And molded as clay,
pinching and coaxing
with time would change it
at each thrown recollection,
until it listed on the page
ready to be fired and glazed.
and then it is affixed
to a memory.
ephemeral pottery
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accidental song
If only I could write a song,
eschewing many natural keys,
written in the key of “C”, and fond,
as romantic you deserve from me.
No matter what the strain or tune,
regardless of how high, how far
to reach the stars and Ella’s moon,
and find your ears, to be admired.
But slipping in, glissandos fall,
though filled with heart, Erato’s words
-unworthy of Euterpe’s call
the sounding notes, portato shards.
The music’s there, though coarse and dimmed,
chromatic from the flat, blue notes,
the poem still enchants as hymns
within this token song I wrote.
Poet in Mind: Charles Bukowski’s Birthday
Today would have been Charles Bukowski’s 93rd birthday*. Ever since I started writing poetry, I’ve had a fascination with Bukowski: His writing style, his curmudgeonly persona. He had a very rough childhood, with a strict upbringing, and episodes of bullying. Some say he suffered from dyslexia, which contributed to depression and his subsequent alcoholism. He suffered early rejection in his writing career and even gave it up for a time. Eventually, he returned to writing with a distinct style. He’s not the kind of writer that appeals to everyone…you either love or hate him. His poetry can be very blunt and crass, but at the same time, insightful to the plights and depravity of everyday urban living. I don’t want to glorify the lifestyle**, yet, his ability to condense his own issues into compelling poetry can’t be denied. He rarely made use of metaphor and subtlety, but relied solidly on direct language, anecdotes, and his own experiences.
I don’t want to run the risk of violating someone’s copywrite, so I won’t share any of his poems here. But, I’ll direct you to the Poetry Foundation website as a start if you are interested. And these really only scratch the surface. The man was an incredibly prolific author/poet***.
Because I consider Bukowski influential, I’ve been known to “attempt” mimicking his style (for better or for worse) or at least channel him. I think most poets/writers have an influential style that they sometimes attempt.
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*Bukowski died in 1994 from leukemia.
**Among other things, Bukowski wrote of his numerous affairs, sex with prostitutes, violence, drinking, and gambling.
***Bukowski wrote more than forty books of poetry, prose and novels while living. There have been nine compilations of “new” poetry published since his death.
Delight
Even over the sounds
of thunder, masquerading
as distant drums
across the plain, the flute-sounds
remain longer, as her melody
and timbre
curl with the landscape
that returns
upon awakening
with the downbeat
of each new day.
Epic grounds
The wind and the lion roared
as the blades cut a swath
in diagonal, then glory
reigned over the edging, with
pauses to reload
and storm the foundation.
Finally, after putting away
the implements of destruction,
a moment to sip iced tea
and ponder
the creation and beauty
of living things,
as the breeze perturbated
through the snowmound.
***************
a brief poem inspired by my random playlist while doing yardwork over the weekend.
The Wind and the Lion, composed by Jerry Goldsmith
Glory, composed by James Horner
Forrest Gump Suite, composed by Alan Silvestri
Phosphorescent
to those that fly by,
-the dragonflies and cranes-
it is a habitat just like another,
albeit enclosed,
lying just beyond
the cattail marsh
and beneath the mimosa branches,
shallow pond water
collects the run-off
from the adjacent country.
and with no means to drain
the scum,
-covers in-
while the incandescent sun
glows green,
and phosphorescent
blooms interwreathed,
hide the carrion
and bottom dwellers.
Acappella Friday: The Jabberwocky
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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OK, so first of all…this setting of Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky is not done acappella. The composer is Sam Pottle (1934-1978). Interestingly, he also wrote many songs used on Sesame Street and cowrote The Muppet Show theme (with Jim Henson).
This song one of the most enjoyable songs I’ve ever performed in a choir…I *chortle* as I think about it. This poem has always held a special place in my brain. The nonsense vocabulary, the heroic details, the wry grin of people who recite it…Lewis Carroll had a tremendous ability to draw pictures with words, some that didn’t even exist prior to him using them. This poem is largely responsible for my foray into poetry. It has inspired some of recent poetry, The chnott and the sarborant and pub song.
So it is not acappella, but it is done with piano accompaniment and toy percussion accent instruments (I think I played the tamborine/rattle when we performed this in 1985-86), and much fun to listen to. The music fits the poem. An interesting point about performance is interpretation. This is true for poetry read as well as sung.
I present two versions from cyberspace. First, a very proper choral performance by the University of Utah Singers – well done (performed with great sarcasm) and a great recording to hear the different lines and harmonies and pay attention to the toy instruments.
And a second performance by the University of Maine Singers (a larger choral group), done with choreography, and some jocularity at the end. The performance revels in silliness….plus the video has the bonus of the Maine Stein Song (don’t know it, never been to Maine). Callooh!! Callay!!
I hope you enjoy it.
Absence
Opening a box to reveal the space inside,
just beneath the fitted lid, above the folded tissue paper
and before
it is unwrapped.
A moonless night, devoid of shadows,
where no projections cast on walls. Walls
that surround gardens of dioecious plants.
If one ceases, the other languishes.
The heart and soul of it knows.
Tree limbs clatter after the leaves disappear,
until the wind stops.
A paddling of ducks moved downwind
where the sound of me
vanished in the rippling.
It is the sound music makes
five seconds after it ends.
Timing
Several days ago, I discovered a fly in the bottom freezer drawer,
-dead from cold- beneath the packaged, leftover gumbo made with a roux, the kind that must be stirred slowly – simmering on low heat- so that it does not burn.
***
Claudia crossed her hands as she spoke of her upcoming schedule, the dangers of narcissism,
and the joy of creative moments -her blue eyes betrayed an infatuation with cleverness- and later she cast her burdens on a subscription magazine and a glass of pinot grigio.
***
Further on that day at the convenience store, after receiving change -76 cents- for the purchase of his lemon-flavored tea and Marlboros, an un-named driver whistled a Meredith Willson tune -to mark his time in the parade of customers- turned and walked out
clearing before the door shut.
light segue (tanka)
reflects in glass doors-
the new light of morning slips
out of dark cover;
reveals a kiss, first embrace
of day interlaced with me.
Taps and Ratamacues 