Category Archives: poem

Symmetry

I spent the day pruning a tree,

its branches wild, a sprawling siege

that overtook my space of yard

and lorded all the plants, as liege.

And in this time reshaping a tree,

my thoughts, some bits of poesy.

Its limbs removed, the trunk is scarred,

and the lowest branches out of reach.

And after cutting this creeping tree,

now left with a perfect symmetry,

the sunlight’s glim now reaches far

with spacial perspicuity.

 

A Cappella Friday: Choose Something Like a Star

A cappella music (without instrumental accompaniment) is particularly enjoyable for me to listen to. As a poet (and an avocational musician), I am drawn to the similarities that poems and a cappella music have. Lyrical phrasing, meter, rhyming, and onomatopoeia mean so much to a cappella music, because it relies so heavily on the human vocal element.
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Anyone that has followed me since my origins here with Taps and Ratamacues may recall this as a semiweekly feature for a while, but I haven’t written about specific music/poetry combinations in quite some time. Again, as in other entries, this is not an a cappella piece specifically, but the positive interaction of music with poetry is undeniable.

This entry came about as a result of phone conversation with my mother and father, both life-long musicians – now retired. They both have an impeccable memory for musical anecdotes.

We were discussing the word taciturn, as it described a friend of theirs going through rough time, to which my father said the only other place he ever recalled hearing that word was in a choral setting of Robert Frost’s poem, Choose Something Like a Star.

My curiosity was peaked, and I went searching.

Frost wrote the poem in 1916. It is a remarkable piece that addresses humankind’s need for reassurance from a greater being.  It contains elements of philosophy, religion, and science – the trifecta of sought meaning.  It is one of Frost’s more direct and driven poems.  We seek meaning in life, and can choose things to convey that meaning. We expect these icons to give us direction and explanation.  “To be wholly taciturn is not allowed.”

Frost’s point was that in choosing “something like a star”, something distant and far off, we can be comforted in the fact that it exists and “it burns” despite our desire for clear explanation.

Randall Thompson (1899-1994) wrote a collection of songs using Frost poems as lyrics, entitled Frostiana (Seven Country Songs). In 1959 Thompson was commissioned to write a piece commemorating the bicentennial of the town of Amherst, Massachusetts. It was decided that the piece should include lyrics comprised of Robert Frost’s poetry, as he had lived in Amherst for a number of years. The town originally lobbied for The Gift Outright, which Frost later recited at JFK’s inauguration.  Not believing that poem to be appropriate for this occasion, Thompson gained permission to select poems himself.  He eventually  chose seven texts – including the well-known poems The Road not Taken and Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.  Also chosen was the poem Choose Something Like a Star.

The vocal arrangement starts ethereally, with sopranos singing the ‘O star’ phrasing as if it is a far away object and the other voices of the choir building in the harmony – pushing outward to meet this fairest object in sight.  Thompson is masterful in his use of chord structure and phrasing with Frost’s poem.  There is tension in the unanswered questions, there is calm in the resolution.

Frost and Thompson knew each other and held great mutual respect for each man’s work.  Frost was in attendance at the premiere performance of Frostiana, and was so delighted by the performance that, at the conclusion of the piece, he stood up and shouted, “Sing that again!” In fact, he was so impressed by the composition that he banned any other composers from setting his poems to music.

We seek meaning in the universe, and often we can find it in the beauty and unexplainable mystery of existence itself.

Formula

Life gets ahold and it herds, when all told
the work of the poem is always tenfold.

The light from the sun flickers that shimmers in gold
amidst the shade in the summer, while on a stroll.

The pleasant refinement of daisies in view.
A maddening premise, a dove to include-

across the path, fluttering, wingspan askew-
a memory blossomed and wand’ring ensued.

A relief of a notion that somewhere around
is beauty awaiting, just to be found.

Daisies and doves, and trying abounds
the poem, tenfold or so, lingers in sound.  
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The creative process for me is never the same. It is often chaotic, and my writing can be brought about by several different elements. With all of the unhappiness in the world – I felt constrained by disappointment, resentment, and anger. I thought something simple would help me write something today, and this formula did.
 

Maybe

There is a secret around the corner
that the roses will be red instead of pink;

the sunset and sunrise will both illuminate
the dark moments – far more eloquently than any word.

There are remnants of language,
The laughter of loved ones and strangers
are beauty in a spattered world –
and strung-together notes of the discordant are melodious when unfurled.

There is a depth in every eyeful gathered from a window
and a coolness in the soil grasped by each hand.

You feel the heat that summer’s afternoon conceives,
and I hear the whiskers of October’s morning in the leaves.

There are shadows that crawl in the day
and charming smiles that ornament a night.

And this is truth’s impassioned plea to our humanity,
and affirms the secrets we sometimes cannot see –
perhaps, life is our communal way to share
and maybe, each one of us is rare.

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The events of this past week have weighed heavily on me – the loss of two very successful, highly creative individuals to suicide, and the realization that this type of hopelessness impacts far more people than we know/understand. There is such beauty and importance in life, and each one of every one of us has a rare gift to share with others. Remember this.
Wishing you all a wonderful week.

Triple threat

Three of them, wandering off at the barbecue:
Jonathan, Allison, Rebecca Williston
didn’t remain for the hot dogs and chili sauce
wanderlust leveled a lure at this crew.

Sauntering off to the swing-set and whirl-around
all of them squealing with joy in the afternoon.
Allison yelled for the first swing and Jonathan
called for the whirly-gig-jumped with a bound.

Rebecca resigned then to pushing them both again.
First, she shoved Allison hard and with all her might
ran to spin Jonathan round and round – in a flight
back to the swing she indulged dear sweet Allison.

This storm continued for minutes and seconds
till Allison’s comment “I’m too high – the altitude!”
Jonathan’s face was awash in pea green –
Their mother called out-“Your birthday cake beckons!”

Rebecca took off – leaving the other two.
Both of them reeling and dizzy and tottering.
Neither felt well enough to eat their birthday cake.
A couple of pieces Rebecca could choose.

This is the tale of the Williston “triple-lets”
How they react and the things they indulge.
Jonathan, Allison both overdo things, and
Becca – Rebecca – she takes what she gets.

Spoken

My words disappeared under the moonlight,
The sounds of dissipation fading fast
to quiet in a cavernous depiction,
a blank homage to the universal past.

Then, vibrations denigrated all the darkness
setting into motion light set free –
like a word spoken among the silence
resonating shift and change and deed.

The silhouetted shapes that give perspective,
colored vivid depth to pangs and shine,
a pulsing heart, a growing hunger
that extends from shadows unconfined.

To this, we owe our debts of salutation
the creative source we poets grace-
in the beginning there was nothing
but a word from which our imaginations trace.

 

Lament (a Cento)

Our one forever,

when it stole through the red gates of sunset
left over from autumn, and the dead brown grass
is yet vibrant with the cadence of the song you might have been.

No longer mired in waiting to begin.

They tell us the night means nothing,
and the candles their light the light.

Nothing is hid that once was clear,

then gone and then to come:
all the time, except the split
second, except—

What is there to say except to lament.

You live in the wrong place.

There’s no flowering time to come.

The hands fell off my watch in the night

and you counted the time
from this instant.

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This Cento contains lines from the following poets: 

Kenneth Rexroth, John Koethe, Lola Ridge, Brenda Hillman, Martha Collins,  Melissa Kwasny, Katharine Tynan, Esther Louise Ruble, David Yezzi, Lena Khalaf Tuffaha, Jonathan Galassi, Michael Goldman, Robert Francis, and Lucille Clifton.

 

Tide

via Daily Prompt: Tide

Coming now, in a swath of yellow,
this rising tide of dandelions.

Showing first in punctuated crowns
arriving signs of dandelions.

Golden plots among a fullness of green-
conspiring dandelion lines.

Amassed in fields and hills and mounds
collected dandelions upon inclines.

Rushing in from every side
waves of auric, common mind

Rising now, as I recline
on this tide, in dandelions.

Caves

I never said much, but always wished more.

I often walked far, yet attended to less –

following the streams

climbing the hill

breathing the air.

I sometimes planned, yet often moved.

I always embraced, but waited alone –

catching a glimpse

grasping a hand

dancing a waltz.

I cherished the words, then let them sit idle.

I spoke them in caves, and the echoes moved on –

whispered and bluff

incarnate and gangling

encircled and sure.

I never said much, but always wished more.

 

 

Analog

It’s at times like this,
when morning slides across in its straw-yellow light –
that I am slow enticed to rise
and invite the day into my life.

Somehow its poetry comes upon me like I dial
digits on a rotary phone-
awaiting a cyclic return to home position before moving on.

It’s where the music of my choice plays from beginning to end,
with static embellishment reminding me of conclusion.

The ticks and tocks of the clock drive me forward in time,

It’s the moment of morning glory – once asleep in darkness,
then blooming in the day.

Beauty – she sits in moments, but grows in continuum,
and the anticipation at these time-points are like dust in the shifting light,
and my heart wakes in hues of endurance and tomorrow.