The concept
is really simple, where
the addition of them
opens a language that
otherwise stumbles in silence,
As a simple “why ?”
infuses the sunlight and breeze
to rattle the trees in reply.
Yet without sound,
with eyes alone,
that creates a chasm in its invocation.
and, just as quickened,
closes a gap in response
between lovers,
with an embrace,
but no words,
and silence fulfilled.
Shimmered metal,
-as curiousity-
sets into motion,
agitates the dust
and ascends a mountain
because challenge told it to.
a distant voice inspired
a click and whirr,
to go and meet the mountain
on a singular path,
once side winding then inclined.
ever moving, but when complete,
and turned to face
the horizon of red, a being might stand in triumph
-arms raised-
and shout for hills to cry out
with sound!
waves that intrude
upon the desolate solitude
separated by 34 million miles
of loneliness – a vacuous truth.
it blinks.
Laying my head aside
on the table,
I made the sun rise faster.
While closing,
then opening one eye
(and encouraged to applaud)
it hops up and down.
Inspiration can be difficult
without a strong wall
to bounce a ball.
I seek them
and they crumble upon impact.
Tiles in this table
are neatly placed end-to-end
and side-to-side.
(My poems are less organized,
but still fit nicely in my frame.)
The grout in between
holds them tightly together.
After a pedestrian moment,
a single bell tolls
and calls me to fill
or to empty my head.
I choose the latter
while the sun bounces.
*****
a poem from July 2007, slightly reworked and refocused.
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.
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.
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.
***************************
*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.
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.
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
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.
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.
***********************************
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.
