ROME
(1720 -1788)
Drawing us to the dark side
spliced from
an encyclopedic memoir
of old Roman dreams
at reactionary tyranny
walls etched
in dreaded memory
from carbon dated ink
now validated
by an upstaged time
incarcerated from
an imprisoned art
as only a neo classic artist
like Giovanni Piranesi
with a clever illustrated presage
and feathered passage
emerges for a coming change
in a stunning Romantic age
from prisons and catacombs
of the past decorators in archives
from newly risen lives
of never finalized perspectives
dying through weathered ruins
of a museum's airless corridors.
(1720 -1788)
Drawing us to the dark side
spliced from
an encyclopedic memoir
of old Roman dreams
at reactionary tyranny
walls etched
in dreaded memory
from carbon dated ink
now validated
by an upstaged time
incarcerated from
an imprisoned art
as only a neo classic artist
like Giovanni Piranesi
with a clever illustrated presage
and feathered passage
emerges for a coming change
in a stunning Romantic age
from prisons and catacombs
of the past decorators in archives
from newly risen lives
of never finalized perspectives
dying through weathered ruins
of a museum's airless corridors.
Saturday, September 19, 2015
ANGELS
Whether de Chirico's
Jewish Angel
or Chagall's with violins
and rabbis in bluish skies
who dive hurriedly to the earth
for a brief space from all sorrows
by effaced griefs
of tomorrow's colors
at brief dawn's sleep
summoned by a musician's art
and granted to give
relief to us
from sparks of exile
from our mirrored life boats
at least a belief
in hearing from you
as eternal light in a chorus
surprised by our rejoicing.
Whether de Chirico's
Jewish Angel
or Chagall's with violins
and rabbis in bluish skies
who dive hurriedly to the earth
for a brief space from all sorrows
by effaced griefs
of tomorrow's colors
at brief dawn's sleep
summoned by a musician's art
and granted to give
relief to us
from sparks of exile
from our mirrored life boats
at least a belief
in hearing from you
as eternal light in a chorus
surprised by our rejoicing.
BACH-BUSONI TRANSCRIPTION
Several notes
that Chaconne partita
plays on my violin stand
in a rustled solo
is now realized
to be rounded out
and modernized
from beats in a metronome
by my mirrored notes
as my bow plays on
engulfed by a piano
on one hand
as a limitless glow
of the sun pours
through my window blinds.
Several notes
that Chaconne partita
plays on my violin stand
in a rustled solo
is now realized
to be rounded out
and modernized
from beats in a metronome
by my mirrored notes
as my bow plays on
engulfed by a piano
on one hand
as a limitless glow
of the sun pours
through my window blinds.
Friday, September 18, 2015
W.S. MERWIN'S EXPRESSION
Birthday Sept. 30th
Spliced with life's comma
through a coma of warfare
rife with a clasp of hilltop wind
you hand over hours of speculation
in a provocative expression
giving your voice to us
by a thousand sands and words
lifted in praise on grounds
of your chosen field
over an eternal fiery flame
by thistles, names of stones
over a poet's sky diving
on limbs of a city and sea
next to leaves of laurels
anointed as a visitor arrives
with Autumn's birthday gifts.
Birthday Sept. 30th
Spliced with life's comma
through a coma of warfare
rife with a clasp of hilltop wind
you hand over hours of speculation
in a provocative expression
giving your voice to us
by a thousand sands and words
lifted in praise on grounds
of your chosen field
over an eternal fiery flame
by thistles, names of stones
over a poet's sky diving
on limbs of a city and sea
next to leaves of laurels
anointed as a visitor arrives
with Autumn's birthday gifts.
T.S. ELIOT AT CAPE ANN
(1888-1965)
Radiance in the eyes
of landscaped sea-waters
in postcards sent by a poet
who finds duplicate shells
to salvage in a darkness hull
embracing the morning beach
and all who walk by the Coast
acknowledging your time here
by the long suffering waves
and eventide of hands
hidden in lapsed memory
in the mist and fog
out of first light lanterns
of miscarried dialogue
reaching out to rolling angels
cast as a newly reborn Hamlet
knowing only the speech
which whispers in the west wind
kilometers away
by you on park bench
near a two lane rose garden
among lapidary fields
the ocean at his back
reaching out for words
in a maze of stones
granting a watchman
of ships and lifeboats
has entered the wharf
by the tall grass dunes
along the home harbor
T.S. standing there alone
weaving his whispered voice
near the flock of swans
who follow his shadow
will not be lost
in a soliloquy in French.
(1888-1965)
Radiance in the eyes
of landscaped sea-waters
in postcards sent by a poet
who finds duplicate shells
to salvage in a darkness hull
embracing the morning beach
and all who walk by the Coast
acknowledging your time here
by the long suffering waves
and eventide of hands
hidden in lapsed memory
in the mist and fog
out of first light lanterns
of miscarried dialogue
reaching out to rolling angels
cast as a newly reborn Hamlet
knowing only the speech
which whispers in the west wind
kilometers away
by you on park bench
near a two lane rose garden
among lapidary fields
the ocean at his back
reaching out for words
in a maze of stones
granting a watchman
of ships and lifeboats
has entered the wharf
by the tall grass dunes
along the home harbor
T.S. standing there alone
weaving his whispered voice
near the flock of swans
who follow his shadow
will not be lost
in a soliloquy in French.
PAZ'S PASSING BY
(1914-1998)
Paz's passing by
his voice remembers
when city streets
would welcome words
of civility
and humanity
your thoughts
a repast of taste
with the intimate
reprimanded recurrences
and sentences
of your stranded past
you speak and sing to me
over names that slept
a thousand days
in rose blossoming
over deserts
of thirst of watering holes
from Mexico's sounds
ascending in the dawn
even now
his gated shadows are here
enough reported
and said by your cortege.
(1914-1998)
Paz's passing by
his voice remembers
when city streets
would welcome words
of civility
and humanity
your thoughts
a repast of taste
with the intimate
reprimanded recurrences
and sentences
of your stranded past
you speak and sing to me
over names that slept
a thousand days
in rose blossoming
over deserts
of thirst of watering holes
from Mexico's sounds
ascending in the dawn
even now
his gated shadows are here
enough reported
and said by your cortege.
Thursday, September 17, 2015
R.B. KITAJ'S POET WRITING
(1932-2007)
At the Berlin Jewish museum
a poet writing turns toward me
embracing signs of history
and art from California
from your yellow studio
at those days R.B.Kitaj once
traced back in Berkeley
in drawn paints on screen
of wet silhouettes
remembering his tribute
to Creeley and Duncan
who visit you, Kitaj
in London, 1977
with unrelenting brushstrokes
from outdoor cafes of lovers.
(1932-2007)
At the Berlin Jewish museum
a poet writing turns toward me
embracing signs of history
and art from California
from your yellow studio
at those days R.B.Kitaj once
traced back in Berkeley
in drawn paints on screen
of wet silhouettes
remembering his tribute
to Creeley and Duncan
who visit you, Kitaj
in London, 1977
with unrelenting brushstrokes
from outdoor cafes of lovers.
VIRGINIA WOOLF'S PART
(1882- 1941)
In your living room
of entrance, entr'acte
and departure
from crystal goblets
you drink and draw in
from blinds and awnings
of a fallen crossword abyss
in your answered mind
from a metamorphosis
of a quest on boulevards
overlooking the sea
flowers found on roads
you pick up rose petals
near the fountain water
wrapped in quiet silences.
(1882- 1941)
In your living room
of entrance, entr'acte
and departure
from crystal goblets
you drink and draw in
from blinds and awnings
of a fallen crossword abyss
in your answered mind
from a metamorphosis
of a quest on boulevards
overlooking the sea
flowers found on roads
you pick up rose petals
near the fountain water
wrapped in quiet silences.
WALLACE STEVENS PASSING
(1879-1955)
A crisp tongue rolled
over the lawn mower
by Paris green
at dawn's walk of the dog
moving to leaves on fire
alive as September songs
from Connecticut's lone
astonished figure in the sun
waving only to the wind
in all directions to Hartford
with a post -war cut poem
pasted from the vessels
of his outlook opened
at a blind optimistic notebook
his crystal pocket watch
in his trembling hands
remembering how Whitman
entered and left our world
as a well known influence
now here is another cortege
where uninhabited ants
live in a coffin
of unknown tantrums
who move over
to hear a drum roll and tantara
all the way to Santa Barbara
while you, Wallace Stevens
await to have others
in the academy to remake you
from your own image
of renewed language
from square toed critics
who have gone before you
with their own petulance
love, prejudice or parlance.
(1879-1955)
A crisp tongue rolled
over the lawn mower
by Paris green
at dawn's walk of the dog
moving to leaves on fire
alive as September songs
from Connecticut's lone
astonished figure in the sun
waving only to the wind
in all directions to Hartford
with a post -war cut poem
pasted from the vessels
of his outlook opened
at a blind optimistic notebook
his crystal pocket watch
in his trembling hands
remembering how Whitman
entered and left our world
as a well known influence
now here is another cortege
where uninhabited ants
live in a coffin
of unknown tantrums
who move over
to hear a drum roll and tantara
all the way to Santa Barbara
while you, Wallace Stevens
await to have others
in the academy to remake you
from your own image
of renewed language
from square toed critics
who have gone before you
with their own petulance
love, prejudice or parlance.
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
DI CHIRICO'S DAYS
(1888-1978)
Existence in the color
from metaphysical mixture
in paradox shaping
sky forms skinny clouds
in the corridors of entangled
controversies in a less
than still life
of juxtaposition
subject to methods
of quick stop critics
in attributive justice
of crossword ambiguity
from your Jewish angel
in surreal form.
(1888-1978)
Existence in the color
from metaphysical mixture
in paradox shaping
sky forms skinny clouds
in the corridors of entangled
controversies in a less
than still life
of juxtaposition
subject to methods
of quick stop critics
in attributive justice
of crossword ambiguity
from your Jewish angel
in surreal form.
PICABIA'S PARTING
(1879-1953)
Rattled in crash courses
of a century's delightful dada
in ventures as my sparrow eye
whispers on a branches diction
painted as entangled neon shadows
into a pursuit of vibrant colors
from paranoid brushing quirks
morphed into a chilled canvas
climbing up a poet's ladder
to wild alabaster silhouettes.
(1879-1953)
Rattled in crash courses
of a century's delightful dada
in ventures as my sparrow eye
whispers on a branches diction
painted as entangled neon shadows
into a pursuit of vibrant colors
from paranoid brushing quirks
morphed into a chilled canvas
climbing up a poet's ladder
to wild alabaster silhouettes.
LEON SPILLAIART'S ART
(1881-1946)
Veils in seascape
like pale Poe symbols
A dilettante watches
landscapes too as silences
at the Musee d'Orsay
with his tutor in Paris
laughing at wall art
of a performing Redon
a fellow Belgian somnambulist
turns the corner but cannot locate
the sleepless abstracts embarrass
us until after the echoes of night.
(1881-1946)
Veils in seascape
like pale Poe symbols
A dilettante watches
landscapes too as silences
at the Musee d'Orsay
with his tutor in Paris
laughing at wall art
of a performing Redon
a fellow Belgian somnambulist
turns the corner but cannot locate
the sleepless abstracts embarrass
us until after the echoes of night.
ELIZABETH BISHOP'S WALK
(1911-1979)
We waved as grackles rose
on Cambridge Common
standing near the Charles River
a young poet on the corner
near the news stand
by the first rays of the sun
his alto sax blown near
the bicycle racks
waiting under every limb
of a hundred years of Evergreen
holding Virgil as a guide
by the law faculty
A Mass. Avenue sighting
needing your company
as you returned from Brazil
refreshed and vetted
I'm palpitating by a hornets nest
in an allergic reaction
after a therapy session
on meditation
shows you his new poem
and abracadabra,
the dead wind of September
becomes alive.
(1911-1979)
We waved as grackles rose
on Cambridge Common
standing near the Charles River
a young poet on the corner
near the news stand
by the first rays of the sun
his alto sax blown near
the bicycle racks
waiting under every limb
of a hundred years of Evergreen
holding Virgil as a guide
by the law faculty
A Mass. Avenue sighting
needing your company
as you returned from Brazil
refreshed and vetted
I'm palpitating by a hornets nest
in an allergic reaction
after a therapy session
on meditation
shows you his new poem
and abracadabra,
the dead wind of September
becomes alive.
JANE FREILICHER'S REPUTATION
(1924-2014)
You crashed against
the careful landscapes
in an avalanche of paint
as a tenant of breathless
wall art
scents of a kindled hand
knowing your signature
will not remain suspended
in water shed reputations
along the Hudson
from a raining downpour
of hypnotic spellbound drawings,
in a lightness of a viaduct
of being connected.
(1924-2014)
You crashed against
the careful landscapes
in an avalanche of paint
as a tenant of breathless
wall art
scents of a kindled hand
knowing your signature
will not remain suspended
in water shed reputations
along the Hudson
from a raining downpour
of hypnotic spellbound drawings,
in a lightness of a viaduct
of being connected.
LAUTREAMONT'S LOVE
Chant to me
Lautreamont with love
for the transmuted words
to make everyone's phrases
as one limitless lexicon
in a Pascal dictionary
of quoted fervent meditations
over third chronicled graces
from mangled mirrors
in your ambulatory quotes
on trespassed made up faces
where destiny waits
on exiles on islands
continents and archipelagos
in deserts thirsting
for lost traces
of disappointed excavations
or dug up horizons
impervious records
of updated trials of sentences
in gulag snows
bloodied by coffins
with funeral directors
watching the last deer leaps
there is a copy
of your verses everywhere
in Las Vegas motels
of second chances
and comings amid fawning
illustrations reading you quietly
in corners of gated
Potemkin villages
by German concentrations
on scientific amnesty
by coroners of round two
camps of laboratory experiments
bad mouths Orwellian language
of 1984 out of context
with post war Fassbender
film stars as the STASI
spies on the underlines
of poll watchers in Berlin
there under moldy blinds
in housetops crowds watch
under seven stories told
by the mass media
about Nazi zoo parades
connecting battled tested
veterans of Stalingrad war games
by the unhooked gaping wide
flings from head quarters
of the cartels and brothels
a former crematoria S.S. general
visits an Argentine small town
by the farmers produce
at the general store
here once iron clad wings flee
a common dimentia caseload
at a mocking bird club generally
wishes for a friendless memory
hears a singing canary (1968)
at Prague and Paris windows
near the Texas border
an unprotected guard
with the former Peronist mustache
washes in the gold dusty town
hearing your voice, Lautreamont
a farmhand takes bids for an auction
of paintings stolen in Vichy
during the watershed year,'43
located in a used bookstore
by a lost Maldoror
relocated in Stalag,1943
even they have your number
that number remains
on your arms intact for history
you find Lautreamont
in a Jerusalem library.
Chant to me
Lautreamont with love
for the transmuted words
to make everyone's phrases
as one limitless lexicon
in a Pascal dictionary
of quoted fervent meditations
over third chronicled graces
from mangled mirrors
in your ambulatory quotes
on trespassed made up faces
where destiny waits
on exiles on islands
continents and archipelagos
in deserts thirsting
for lost traces
of disappointed excavations
or dug up horizons
impervious records
of updated trials of sentences
in gulag snows
bloodied by coffins
with funeral directors
watching the last deer leaps
there is a copy
of your verses everywhere
in Las Vegas motels
of second chances
and comings amid fawning
illustrations reading you quietly
in corners of gated
Potemkin villages
by German concentrations
on scientific amnesty
by coroners of round two
camps of laboratory experiments
bad mouths Orwellian language
of 1984 out of context
with post war Fassbender
film stars as the STASI
spies on the underlines
of poll watchers in Berlin
there under moldy blinds
in housetops crowds watch
under seven stories told
by the mass media
about Nazi zoo parades
connecting battled tested
veterans of Stalingrad war games
by the unhooked gaping wide
flings from head quarters
of the cartels and brothels
a former crematoria S.S. general
visits an Argentine small town
by the farmers produce
at the general store
here once iron clad wings flee
a common dimentia caseload
at a mocking bird club generally
wishes for a friendless memory
hears a singing canary (1968)
at Prague and Paris windows
near the Texas border
an unprotected guard
with the former Peronist mustache
washes in the gold dusty town
hearing your voice, Lautreamont
a farmhand takes bids for an auction
of paintings stolen in Vichy
during the watershed year,'43
located in a used bookstore
by a lost Maldoror
relocated in Stalag,1943
even they have your number
that number remains
on your arms intact for history
you find Lautreamont
in a Jerusalem library.
RAYMOND ROUSSEL'S AMBITION
(1877-1933)
Quotidian remains
for four hands
on time spaces
on forty apocryphal stories
higher than "Impressions
of Africa"
transforming a poet
or a prophet Tobit
into the suburbs
of a cloudy day in Paris
sitting on a benchmark
of lost remains
of carbon dated
history of your quotes
inspiring "Phonotypia"
from a passerby French student
late for a Sorbonne film class
about "Casablanca.
(1877-1933)
Quotidian remains
for four hands
on time spaces
on forty apocryphal stories
higher than "Impressions
of Africa"
transforming a poet
or a prophet Tobit
into the suburbs
of a cloudy day in Paris
sitting on a benchmark
of lost remains
of carbon dated
history of your quotes
inspiring "Phonotypia"
from a passerby French student
late for a Sorbonne film class
about "Casablanca.
ALBERT ROUSSEL'S ELIXIR
(1969-1937)
A musical feast of notes
lending us a contrapuntal library
of totality in depth
in rhythmic a tonal beat
of jazz morphed into a pre beat
poet happening a century later
without Bach
or Offenbach
immersed in early token pleasures
without sentiment or regiment
but raised in bated brass
of misplaced harmony
on blank pages
from a measure divertissement
in phonetic piano potential
affording disloyalty of form
from diminished chords
in a meshed manifesto trick
containing pictures
of blues singers.
(1969-1937)
A musical feast of notes
lending us a contrapuntal library
of totality in depth
in rhythmic a tonal beat
of jazz morphed into a pre beat
poet happening a century later
without Bach
or Offenbach
immersed in early token pleasures
without sentiment or regiment
but raised in bated brass
of misplaced harmony
on blank pages
from a measure divertissement
in phonetic piano potential
affording disloyalty of form
from diminished chords
in a meshed manifesto trick
containing pictures
of blues singers.
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
ALBERT MARQUET'S WORLD
(1875-1947)
You embraced Matisse
your friend
in a remarkable
Marquet's world
of Fauvre called as "Beasts"
in shirtless sleves
colors landscaped
dubbed into echoes
into an abstract recreation
as harmony of glassy windows
on a portrait of convoluted
note in a music of virtuosity.
(1875-1947)
You embraced Matisse
your friend
in a remarkable
Marquet's world
of Fauvre called as "Beasts"
in shirtless sleves
colors landscaped
dubbed into echoes
into an abstract recreation
as harmony of glassy windows
on a portrait of convoluted
note in a music of virtuosity.
BUS RIDE
At California's entrance
here we depart
Omaha all aboard
with John Denver
even Lord Baltimore's here
get up kid,
take off your Gogol
overcoat and blue beret
Big Apple, next stop
your urban read
is ready for first announcing
in his buzz
bz, you are on call
for this stand up appearance
our sentence is well eaten
as a word scattered salad
no ride is as tentative
as shadowy figures
as a poetry
in the underground
translated to film nostalgia
the quicker to get there
to recompose
in a song of writing
my insecurities not shown
at the microphone
with a refugee script
about war and peace
a poet wanders in a tumult
of compelling crowds
my audience applauds
in vagrant curiosity.
At California's entrance
here we depart
Omaha all aboard
with John Denver
even Lord Baltimore's here
get up kid,
take off your Gogol
overcoat and blue beret
Big Apple, next stop
your urban read
is ready for first announcing
in his buzz
bz, you are on call
for this stand up appearance
our sentence is well eaten
as a word scattered salad
no ride is as tentative
as shadowy figures
as a poetry
in the underground
translated to film nostalgia
the quicker to get there
to recompose
in a song of writing
my insecurities not shown
at the microphone
with a refugee script
about war and peace
a poet wanders in a tumult
of compelling crowds
my audience applauds
in vagrant curiosity.
MICHAUX'S MARVEL
(1899-1984)
Abstractions of timeless verse
in an encounter
visually of a carefree
red outline
and a diving pantheon
of falling marginal words
into a communicative psyche
as mushrooms in awe
of a higher blue consciousness
in ecstasy's expressionism
alarming the world
of reflective talent
on illuminations in space
of deprived elements.
(1899-1984)
Abstractions of timeless verse
in an encounter
visually of a carefree
red outline
and a diving pantheon
of falling marginal words
into a communicative psyche
as mushrooms in awe
of a higher blue consciousness
in ecstasy's expressionism
alarming the world
of reflective talent
on illuminations in space
of deprived elements.
BRAQUE'S GIFT
(1882-1963)
Beyond a sharp note
of colors turning paint
brushing shapes
in a geometric gallery
into a kaleidoscope
altar of introspection
incense of rare flame
a bird song flight
on a rope of a throbbing
red sunset by the Seine
in Michaux's heights
of cubist understanding
whispers as playthings
in pinnacles
of lamplight waves
in a ghost sonata
from a zen tongue
and fragrance of hyacinth.
(1882-1963)
Beyond a sharp note
of colors turning paint
brushing shapes
in a geometric gallery
into a kaleidoscope
altar of introspection
incense of rare flame
a bird song flight
on a rope of a throbbing
red sunset by the Seine
in Michaux's heights
of cubist understanding
whispers as playthings
in pinnacles
of lamplight waves
in a ghost sonata
from a zen tongue
and fragrance of hyacinth.
PONGE'S PASSAGES
(1899-1988)
Along the wheat fields
of Van Gogh
one day more exists
nearer the silence and crevice
on the cold blood orange
hands of the beggar
coins fly out magically
in poetry's disappearing pockets
as if children at a puppet show
amazed as the police arrest
the innocent on the Occupation
corner during the roundups
even on the days of awe
there is only long suffering.
(1899-1988)
Along the wheat fields
of Van Gogh
one day more exists
nearer the silence and crevice
on the cold blood orange
hands of the beggar
coins fly out magically
in poetry's disappearing pockets
as if children at a puppet show
amazed as the police arrest
the innocent on the Occupation
corner during the roundups
even on the days of awe
there is only long suffering.
CHAR'S CHANGES
(1890-1960)
(1890-1960)
Crossing the boulevards
drinking in a cafe
hearing kitchen chatter
and the clatter of knives
wanting to ingest juices of justice
in a powerful mirrored room
in an imagined mind on voices
higher than Autumn's tall trees
from a shadows understanding
a violin plays Franck's sonata
you buy a single rose
from a wandering flower child
you imagine fronds, ferns, palms
descending on Braque's zen garden
walking by the Seine
with a black umbrella
a child with a star is not safe
in a bird's nest
during the Occupation
your bristled heart knocks about
for the right passage to safety
for you and her
will join the partisans
with the wind on your heavy backs
cradling freedom
like robin red breasts.
walking by the Seine
with a black umbrella
a child with a star is not safe
in a bird's nest
during the Occupation
your bristled heart knocks about
for the right passage to safety
for you and her
will join the partisans
with the wind on your heavy backs
cradling freedom
like robin red breasts.
PIERRE REVERDY'S ROAD
You are singing love
in words of cypress
in a voyage of light
by the Seine waters
of a river bed of roses
from embers of loneliness
and islands of indifference
in a tentative voice of smoke
from a century of oppressor
and hunters of life
in the hiding places
of a Parisian cafe
we greet you
enchanted by words.
You are singing love
in words of cypress
in a voyage of light
by the Seine waters
of a river bed of roses
from embers of loneliness
and islands of indifference
in a tentative voice of smoke
from a century of oppressor
and hunters of life
in the hiding places
of a Parisian cafe
we greet you
enchanted by words.
BRANCUSI'S STONE
(1876-1957)
In an uninhabited room
we pass the acrostic display
you having been born
with a minimalist art
in a visionary
from geometric lines
transported through time
hands and fingers
in these deep indexes
of diminutive heads
and bodies of language
beaten out of rock
from marble,wood
the bronze and metal
in Dionysian exoticism
and Byzantine eroticism
from dada fish tails
and birds in spaces
without wings or feathers
of curvaceous cubism
of spilled creative miracles
for a once secretive language
of art opened up as an oracle
to be witnessed for all centuries.
(1876-1957)
In an uninhabited room
we pass the acrostic display
you having been born
with a minimalist art
in a visionary
from geometric lines
transported through time
hands and fingers
in these deep indexes
of diminutive heads
and bodies of language
beaten out of rock
from marble,wood
the bronze and metal
in Dionysian exoticism
and Byzantine eroticism
from dada fish tails
and birds in spaces
without wings or feathers
of curvaceous cubism
of spilled creative miracles
for a once secretive language
of art opened up as an oracle
to be witnessed for all centuries.
Monday, September 14, 2015
THE SKY
The sky plays with paints
among the rainbow spell
offering us shade
by the poplar trees
we sit on a bench
under a tree of life
my Polish friend and poet
reminisces about his past
those dark Hitlerian days
of a tiresome occupation
as tall cries still linger
from the ghetto torched
the nights of Stalinist fears
as Warsaw neighbors whisper
begging over his peace songs
encircling an innocent youth
with fetters and red feathers
on May Day's long parades
yet here we are eyeing birds
in Central Park
watching a late marathon
by the river beds
munching on a green apple
as thunder's rain drips down
as shadows of Autumn echo
from cloudy brown acorns
cover the branches swing
near the lights of hills
an adolescent is dying
of a chattering laughter
and a playwright
loses at backgammon.
The sky plays with paints
among the rainbow spell
offering us shade
by the poplar trees
we sit on a bench
under a tree of life
my Polish friend and poet
reminisces about his past
those dark Hitlerian days
of a tiresome occupation
as tall cries still linger
from the ghetto torched
the nights of Stalinist fears
as Warsaw neighbors whisper
begging over his peace songs
encircling an innocent youth
with fetters and red feathers
on May Day's long parades
yet here we are eyeing birds
in Central Park
watching a late marathon
by the river beds
munching on a green apple
as thunder's rain drips down
as shadows of Autumn echo
from cloudy brown acorns
cover the branches swing
near the lights of hills
an adolescent is dying
of a chattering laughter
and a playwright
loses at backgammon.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
WE ARE PASSING
We are passing
to another world
with fresh anemones
in our hands
they will survive
all barbed wire
beyond the wheat of the pale
in villages of freezing grey
My heart hears feathers
counted on flying wings
beating on tall grass ravines
and murmuring shadows
Heaven knows each village
all branches of a lost family
by the light of river
and now at peace,
though the rain
falls on six poplars
it is quickly covering over
the sky memories of Autumn.
We are passing
to another world
with fresh anemones
in our hands
they will survive
all barbed wire
beyond the wheat of the pale
in villages of freezing grey
My heart hears feathers
counted on flying wings
beating on tall grass ravines
and murmuring shadows
Heaven knows each village
all branches of a lost family
by the light of river
and now at peace,
though the rain
falls on six poplars
it is quickly covering over
the sky memories of Autumn.
WHAT IS A POET
Line by line up
in the shadow
of a translation
from landscaped heirs
of the oracle bearers
and miracle enchanters
off islands of the sea
where adventurers
carry the hero body
to the Homeric figures
in the rising thermometers
of added voices of Ulysses
by the unwelcome home
of another generation
augmented on sons and daughters
boats pass by as Penelope watches
a heroic mirrored face
returning from warring winds
So many years of poetry
recorded by farewells appear
even on a Synthian and Ural
jeweled crown and spear
by the loving gate keeper
playing on words
writing as a rival fabulist
with a navy in review
as an iconoclastic scribe
along the flower river breakers
not abandoned by absence
or times of devotions
hearing a tribal chorus
wait on blinded voices forever.
Line by line up
in the shadow
of a translation
from landscaped heirs
of the oracle bearers
and miracle enchanters
off islands of the sea
where adventurers
carry the hero body
to the Homeric figures
in the rising thermometers
of added voices of Ulysses
by the unwelcome home
of another generation
augmented on sons and daughters
boats pass by as Penelope watches
a heroic mirrored face
returning from warring winds
So many years of poetry
recorded by farewells appear
even on a Synthian and Ural
jeweled crown and spear
by the loving gate keeper
playing on words
writing as a rival fabulist
with a navy in review
as an iconoclastic scribe
along the flower river breakers
not abandoned by absence
or times of devotions
hearing a tribal chorus
wait on blinded voices forever.
A JAMESIAN MOMENT
Needing a Jamesian moment
in Manhattan or Paris
when you are always here
over five stories to tell
love from a mismatch
from an old understanding
to catch an abandoned train
of the master's thought
only for art's forsaking us
do we speak in luminous tones
an all clear signal
by the deserted wind
to signal for tendrils
and exiles by the river run
that he too trembles
with us at this hour.
Needing a Jamesian moment
in Manhattan or Paris
when you are always here
over five stories to tell
love from a mismatch
from an old understanding
to catch an abandoned train
of the master's thought
only for art's forsaking us
do we speak in luminous tones
an all clear signal
by the deserted wind
to signal for tendrils
and exiles by the river run
that he too trembles
with us at this hour.
THE RETURN OF CHUCK CONNELLY
No art is ever ended
or left on a scaffold
or roped off, drip dry
in a museum or mansion
but is a liquidity's
of color and shaped
expansion of your eye
in an antennae's extension
for second viewing
and third showings
here in a museum
in your art house
no misguided lights
of cameras are inside us
but emerge
from others sabotage
like a Van Gogh ear piece
on hold back cul-de-sacs
in loveliness
of stone
from geometric shapes
of flesh in a tour de force
we are resurrected
as art like jazz atones
in anecdotal riffs
on an ambivalent landscape
through terrifying voices
in self inhibition
until the time is ready
for a measure of disclosure
by significance
of a catalogue or recollection
absent on art wall anonymity
from the wold's envy or enmity
no invitations sent out
from original cave artists
in aboriginal connection
with new found fossil bones
waiting for a gallery exhibition
in abstract modernist expression
Chuck Connelly you do not return
you never left us.
No art is ever ended
or left on a scaffold
or roped off, drip dry
in a museum or mansion
but is a liquidity's
of color and shaped
expansion of your eye
in an antennae's extension
for second viewing
and third showings
here in a museum
in your art house
no misguided lights
of cameras are inside us
but emerge
from others sabotage
like a Van Gogh ear piece
on hold back cul-de-sacs
in loveliness
of stone
from geometric shapes
of flesh in a tour de force
we are resurrected
as art like jazz atones
in anecdotal riffs
on an ambivalent landscape
through terrifying voices
in self inhibition
until the time is ready
for a measure of disclosure
by significance
of a catalogue or recollection
absent on art wall anonymity
from the wold's envy or enmity
no invitations sent out
from original cave artists
in aboriginal connection
with new found fossil bones
waiting for a gallery exhibition
in abstract modernist expression
Chuck Connelly you do not return
you never left us.
BY THE OCEAN FRONT GAZEBO
The air turned cool
by the ocean front gazebo
Alone on the sandy beach
near the rocks and stone
of this home harbor
to hear sea voiced echoes
or share my art prints
in abandoned frescoes
a solitary bird draws us
emerged from the dunes
he too was searching for
the living waters and bread
as my cello string
broke into a Bach solo.
The air turned cool
by the ocean front gazebo
Alone on the sandy beach
near the rocks and stone
of this home harbor
to hear sea voiced echoes
or share my art prints
in abandoned frescoes
a solitary bird draws us
emerged from the dunes
he too was searching for
the living waters and bread
as my cello string
broke into a Bach solo.
HAMLET'S SKULL
Inexpressible except by verse
open in the mouths of angels
are your remains not buried
or burning a Blakean soul bright
in the snow of grave winters
of old England or in new chapters
you live because we live on stages
in a reckless age of ground zero
often dulled by abandoned
of popular entertainment
or abomination of universal will
we play you again
shaped by fortune in nature
or skilled in majorities
of the dull politic
and chattering classes
that we approach you
with love in dreadful overkill
but you are dear Hamlet,
be still and know no grief
we invite you to watch us
with new costumes and cast
for who wrote of your past
had an understanding of belief
that your skull and skill
in my hands will outlast my words.
Inexpressible except by verse
open in the mouths of angels
are your remains not buried
or burning a Blakean soul bright
in the snow of grave winters
of old England or in new chapters
you live because we live on stages
in a reckless age of ground zero
often dulled by abandoned
of popular entertainment
or abomination of universal will
we play you again
shaped by fortune in nature
or skilled in majorities
of the dull politic
and chattering classes
that we approach you
with love in dreadful overkill
but you are dear Hamlet,
be still and know no grief
we invite you to watch us
with new costumes and cast
for who wrote of your past
had an understanding of belief
that your skull and skill
in my hands will outlast my words.
Saturday, September 12, 2015
CALLING ME SHAKESPEARE
At a stage
in a bright walk on
from my many costumed
make -over for the competition
before the Original Theater
got off the ground
sounding off off Broadway
in a broadside ticket
for a free performance
for the matinee's green tea
when a massive snowstorm
hit our rehearsal
and all the roles
were in context reversed
for a once in a life time
Sixties midnight showing.
At a stage
in a bright walk on
from my many costumed
make -over for the competition
before the Original Theater
got off the ground
sounding off off Broadway
in a broadside ticket
for a free performance
for the matinee's green tea
when a massive snowstorm
hit our rehearsal
and all the roles
were in context reversed
for a once in a life time
Sixties midnight showing.
IT IS SO IMPORTANT
It is so important
a passport of memories
going nowhere
as a Mozart miniature
on the grand piano
about face with my initials
engraved later on an
acoustic guitar case, a tree
in Central Park
hearing a ram's horn
by a touched alive
metronome by notes
of my restlessness
until my uptown recital.
It is so important
a passport of memories
going nowhere
as a Mozart miniature
on the grand piano
about face with my initials
engraved later on an
acoustic guitar case, a tree
in Central Park
hearing a ram's horn
by a touched alive
metronome by notes
of my restlessness
until my uptown recital.
IN MY ARCHIVES
In my archives
small teeth of words
bite years of experiments
with language fragrances
partitions of proverbs
fragments of alphabet soup
with celery sticks
and oyster crackers
with my joy knowing others
discombobulated by life
will have a rooted communion
drinking in my globular ideas
reaching into my Kultur files
and spells to know more
than any abandoned exile
or rosetta stone prophet
than a moment
before your flight
before you are translated
in a return of wisdom literature.
In my archives
small teeth of words
bite years of experiments
with language fragrances
partitions of proverbs
fragments of alphabet soup
with celery sticks
and oyster crackers
with my joy knowing others
discombobulated by life
will have a rooted communion
drinking in my globular ideas
reaching into my Kultur files
and spells to know more
than any abandoned exile
or rosetta stone prophet
than a moment
before your flight
before you are translated
in a return of wisdom literature.
OPENING UP
Opening up
to tendrils of clouds
in epiphany absences
of escorted souls
lost on blind dates
of calendar blackouts
in dream sequences
of life departing as an anchorite
finding a love letter
in a prayer closet back East
next to the Russian
abandoned tea room
where fortunes are made
with chocolate cookies
by dying faultless
on lingering sleep houses
until your free dream
turns into daily nightmares
of ocean liners sinking
or war's landmine fears
or your future poetry's double
is not a spouse showing up
we will be optimists
not matter what prognosticators
say about the rain or snow
in the forecast.
Opening up
to tendrils of clouds
in epiphany absences
of escorted souls
lost on blind dates
of calendar blackouts
in dream sequences
of life departing as an anchorite
finding a love letter
in a prayer closet back East
next to the Russian
abandoned tea room
where fortunes are made
with chocolate cookies
by dying faultless
on lingering sleep houses
until your free dream
turns into daily nightmares
of ocean liners sinking
or war's landmine fears
or your future poetry's double
is not a spouse showing up
we will be optimists
not matter what prognosticators
say about the rain or snow
in the forecast.
MY RESCUE
Watching cranes, swallows
pipers,dolphins, grey whales
from Baja under showers
a hospital ship rescuing me
from the shark floating waters
entangled by rope on buoys
in my London Fog preaching
from my red kayak's sea life
and a crab fisherman
resembling Pee Wee Herman
rubs me the wrong way
if you see through a port hole
from an undertow shark movie
leaping from leagues of Jules Verne
a prophet raised from the dead
like Jonah in my own Nineveh
thrilled to be back on land
with a 1970 "Save the Whale" button.
Watching cranes, swallows
pipers,dolphins, grey whales
from Baja under showers
a hospital ship rescuing me
from the shark floating waters
entangled by rope on buoys
in my London Fog preaching
from my red kayak's sea life
and a crab fisherman
resembling Pee Wee Herman
rubs me the wrong way
if you see through a port hole
from an undertow shark movie
leaping from leagues of Jules Verne
a prophet raised from the dead
like Jonah in my own Nineveh
thrilled to be back on land
with a 1970 "Save the Whale" button.
IN THE ABLUTION
In the ablution
of ambition
of several summer
shaves and showers
your beard
still waiting for you
on Central Park West
with mirror
and bagel over jalapeno
and cream cheese
fixing her dyed red hair
eyes glued on 9/11 mourning
of her friend Andrei
who came to all of my plays
off off Broadway,
Frisco, Boston,
eating a Russian belintz
cheering me on
as our names fell over
on his last computer screen
the first plane
did its thing
and he was through
with political correctness
his old man said weeping
at the memorial.
In the ablution
of ambition
of several summer
shaves and showers
your beard
still waiting for you
on Central Park West
with mirror
and bagel over jalapeno
and cream cheese
fixing her dyed red hair
eyes glued on 9/11 mourning
of her friend Andrei
who came to all of my plays
off off Broadway,
Frisco, Boston,
eating a Russian belintz
cheering me on
as our names fell over
on his last computer screen
the first plane
did its thing
and he was through
with political correctness
his old man said weeping
at the memorial.
RAIN AT MY WINDOW
Rain at my window
faces the Hocking print
my light turned off
the sax case opened
for my gig tonight
dawn uplifted by the canary
in the cage
we call Treasure Island
showering to limit myself
to one dorm visit
for my urban read
in a fourth gracious invitation
turned down for ennui
and a Sartre deconstruction
passing out with a lapidary thesis
"On laughter in Nabokov"
written in the fourth form
on "Butterfly" McQueen's part
in "Gone with the Wind"
from critical drama script
written in purple passages
in Greek letters
in my junior year
while my philosophy professor
was on sabbatical
in Quebec
when the erstwhile cheerleader
changed her buttoned down sex
to be a colorful man child
in the application
to Lagos to be chosen
a peace corps operative
while secretly working
for another agency
that promotes harmony
in the Virgin Islands.
Rain at my window
faces the Hocking print
my light turned off
the sax case opened
for my gig tonight
dawn uplifted by the canary
in the cage
we call Treasure Island
showering to limit myself
to one dorm visit
for my urban read
in a fourth gracious invitation
turned down for ennui
and a Sartre deconstruction
passing out with a lapidary thesis
"On laughter in Nabokov"
written in the fourth form
on "Butterfly" McQueen's part
in "Gone with the Wind"
from critical drama script
written in purple passages
in Greek letters
in my junior year
while my philosophy professor
was on sabbatical
in Quebec
when the erstwhile cheerleader
changed her buttoned down sex
to be a colorful man child
in the application
to Lagos to be chosen
a peace corps operative
while secretly working
for another agency
that promotes harmony
in the Virgin Islands.
IN THE BELLY
In the belly
of names and geometry
Brancusi emerges
unscathed by his critics
from rocks and stones
thrown away
as fish bones are chopped
from a clam chowder
off Newport harbor
as a visiting shapeless
Russian poet reads Bely
to his bright students
enamored with a ghosts love
as a port au prince scholar
passes a Gautier
and Poe ghost poem
in his backpack
of a newly translated
Derek Wolcott notebook
he got on the islands
sent to his summer pal
named Erica before Eric
majoring in alchemy
and chemistry 101
wanting to flood the earth
and sky with French poetry
merges in a distopian
universe of the academy.
In the belly
of names and geometry
Brancusi emerges
unscathed by his critics
from rocks and stones
thrown away
as fish bones are chopped
from a clam chowder
off Newport harbor
as a visiting shapeless
Russian poet reads Bely
to his bright students
enamored with a ghosts love
as a port au prince scholar
passes a Gautier
and Poe ghost poem
in his backpack
of a newly translated
Derek Wolcott notebook
he got on the islands
sent to his summer pal
named Erica before Eric
majoring in alchemy
and chemistry 101
wanting to flood the earth
and sky with French poetry
merges in a distopian
universe of the academy.
BEGGING TO BE ALIVE
Begging to be alive
in a raggedly Andy world
among tapestries
and frescoes
of the Factory
somewhere over the rainbow
with Judy Garland
at the Punchbowl
mid century
of Minelli in Berlin stories
rests only on Cabaret memory
of the Borsht belt comedian
somewhere in the Catskills
a young handsome waiter
is reading Greham Greene
in a Russian translation.
Begging to be alive
in a raggedly Andy world
among tapestries
and frescoes
of the Factory
somewhere over the rainbow
with Judy Garland
at the Punchbowl
mid century
of Minelli in Berlin stories
rests only on Cabaret memory
of the Borsht belt comedian
somewhere in the Catskills
a young handsome waiter
is reading Greham Greene
in a Russian translation.
THE LAST STANDING
The last standing
at the ocean
reeds pass by
a green bottle
with a prophecy
motioning us for the ages
inside we read
the ancient script
in genesis language
fishing to Freud's parthogenesis
inside our psyche
we hear fiddling musicians
in Russia beyond
the pale, the Urals
a remnant in fringes
saved from death camps
from the echo of the Gulags
and Marxian nightmares
of the annoyed intelligentia
bodies lost in absentia
the unemployed distopian
and the lumpen proletariat
ride together on the yellow chariot
pale horse of Iscariot
an old man
from the last cave
of civilization's ship of fools
realizes he is the last survivor
asks for a savior
or savoir faire piece of veal
with lemon
and mushrooms
in a litter of his last meal
with wine and cheese
by gold dust still shining
in Olga's earing
at the light house
and lamp post
his passport
last stamped in Polska.
The last standing
at the ocean
reeds pass by
a green bottle
with a prophecy
motioning us for the ages
inside we read
the ancient script
in genesis language
fishing to Freud's parthogenesis
inside our psyche
we hear fiddling musicians
in Russia beyond
the pale, the Urals
a remnant in fringes
saved from death camps
from the echo of the Gulags
and Marxian nightmares
of the annoyed intelligentia
bodies lost in absentia
the unemployed distopian
and the lumpen proletariat
ride together on the yellow chariot
pale horse of Iscariot
an old man
from the last cave
of civilization's ship of fools
realizes he is the last survivor
asks for a savior
or savoir faire piece of veal
with lemon
and mushrooms
in a litter of his last meal
with wine and cheese
by gold dust still shining
in Olga's earing
at the light house
and lamp post
his passport
last stamped in Polska.
TRANSFIGURATION
Hearing the ram's horn
down the lane
opening the book
of the lamb
in a Blakean shadow
of the great I am
in new Jerusalem's
unruly Chelm
after transfiguration
and Jacob's troubles
are over
and done with
the sun
on the emerald green
we shall enter and smile
both Jew and Gentile
into that holy city
over a wedding threshold.
Hearing the ram's horn
down the lane
opening the book
of the lamb
in a Blakean shadow
of the great I am
in new Jerusalem's
unruly Chelm
after transfiguration
and Jacob's troubles
are over
and done with
the sun
on the emerald green
we shall enter and smile
both Jew and Gentile
into that holy city
over a wedding threshold.
Friday, September 11, 2015
MINISTRY OF TRANSPORT
Criminal hands
in the ministry of transport
hiding their intentions
in Aesopian langague
manage to kill off
whole populations
in a siege of freedom
under the director heads
of Mr. Prefect
and Miss Perfect
of the profiteers business
while death marches
the body language
inhabits not inhibits justices
all eye in efficiency
of the mapped protocols
lead to the disclosing
of the over sighted losses
witnesses for the prosecutor
the public is not in the dark
who do not hear despairing cries
of departing children on trains.
Criminal hands
in the ministry of transport
hiding their intentions
in Aesopian langague
manage to kill off
whole populations
in a siege of freedom
under the director heads
of Mr. Prefect
and Miss Perfect
of the profiteers business
while death marches
the body language
inhabits not inhibits justices
all eye in efficiency
of the mapped protocols
lead to the disclosing
of the over sighted losses
witnesses for the prosecutor
the public is not in the dark
who do not hear despairing cries
of departing children on trains.
FALL MEMORIES
Fall memories
jostle like leaves
or first snowflakes
floating under roofs
as a minor bird
in trees shadow us
awakens a still life poet
hymning by his studio
watches the moon's path
from his window pane
over his phlox visit
to the rock garden
his words emerge
later in his art folio
darkness as transparency
on a winged branch
as if time stopped
at the village inn
by the harvest fields
of blackberries.
Fall memories
jostle like leaves
or first snowflakes
floating under roofs
as a minor bird
in trees shadow us
awakens a still life poet
hymning by his studio
watches the moon's path
from his window pane
over his phlox visit
to the rock garden
his words emerge
later in his art folio
darkness as transparency
on a winged branch
as if time stopped
at the village inn
by the harvest fields
of blackberries.
IN AN HOUR OF HOPE
In an hour of hope
around a circle of melody
you again believed
in Anne Frank's goodness
until you read the morning
papers without the naive
nature of a child
doomed by racial hatred
to die young
among the engraved sickness
tattooed on the arms
of memory
without time to touch
the tree of life
somewhere off the road
the mirror of her room
remains amid Hollywood
stars now turned lemony
in the coats of many colors
around crippled Joseph's pit
by his Dutch uncle
who turned away.
In an hour of hope
around a circle of melody
you again believed
in Anne Frank's goodness
until you read the morning
papers without the naive
nature of a child
doomed by racial hatred
to die young
among the engraved sickness
tattooed on the arms
of memory
without time to touch
the tree of life
somewhere off the road
the mirror of her room
remains amid Hollywood
stars now turned lemony
in the coats of many colors
around crippled Joseph's pit
by his Dutch uncle
who turned away.
SPEAKING TO US
On the upper lip
of wanting love
and favors
toward evening
yet devoted
to the winds off
the Cape's water
in your orange kayak
you plunge quickly
into the high September surf
with a wave
toward the tremor
of a shark nearby
you paddle with prayers
that encircle you
holding onto the reeds
of marsh and mind
stretched out on the beach
after the holiday showers
happy as a beggar poet
with flesh
on baby skin, bones, cheeks
unscathed
by vanity.
On the upper lip
of wanting love
and favors
toward evening
yet devoted
to the winds off
the Cape's water
in your orange kayak
you plunge quickly
into the high September surf
with a wave
toward the tremor
of a shark nearby
you paddle with prayers
that encircle you
holding onto the reeds
of marsh and mind
stretched out on the beach
after the holiday showers
happy as a beggar poet
with flesh
on baby skin, bones, cheeks
unscathed
by vanity.
WHERE THE LIGHT
Where the light
goes off
however superfluous
the time or whitewashed day
found you by the river
separated from the source
of each other's eye
you still are able
to write a four letter word
on graffiti's city's blackboard
in a dialect of love
that few bother to look up
and live under the trees
of midnight lanterns
under the somnambulist streets
of a wounded ex Nam veteran
who was unwittingly drafted
and grafted into
the peaceable kingdom
having disappeared
into the newspaper
only after eighteen years
of devotion to art's
dexterousness
in the land
of opportunity
by acting out
Munch's "The Scream"
in a locked in unit
of demoralization
after the naughty bullies
starved you
into submission
as a model prisoner
yet you blossomed
as an actor,
a demur fashion poser
always draped in white suits
who loved a complimentary
ride on the merry go round
far from the edge of town
with survival skills
of a boy scout handbook
devouring your mother's prayers
or reading Rimbaud
barefoot in the beach.
Where the light
goes off
however superfluous
the time or whitewashed day
found you by the river
separated from the source
of each other's eye
you still are able
to write a four letter word
on graffiti's city's blackboard
in a dialect of love
that few bother to look up
and live under the trees
of midnight lanterns
under the somnambulist streets
of a wounded ex Nam veteran
who was unwittingly drafted
and grafted into
the peaceable kingdom
having disappeared
into the newspaper
only after eighteen years
of devotion to art's
dexterousness
in the land
of opportunity
by acting out
Munch's "The Scream"
in a locked in unit
of demoralization
after the naughty bullies
starved you
into submission
as a model prisoner
yet you blossomed
as an actor,
a demur fashion poser
always draped in white suits
who loved a complimentary
ride on the merry go round
far from the edge of town
with survival skills
of a boy scout handbook
devouring your mother's prayers
or reading Rimbaud
barefoot in the beach.
SOMEONE CALLED
Someone called you
but left no message
like the last message
that left your skin raw
and no one had your back
to the wall art flower child
who was a runaway
in the far country
of the prodigals
somewhere disheveled
searching for oracles
or at least a riddle
to question the answer
in exchange for the distant call
you hope will be recorded
for your one miracle
in your language
of adolescence
as you listened at sixteen
to alto sax by the door
yet you were hung up
on for no reason
yet wonder
why you are a still life
there amid a poet's voice
as midnight falls
on the urban read
at the club playing sax
or hear your destiny
onto a Beat's last words
or here after tuning
in your curiosity
at the pawnshop
with all your possessions
even Dostoevsky's
"A Raw Youth"
along with his Crime
and Salinger's Catcher
when all the city tears
and country laughter is gone
you still search by yourself
on the river of your amazement
along the high dunes
for Leda, the black swan.
Someone called you
but left no message
like the last message
that left your skin raw
and no one had your back
to the wall art flower child
who was a runaway
in the far country
of the prodigals
somewhere disheveled
searching for oracles
or at least a riddle
to question the answer
in exchange for the distant call
you hope will be recorded
for your one miracle
in your language
of adolescence
as you listened at sixteen
to alto sax by the door
yet you were hung up
on for no reason
yet wonder
why you are a still life
there amid a poet's voice
as midnight falls
on the urban read
at the club playing sax
or hear your destiny
onto a Beat's last words
or here after tuning
in your curiosity
at the pawnshop
with all your possessions
even Dostoevsky's
"A Raw Youth"
along with his Crime
and Salinger's Catcher
when all the city tears
and country laughter is gone
you still search by yourself
on the river of your amazement
along the high dunes
for Leda, the black swan.
IF
If this were
your only day
only line
to the outside world
only outlet
for your kayak out to sea
if only my voice on the piano
will play one note
and misquote me
on the sand or snowflake
if only to disappear
in the last paper's eulogy
and one and only prayer
were left on earth
if only enduring love
has our initials on a tree
they would meet others
on branches paradoxically.
If this were
your only day
only line
to the outside world
only outlet
for your kayak out to sea
if only my voice on the piano
will play one note
and misquote me
on the sand or snowflake
if only to disappear
in the last paper's eulogy
and one and only prayer
were left on earth
if only enduring love
has our initials on a tree
they would meet others
on branches paradoxically.
Thursday, September 10, 2015
IN FALMOUTH ,SEPT 10
After playing backgammon
waiting for football practice
in a school uniform
his late brother left him
in a far country
war close to home
now killing off a cider donut
between classes
of Latin, Greek
and Hebrew
looking for a cheerleader
to encourage him
amid scattered showers
he takes out a kayak
off the shoreline
thunder strikes his prayers
he makes it back
after catching a salmon
and watches a rainbow
as a sign in clouds of sky.
After playing backgammon
waiting for football practice
in a school uniform
his late brother left him
in a far country
war close to home
now killing off a cider donut
between classes
of Latin, Greek
and Hebrew
looking for a cheerleader
to encourage him
amid scattered showers
he takes out a kayak
off the shoreline
thunder strikes his prayers
he makes it back
after catching a salmon
and watches a rainbow
as a sign in clouds of sky.
WHAT IS FALL
A country table of strawberries
with tiny insects crawling
near the swings
by tall grass dunes
Green and crab apples
falling with rhythmic acorns
on a late barefoot guarantee
the season has exchanged
nature 's budding trees hear
a rush for a welcome wagon
over a faraway harvester echo
for another sugary longing
for black currant jam
stored in the pantry
as red leaves by a poet's hammock
under a sleepy September shine
near the grinding mills
of wheat upon wheat
A country table of strawberries
with tiny insects crawling
near the swings
by tall grass dunes
Green and crab apples
falling with rhythmic acorns
on a late barefoot guarantee
the season has exchanged
nature 's budding trees hear
a rush for a welcome wagon
over a faraway harvester echo
for another sugary longing
for black currant jam
stored in the pantry
as red leaves by a poet's hammock
under a sleepy September shine
near the grinding mills
of wheat upon wheat
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
AFTER
After the lights
turn into laughter
your small talk
hovers in familiar lips
by vapors of silences
here a cello plays
in a Schubert quartet
from a classical circle
of smiles in recital
from four hands
in a rhythmic greeting
of applause lingers
especially in a risen
dead soul at the back
of the concert hall
from a worn Gogol overcoat
who speaks in a dialect
that only poets
from Bely island
remember as we listen
to lasting piano notes
the time has a riddle for us
right at the counterpoint
of captured verse.
After the lights
turn into laughter
your small talk
hovers in familiar lips
by vapors of silences
here a cello plays
in a Schubert quartet
from a classical circle
of smiles in recital
from four hands
in a rhythmic greeting
of applause lingers
especially in a risen
dead soul at the back
of the concert hall
from a worn Gogol overcoat
who speaks in a dialect
that only poets
from Bely island
remember as we listen
to lasting piano notes
the time has a riddle for us
right at the counterpoint
of captured verse.
PICASSO 'S POWER
In exile reaching your space
with painted voices
from faded unsealed canvas
that stands between us
in forefingers repose
when art history opens
to borders over a walking earth
of your revolutionary lines
in a memoir letting loose
bedazzled draped doves
from slate roofs of the sun
rises over Evergreen branches.
In exile reaching your space
with painted voices
from faded unsealed canvas
that stands between us
in forefingers repose
when art history opens
to borders over a walking earth
of your revolutionary lines
in a memoir letting loose
bedazzled draped doves
from slate roofs of the sun
rises over Evergreen branches.
MEMORY OF A SUMMER DAY
BY DEL TREDICI
Floating forever
treble notes
in threads of cellos
stay by us,never out dated
in memory of a summer day
of such a chorus
or his acrostic song
for "Final Alice"
with sax and piano
in the anointed knowledge
of disjointed words
a music metamorphosis
cleverly created.
BY DEL TREDICI
Floating forever
treble notes
in threads of cellos
stay by us,never out dated
in memory of a summer day
of such a chorus
or his acrostic song
for "Final Alice"
with sax and piano
in the anointed knowledge
of disjointed words
a music metamorphosis
cleverly created.
ANDY'S TAPESTRY
Marilyn and Liz
chosen for beauty of soul
in Andy Warhol's tapestry
shown in Tel Aviv's museum
remember the Persian
king's Exrxes business
as our twin Esthers' live
for our prophetic history,
picture your identity to dream
for such a time as this
as He extends His sovereignty
to believe in her scroll
and above all in his imagery
loves to forgive
in your own metamorphosis.
Marilyn and Liz
chosen for beauty of soul
in Andy Warhol's tapestry
shown in Tel Aviv's museum
remember the Persian
king's Exrxes business
as our twin Esthers' live
for our prophetic history,
picture your identity to dream
for such a time as this
as He extends His sovereignty
to believe in her scroll
and above all in his imagery
loves to forgive
in your own metamorphosis.
ARIOSTO'S DAY
(1474-1533)
Sept.8
Verses of history
accountable to prosper
here as a birthday for Ariosto
who writing with ferocity
"Orlando Furioso"
expected to take a chance
in an Italian visionary plan
from a poetry
on Charlemagne and Saracen
helped create the Renaissance
of the human and nonsectarian
in an enlightenment
for Gentile, Jew and Christian
and inspire a Shakespearean view
in the "Taming of the Shrew".
(1474-1533)
Sept.8
Verses of history
accountable to prosper
here as a birthday for Ariosto
who writing with ferocity
"Orlando Furioso"
expected to take a chance
in an Italian visionary plan
from a poetry
on Charlemagne and Saracen
helped create the Renaissance
of the human and nonsectarian
in an enlightenment
for Gentile, Jew and Christian
and inspire a Shakespearean view
in the "Taming of the Shrew".
ESCAPE
Place -Dr. Mamalian's office
Jacobi
Time, 1968
M. What brings you to a psychiatrist, Jacobi
J. My history. I was the only survivor of genocide as a family hid me during the war.
M. I can relate.
J. On the plane ride to New York City a lady stared at me with such hatred. I thought only
victims were on that plane. Later I saw that woman in Central Park who told me to remove
my shoes from the bench. My kind was not wanted.
M. You must have been terrified.
J. I graduated N.Y.U. and soon joined the Justice Department and through the files relocated
this woman and filed charges since she was a Nazi; they were unable to send her back. What
would she have become, a munitions maker in a factory or a Stasi spy.
M. Sometimes we cannot escape our history or our destiny or D.N. A.
J. I marched with Dr. King in Washington, D.C.
M. Are you happy?
J. I hunt for fascists in my daily nightmares.
M. Your war is not over.
J. Maybe I should join the security forces all over the world.
M. Where is security young man?
J. That's why I am here.
M. Me too. I hope, Jacobi you will find out. Please keep in touch and let me know.
The end.
Place -Dr. Mamalian's office
Jacobi
Time, 1968
M. What brings you to a psychiatrist, Jacobi
J. My history. I was the only survivor of genocide as a family hid me during the war.
M. I can relate.
J. On the plane ride to New York City a lady stared at me with such hatred. I thought only
victims were on that plane. Later I saw that woman in Central Park who told me to remove
my shoes from the bench. My kind was not wanted.
M. You must have been terrified.
J. I graduated N.Y.U. and soon joined the Justice Department and through the files relocated
this woman and filed charges since she was a Nazi; they were unable to send her back. What
would she have become, a munitions maker in a factory or a Stasi spy.
M. Sometimes we cannot escape our history or our destiny or D.N. A.
J. I marched with Dr. King in Washington, D.C.
M. Are you happy?
J. I hunt for fascists in my daily nightmares.
M. Your war is not over.
J. Maybe I should join the security forces all over the world.
M. Where is security young man?
J. That's why I am here.
M. Me too. I hope, Jacobi you will find out. Please keep in touch and let me know.
The end.
Tuesday, September 8, 2015
EDITH SITWELL'S DAY
(1887-1964)
In your drawing room
with so many reviewed
by the avant-garde
like the Russian painter
Pavel Tchelitchew
later your eyes sink
in the hope for peace
having survived the blitz
yet here again
on your birthday Sept. 7
in a bard's voice of radiance
with a read and recording
to enchant our generation
after your chocolate cake
you spy on a branch of finches
by the pine porch swing
together with dancing sparrows
with nine songbird wings
together with dancing sparrows
on our slate roofs,
Edith Sitwell translated
in color and humor
to a poet's heavenly realm
you are not forgotten.
(1887-1964)
In your drawing room
with so many reviewed
by the avant-garde
like the Russian painter
Pavel Tchelitchew
later your eyes sink
in the hope for peace
having survived the blitz
yet here again
on your birthday Sept. 7
in a bard's voice of radiance
with a read and recording
to enchant our generation
after your chocolate cake
you spy on a branch of finches
by the pine porch swing
together with dancing sparrows
with nine songbird wings
together with dancing sparrows
on our slate roofs,
Edith Sitwell translated
in color and humor
to a poet's heavenly realm
you are not forgotten.
CRAWLING
Crawling out of the past
to a walled bedroom
with a toy lure
transmuted by a world
of adult eyelashes
to make a daily diminution
of long suffering
with handcuffed flighty
signals of practice
in colors of blue and brown
of a twelve toned musical time
up the way to string a guitar
for a new fluted melody
by stranded Punch and Judy
puppets to help
now in first socks
and potato sacks
resembling costumes
of a perp walk
and potato sacks
resembling costumes
of a perp walk
with still life troubled images
in small photos
from your clusters of days
at our life's first guiding
in the scrawled graffiti
drawn by a Beat poet
near a carriage drawn
to the city's Central Park.
SURVIVAL ADVICE
Those who hear my voice
or have eyes
to lean on my shoulder
who live crust by crust
water by water
rumor upon rumor
you hold onto the bridge
by the rails
witnessing the ocean below
keep your passport
in your poetry pocket
clutching for life
your identity also meant
a quick death to the bubbled up
hate- filled generation,
hold on for dear life
whether on wagons,
staying on cattle cars,
living in the snowy camps
of the far country
where poets read
in the underground,
there will be a last train,
grab it.
Those who hear my voice
or have eyes
to lean on my shoulder
who live crust by crust
water by water
rumor upon rumor
you hold onto the bridge
by the rails
witnessing the ocean below
keep your passport
in your poetry pocket
clutching for life
your identity also meant
a quick death to the bubbled up
hate- filled generation,
hold on for dear life
whether on wagons,
staying on cattle cars,
living in the snowy camps
of the far country
where poets read
in the underground,
there will be a last train,
grab it.
Monday, September 7, 2015
THOSE SOULS
Those souls lost
tempest tossed
or nearly drowned
will be found,
those down
by minefields
not located
declared missing or dead
will survive in a flash
by the open boat sea
now relocated
floating on stars
playing a sonata of Debussy
those without leaven
will rise as my words
reach out in a century
to the once hungry
mocked as chosen
with their Messiah's rabbi
frozen in a far country
will be set free
while in the city and colony
among the remnant
those refugees sent out
scattered in a ghetto's
repentant penury
with all obstacles
will find their identity
are now in a third heaven
saved in miracles
among nests and shelters
of once caged songbirds
now on juniper trees
celebrating with a company
of once hungry troubadours
with bread and wine
reciting my poetry
in long corridors of eternity.
Those souls lost
tempest tossed
or nearly drowned
will be found,
those down
by minefields
not located
declared missing or dead
will survive in a flash
by the open boat sea
now relocated
floating on stars
playing a sonata of Debussy
those without leaven
will rise as my words
reach out in a century
to the once hungry
mocked as chosen
with their Messiah's rabbi
frozen in a far country
will be set free
while in the city and colony
among the remnant
those refugees sent out
scattered in a ghetto's
repentant penury
with all obstacles
will find their identity
are now in a third heaven
saved in miracles
among nests and shelters
of once caged songbirds
now on juniper trees
celebrating with a company
of once hungry troubadours
with bread and wine
reciting my poetry
in long corridors of eternity.
A WHITMAN POET
The reef remains
departed from the breeze
and uprooted silences
after the rain leaves acorns
spilling over the home harbor
it's all brightness here
as our footprints hand us
an embrace of shadows
by sparrows dancing feet
over open windy spaces
we move our still life's
and anointed oils
near the shore line
tangled with fishing rods
in a search for eels
after a morning jog
a lobster boatman waves to us
and speaks in Italian
under the glittering sun
as the last summer tourists
fold up beach blue umbrellas
between the silences of the sea
as gulls call out to us
from the docks and roofs
in a chorus of birds
over innocent trees
capturing landscapes
by an art student carries
a drawn brown canvas
full of paints
reaching out by the gazebo
near the park bandstand
a Whitman poet plays riffs
of smooth jazz on an alto sax
as seabird winds voice
by the woods of deer and fox
nearby the underbrush
and new students search
for lost landmarks
under Plymouth's
entangled Mayflower roots
as a guiding first light
on the sandstone,quartz
and unending rocks
opens our eyes
on the ditch waters.
The reef remains
departed from the breeze
and uprooted silences
after the rain leaves acorns
spilling over the home harbor
it's all brightness here
as our footprints hand us
an embrace of shadows
by sparrows dancing feet
over open windy spaces
we move our still life's
and anointed oils
near the shore line
tangled with fishing rods
in a search for eels
after a morning jog
a lobster boatman waves to us
and speaks in Italian
under the glittering sun
as the last summer tourists
fold up beach blue umbrellas
between the silences of the sea
as gulls call out to us
from the docks and roofs
in a chorus of birds
over innocent trees
capturing landscapes
by an art student carries
a drawn brown canvas
full of paints
reaching out by the gazebo
near the park bandstand
a Whitman poet plays riffs
of smooth jazz on an alto sax
as seabird winds voice
by the woods of deer and fox
nearby the underbrush
and new students search
for lost landmarks
under Plymouth's
entangled Mayflower roots
as a guiding first light
on the sandstone,quartz
and unending rocks
opens our eyes
on the ditch waters.
Sunday, September 6, 2015
SEPT. 6
Feeding the grackles
near the apple trees
full of new unquiet
and beginnings
with lesson plans
of geometric distance
in your new leather
case of schedules
you write initials
on doubled up walls
turned away
from summer's graffiti
salt lick squirrels
hit and miss
on pine comb grounds
acorns fall
from oak branches
on rays of first light.
Feeding the grackles
near the apple trees
full of new unquiet
and beginnings
with lesson plans
of geometric distance
in your new leather
case of schedules
you write initials
on doubled up walls
turned away
from summer's graffiti
salt lick squirrels
hit and miss
on pine comb grounds
acorns fall
from oak branches
on rays of first light.
A FOOTPATH
in a chorus from the dunes
sing along the stones
A footpath of dreams
sleep housed you
by the riverbed
by the riverbed
now sea voices of birds
in a chorus from the dunes
sing along the stones
outside your window
a brush of breezes
on the tall grass
off the sandy cape shore
winds wrap up our morning
in a landscaped favor
in the light of swans
near the ocean kayaks
by the juniper tree
departing all lamentations
a poet in the home harbor
nearby the family waters
writes his diary
on the port of call
turning away from
the Venetian blinds
to awaken by the gates
of the city at first light
carrying figs, dates
pomegranates, dry fruits
Autumn welcomes us
our footsteps by sailboats
near eagles and swallows
by leaves on the branches
the wellspring mouth opens
a poet's words for the future.
AWARDS DAY
I withdrew. I sometimes felt I was an endangered species.
Greg. Gagga giggi. Gagga Giggi. Ga..
The studio audience lets out a shriek.
T.V. ANNOUNCER-GREG GOTH
CHARLES WORTHWELL
IN A T.V. STUDIO; year 2084
GREG- Over a billion people are watching us today, Greg Goth for you since you won the highest
score for the People's Screen award but you have guarded your private life, now you have for the
first time agreed to this special interview on Friday night talk, we are greatly honored. Why the
change of heart,Charles Worthwell.
Charles- Times change, so do people. You know Charles Worthwell is not my real name but
the studio's in my early years acceded to the prejudices of the masses and I was willing to do
anything to advance my career.
Greg- Like what
Charles- Change my politics, testify before the government or secret police, arrange my colorful
orientation or sexual nature to play a part they wanted, it's part of the job I said or cut off contact
to anyone if I was told to. It was all pretend back in the day. Now I want to come clean. You know
I was one of the first to take Dr. Malt's fountain of youth pill, now look at me. Not that I don't
exercise as much or go for face lifts as needed. I changed my religion several times, whatever
was popular or in vogue at the time but never lost my soul.
Greg- You once ran for governor.
Charles- I wanted so much to save the endangered species, but when the act was passed anyway
I withdrew. I sometimes felt I was an endangered species.
Charles How so?
Greg- Before liberation we could not speak our peace and words were forbidden words
and language and society was more controlled. Now everything is better, of course.
Greg -Is there anyone you want to thank for your success?
Charles- My current wife Charity Case and Sonny, my publicity agent and longtime friend.
Greg- I can't help thinking there is something you want to say but have held back.
Charles- Would you back me up or hold my back.
Greg- Of course.
Charles- Then help sponsor my wife's Charity Case's charity.
Charity walks out on stage.
Greg- What an honor for us, Charity. What would you like to say.
Charity- The fountain of youth pill has free samples; you will live better or longer but we need
to give this extra fresh elixir drink to the world.
Greg- May I try it first
Charity- Be my guest and the first
Greg drinks the elixir and turns into a child.
Greg. Gagga giggi. Gagga Giggi. Ga..
The studio audience lets out a shriek.
Charity. This concludes Friday night talk.
The end.
Saturday, September 5, 2015
WATCH THE SPARROWS
Who watches the sparrows
in Central Park
as they stir their wings
not expecting tomorrow
yet humbly provided for
ironically in one word answers
as the leaves and acorns
drop near the marathon
Carmen an opera star sings
an aria of Bizet
Russian miracle dancers
with ballet shoes
hustle by a guitar player
new to the city
with Whitman on his knee
feeds the birds.
Who watches the sparrows
in Central Park
as they stir their wings
not expecting tomorrow
yet humbly provided for
ironically in one word answers
as the leaves and acorns
drop near the marathon
Carmen an opera star sings
an aria of Bizet
Russian miracle dancers
with ballet shoes
hustle by a guitar player
new to the city
with Whitman on his knee
feeds the birds.
Friday, September 4, 2015
DAYS OF YULI DANIEL
(1925-1888)
With the last perfume
of Stalin's breath, 1941
in Yuli Daniel's den
listening to Chopin's etudes
and Scriabin's Ecstasy
played by a friend
exiled to the Gulag
until he graduates to heaven
the tiny drawings in the snow
presages the death
of the systematic machine
resting on the conscience
and silence of the West.
(1925-1888)
With the last perfume
of Stalin's breath, 1941
in Yuli Daniel's den
listening to Chopin's etudes
and Scriabin's Ecstasy
played by a friend
exiled to the Gulag
until he graduates to heaven
the tiny drawings in the snow
presages the death
of the systematic machine
resting on the conscience
and silence of the West.
ON A DREAM VACATION
(1992)
Ladders are up
to the sleep house
by the largest island on sea
hitting on no actors
who signed a hunk extra for
a contract with costumes
on the dotted lines
for an outside performance
of Antigone one night
Oedipus Rex, the other
you were hard up
after silent celluloid
student films
only the free press
would review us
with Tiresias
as an anonymous critic
praising our Original Theater
scheduled us for a festival
off off Broadway, next season.
(1992)
Ladders are up
to the sleep house
by the largest island on sea
hitting on no actors
who signed a hunk extra for
a contract with costumes
on the dotted lines
for an outside performance
of Antigone one night
Oedipus Rex, the other
you were hard up
after silent celluloid
student films
only the free press
would review us
with Tiresias
as an anonymous critic
praising our Original Theater
scheduled us for a festival
off off Broadway, next season.
OVER ISLANDS
Just one sunset
catching Casablanca
in a midnight showing
dropping off at fashion week
you disarmed a dressing gown
made of seashells
from Spectacle
islands watching
a poet speeding by
on a once pawned motorcycle
with a used copy of Milton's
pocket sized "Paradise Lost"
blinded by waves of hands
brushing off leaves and acorns
of your solo marathon run
by the breaking night
off the whirlwind
wishing you could sing Bach.
off the whirlwind
wishing you could sing Bach.
SEPTEMBER FOURTH DAWN
The neighbor's dog dashes
outdoors by the riverbed
as two scholar's books
about Nabokov's lapidary
butterflies fall
on powder lines
of the bocce game
set for after school
hearing about the sink hole
near Harvard
while others whisper about
his wife's rock garden phlox
extending into suburban bushes
by gathered memory moss
birdsong calls on branches
in radiant sunshine
a fox appears behind
the brambles
we heard about
another cosmic event
after her son was lost
in no man's land.
The neighbor's dog dashes
outdoors by the riverbed
as two scholar's books
about Nabokov's lapidary
butterflies fall
on powder lines
of the bocce game
set for after school
hearing about the sink hole
near Harvard
while others whisper about
his wife's rock garden phlox
extending into suburban bushes
by gathered memory moss
birdsong calls on branches
in radiant sunshine
a fox appears behind
the brambles
we heard about
another cosmic event
after her son was lost
in no man's land.
TOWARD MORNING
Put the plans aside
in solitary September
full of overwhelming art
awaking the strongest wave
of your hand greeting the day
with still life green everywhere
Turn to sunshine bursting
over dazzling house tops
with birds on slate roofs
also trying to decide the moment
to move horizontally South
by the cool limitless breeze
Tell yourself and yours
of the white whale you visited
on your watch this summer
feeling as if Melville's diary
opens up your poet love
to the page that bears your name
and sleep upon it tonight.
Put the plans aside
in solitary September
full of overwhelming art
awaking the strongest wave
of your hand greeting the day
with still life green everywhere
Turn to sunshine bursting
over dazzling house tops
with birds on slate roofs
also trying to decide the moment
to move horizontally South
by the cool limitless breeze
Tell yourself and yours
of the white whale you visited
on your watch this summer
feeling as if Melville's diary
opens up your poet love
to the page that bears your name
and sleep upon it tonight.
Thursday, September 3, 2015
IN YOUR FUNKY WAY
In your funky way
after the bandanna
from your auburn hair
in the second hand net
we found at the bazaar
along with my blue visor
taken along the beach
now removed from us
you sing out
as my sax moves
along with you
on the dance floor
remembering my poem
you left in the cloakroom
and recognizing enchantments
rescuing us in a later than
you think Manhattan moment
in my mobility of riffs
a thousand sounds
in luminous hands
of reborn black tulips move
in a nocturnal laughter
embracing the night.
In your funky way
after the bandanna
from your auburn hair
in the second hand net
we found at the bazaar
along with my blue visor
taken along the beach
now removed from us
you sing out
as my sax moves
along with you
on the dance floor
remembering my poem
you left in the cloakroom
and recognizing enchantments
rescuing us in a later than
you think Manhattan moment
in my mobility of riffs
a thousand sounds
in luminous hands
of reborn black tulips move
in a nocturnal laughter
embracing the night.
BLAISE CENDRARS TOMB
(1987-1961)
Whoever reads
the gravestone
there is none
but ashes
with the sun setting
in a light corner,
remember this:
the glittering of life
by shrines of honor
on islands
of liberation
for stars in a footage
over by an art film house
on such name days
of seminal virtue
understands modernism
with Blaise Cendrars.
(1987-1961)
Whoever reads
the gravestone
there is none
but ashes
with the sun setting
in a light corner,
remember this:
the glittering of life
by shrines of honor
on islands
of liberation
for stars in a footage
over by an art film house
on such name days
of seminal virtue
understands modernism
with Blaise Cendrars.
LICENSES
Every license
lies in laceration
in disheveled files
of every bureaucrat
all the way from Berlin's
Stasi to Russia's Gulag
in eight mornings
by men as wolves
gnawing on crusts
of brown bread
in a squalor of darkness
hatred and graft
the price of body parts
haggles in the market place
tearing us apart
in suspicious hallucination
reading in the college library
the first of revelation's aroma
with a new dilemma's reality
deep in salient shadows
of deconstruction theory
with every diploma
ending at graduation
taking away any attraction
of a printed privilege
at theology's replacement
for he has sent out his word
in the world, not of it
with all knowledge and drama
for a poet's revealing.
Every license
lies in laceration
in disheveled files
of every bureaucrat
all the way from Berlin's
Stasi to Russia's Gulag
in eight mornings
by men as wolves
gnawing on crusts
of brown bread
in a squalor of darkness
hatred and graft
the price of body parts
haggles in the market place
tearing us apart
in suspicious hallucination
reading in the college library
the first of revelation's aroma
with a new dilemma's reality
deep in salient shadows
of deconstruction theory
with every diploma
ending at graduation
taking away any attraction
of a printed privilege
at theology's replacement
for he has sent out his word
in the world, not of it
with all knowledge and drama
for a poet's revealing.
GETTING YOUR NEWS
Getting your news every day
banner headlines never change
deadlines of a century
merely exchange their print
weighted in favor of cables
satiated for a mediocre run
on hopeless pavements
of desperate penury
the next ogre rubs out words
to text his squinted fables
by an air conditioner
that blows hot or cold
up six stories
of venom
about hairline fractures
accidents, drownings, murders
in the asterisk face
of frontal Orwellian truth
down corridors
of the basement press office
the soul draws its fundamental
conclusion to pretend reality
is the business
to write on skeptical pens,
making notes in red and yellow
from quotes on journal margins
as nations make their entreaties
with a bargain for peace
only the find war
from an orifice next door
as doves are released
by the newspaper's express
everyone thinks
they themselves are blameless.
Getting your news every day
banner headlines never change
deadlines of a century
merely exchange their print
weighted in favor of cables
satiated for a mediocre run
on hopeless pavements
of desperate penury
the next ogre rubs out words
to text his squinted fables
by an air conditioner
that blows hot or cold
up six stories
of venom
about hairline fractures
accidents, drownings, murders
in the asterisk face
of frontal Orwellian truth
down corridors
of the basement press office
the soul draws its fundamental
conclusion to pretend reality
is the business
to write on skeptical pens,
making notes in red and yellow
from quotes on journal margins
as nations make their entreaties
with a bargain for peace
only the find war
from an orifice next door
as doves are released
by the newspaper's express
everyone thinks
they themselves are blameless.
EINSTEIN'S LAST HOUR
A tolerant visage bearded
in an intolerant age
formulas for death
marches over Crystal Night
citizens lying before you
in village massacres
math used in a final solution
by warring bureaucrats
citizens taken away
and you an exile of the State
and all the Socratic wisdom
in a hemlock
and all dreams and lamentations
daily nightmares of Jeremiah.
A tolerant visage bearded
in an intolerant age
formulas for death
marches over Crystal Night
citizens lying before you
in village massacres
math used in a final solution
by warring bureaucrats
citizens taken away
and you an exile of the State
and all the Socratic wisdom
in a hemlock
and all dreams and lamentations
daily nightmares of Jeremiah.
GOGOL EYES
You had this dream
about Gogol's eyes
amassed with manuscripts
weighed down by guilt
on an Arbat snow
he had a vivid vision
that his pocket watch
was lost in the other world
in a repentant soliloquy
he became Hamlet
in the space of his last minute
he spoke to Pushkin
waves of tears
to Fyodor in punishment
garments of the rag picker
on his rented wagon
what in a matter of time
do words obey.
You had this dream
about Gogol's eyes
amassed with manuscripts
weighed down by guilt
on an Arbat snow
he had a vivid vision
that his pocket watch
was lost in the other world
in a repentant soliloquy
he became Hamlet
in the space of his last minute
he spoke to Pushkin
waves of tears
to Fyodor in punishment
garments of the rag picker
on his rented wagon
what in a matter of time
do words obey.
SHARK SIGHTINGS
On a colossal ferry
white sharks are sighted
below the docks
eyes and a Van Gogh ear
catches the expression
no one takes a selfie
except in a flash
of momentary survival
in memory's context
from a pocket camera
from a minimalist
startled artist on board
with a space and canvas
in dramatic expressionism
you wave to the horizon
in a telescoped ship
with an ambiance of chatter
in a vertical still life.
On a colossal ferry
white sharks are sighted
below the docks
eyes and a Van Gogh ear
catches the expression
no one takes a selfie
except in a flash
of momentary survival
in memory's context
from a pocket camera
from a minimalist
startled artist on board
with a space and canvas
in dramatic expressionism
you wave to the horizon
in a telescoped ship
with an ambiance of chatter
in a vertical still life.
A POET'S DISTILLATION
Listen from my eyelids
on a somnambulist sleep
Hear over my voice
in the harmony of woodwinds
Cry over the long suffering
in the hands of the innocent
Circle around me
in a primordial shadow
Whisper for the unpersuadable
who vanquish all powers
Expect a genesis of birth
to flower in small rooms of color
Know revelation is transformed
in the shape of a lion and dove
Respect the woods and sea
alive with rejoicing
Think on a sky of mystery
in the pure poem of the spirit.
Listen from my eyelids
on a somnambulist sleep
Hear over my voice
in the harmony of woodwinds
Cry over the long suffering
in the hands of the innocent
Circle around me
in a primordial shadow
Whisper for the unpersuadable
who vanquish all powers
Expect a genesis of birth
to flower in small rooms of color
Know revelation is transformed
in the shape of a lion and dove
Respect the woods and sea
alive with rejoicing
Think on a sky of mystery
in the pure poem of the spirit.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
LOSS
Loss is worse
in late summer
crumbling leaves cross us
over our descended paths
regardless how grave
of your Poe mourning
was up at the attic
writing a piano sonata
about him
sighting familiar scenes
in his many scaffolds
by your daily nightmare
of the poet raised up
on last electric chair
reading "The Raven"
in your tomb's deprivation.
Loss is worse
in late summer
crumbling leaves cross us
over our descended paths
regardless how grave
of your Poe mourning
was up at the attic
writing a piano sonata
about him
sighting familiar scenes
in his many scaffolds
by your daily nightmare
of the poet raised up
on last electric chair
reading "The Raven"
in your tomb's deprivation.
ONE FOR BECKETT
An trained actor
returns from history plays
with her dramatic physicality
intact by reflected lines
on her haunted face
once told by her great aunt
from Oxford
who met an ex clairvoyant
that she will be protected
knowing what humanity sets
in first drafts of second acts
the second thoughts
not distressed in Beckett's trilogy
all alone on the stage
feeling no longer anonymous
doing as a life would have it
unraveling lines by surveying
a show of applause hands
united beyond theory.
An trained actor
returns from history plays
with her dramatic physicality
intact by reflected lines
on her haunted face
once told by her great aunt
from Oxford
who met an ex clairvoyant
that she will be protected
knowing what humanity sets
in first drafts of second acts
the second thoughts
not distressed in Beckett's trilogy
all alone on the stage
feeling no longer anonymous
doing as a life would have it
unraveling lines by surveying
a show of applause hands
united beyond theory.
WHEN SUNSET RISES
AUGUST 6
We hear dribbling
in hoops outside
the greenhouse
writing maxims
and metaphors
after playing Bach
and then smooth jazz
sunk in off season joy
from my lamentations
about Hiroshima
bending down
to pick up these blueberries
reading a Mishima novel
and my neighbor left
crackers and Gouda cheese
writing a one act
then shape an action
painting and sculpture
for out of stone
is a Japanese rock garden.
AUGUST 6
We hear dribbling
in hoops outside
the greenhouse
writing maxims
and metaphors
after playing Bach
and then smooth jazz
sunk in off season joy
from my lamentations
about Hiroshima
bending down
to pick up these blueberries
reading a Mishima novel
and my neighbor left
crackers and Gouda cheese
writing a one act
then shape an action
painting and sculpture
for out of stone
is a Japanese rock garden.
AN ARMSTRONG RECORDING
Clearing out old 78's
and jazz
in the company
of Louis Armstrong's voice
for the gazebo bazaar
near the serene waters
off Cape Cod
the North wind
brims me over with tones
of a past musical circumference
a local poet reaches
for the diving board
with silly snorkels
to be a spy for OO7
among the blue fish below
now by the yogurt stand
and lingering
to narrate the day
with a local action painter
once playing in the Mikado
who exhibits himself
in a fresh tanned face
with an excessive compulsion
of constantly washing himself
feeds the grackles and sparrows
goes to his Vineyard shrink
then slips away
holding his toy poodle
in his flailing arms
when my life cannot part
with Armstrong.
Clearing out old 78's
and jazz
in the company
of Louis Armstrong's voice
for the gazebo bazaar
near the serene waters
off Cape Cod
the North wind
brims me over with tones
of a past musical circumference
a local poet reaches
for the diving board
with silly snorkels
to be a spy for OO7
among the blue fish below
now by the yogurt stand
and lingering
to narrate the day
with a local action painter
once playing in the Mikado
who exhibits himself
in a fresh tanned face
with an excessive compulsion
of constantly washing himself
feeds the grackles and sparrows
goes to his Vineyard shrink
then slips away
holding his toy poodle
in his flailing arms
when my life cannot part
with Armstrong.
LATE TO BEING FOUND
Now who gazes
at the eucalyptus tea cup
leaves at the back door
after being out raced
on my bicycle
hearing morning bells
on the hillside monastery
one forgets landscapes
that distance loves
to capture once
which is ours to lose
to contain a dialect
and gingerly photograph
of three visiting cardinals
with a singing lesson
out on branches
over a country boutique
a poet names Mallarme
Whitman and Nerval
in a tremor of the wind
on the tall greensward dunes
under a poor mother's clothesline
I'm murdering bread
left for the birds
too late for the bus
and any ode to the schoolyard
not being in my metabolism
trying to slip away
in my own disposition
with large almond eyes
seeing a dog washed
by his blind walker and rescuer
near a tiny sail boat
on the home dock jetty
near becalmed waterfall
an unprepared shadow
of an East European actor
now on the Soaps
seeks his own absolution
in the fun mirror
of a traveling circus
near the railroad tracks
out of breath
and downhearted
by a thwarted memory loss
after the war and occupation
wants to remember his lines
and clean his fingernails
before the red lipped
curvaceous lion tamer
wielding a whip
with a Hungarian accent
like his own smiles
to make his day.
Now who gazes
at the eucalyptus tea cup
leaves at the back door
after being out raced
on my bicycle
hearing morning bells
on the hillside monastery
one forgets landscapes
that distance loves
to capture once
which is ours to lose
to contain a dialect
and gingerly photograph
of three visiting cardinals
with a singing lesson
out on branches
over a country boutique
a poet names Mallarme
Whitman and Nerval
in a tremor of the wind
on the tall greensward dunes
under a poor mother's clothesline
I'm murdering bread
left for the birds
too late for the bus
and any ode to the schoolyard
not being in my metabolism
trying to slip away
in my own disposition
with large almond eyes
seeing a dog washed
by his blind walker and rescuer
near a tiny sail boat
on the home dock jetty
near becalmed waterfall
an unprepared shadow
of an East European actor
now on the Soaps
seeks his own absolution
in the fun mirror
of a traveling circus
near the railroad tracks
out of breath
and downhearted
by a thwarted memory loss
after the war and occupation
wants to remember his lines
and clean his fingernails
before the red lipped
curvaceous lion tamer
wielding a whip
with a Hungarian accent
like his own smiles
to make his day.
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