Tag Archives: poetry

Siren

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She wanted that life, she thought,
After wading in the water up and down the beach
Her feet embedding in the moving sand.
The allure of the ocean beyond pulled her further out
To that pale white line at the edge
Of the blue-green horizon,
Until there was no place to stand,
only piled surf
And depths of a world she could not comprehend.

With remnants of foam,
The continuing washes of the waves
Moved her ashore in the sand
like a child’s tantrum from anger to tears,
Bits of seaweed in her hair,
and a breathless sobbing
that no mother can placate.

a work in progress

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there are tools strewn
here and there

the monkey wrench consorts
with the flat-head screwdriver

I managed to replace the toilet bob,
which keeps the tank from overflowing,
but the shut-off valve will not completely
close, giving a slow drip of water
out onto the blue and green beach towel.

and to think I left this poem
sitting here,
brimming with possibility.

Cento (of the sea)

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A Cento is a poem made up entirely of lines and passages from other works, arranged in an order to mean something completely different. Here is a Cento comprised of a little bit of everything from Spike Milligan to Sylvia Plath. Enjoy! Let me know what you think.

*******************************

It’s always ourselves we find in the sea,
The green waves foam and thrust and slide,
the sea was wet as wet could be,
all my dreams come back to me.

It’s really best that tides come in
(The water soon came in, it did).
It looked so pitiful and sad,
despite this careful scrutiny.

Deeds cannot dream what dreams can do
No birds were flying overhead –
They “noticed” me-they noticed me
made of pumpkins and pelican glue.

A secret, kept from all the rest
(I never could talk to you)
Of pygmies, palms and pirates,
said the Duck to the Kangaroo.

There was an old man in a boat,
and as in uffish thought he stood,
they danced by the light of the moon.
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
I only sing the tunes.

Poet in Mind: E.E. Cummings

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For National Poetry Month, I wanted to spotlight a poet that I enjoy reading. There are plenty of them that I like…for different reasons.

One of the poets I enjoy reading is E.E. Cummings…Edward Estlin Cummings.

He was born in 1894 and actually wanted to be a poet at an early age. Between the ages of 8 and 22, he wrote a poem a day. He explored many of the traditional forms and by the time he was finished at Harvard in 1916, found a voice in dynamic use of language. His subject matter focused on traditional themes: love, childhood, flowers…all somewhat old-fashioned by “modern” standards of the day. Yet, he succeeded through experimentation with language and syntax, lack of punctuation or overuse of it, and was an innovator in concrete poetry, or shape poetry. Very much a romantic, he was able to inject life into a lyrical voice with such ingenuity.

A wonderful example of his use of language, and how the tone of his words shaped the poem (even though they make no sense grammatically) is in [anyone lived in a pretty how town].

>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did.

Women and men (both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed (but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
with by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men (both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
published in Poetry (August 1940)

Other poems are far more obscure and yet, architecturally interesting. The sound of the words together with the flow of the line makes a sing-song quality to much of his poetry. You can read some of them here. Cummings was raised in a Unitarian family and was a pacifist in his younger years. During the 1st World War he enlisted in the ambulance corps, and was actually detained and imprisoned for 3 months by the French on suspicion of espionage. He and a friend were apparently bored with their jobs and inserted veiled and provocative comments into their letters home, just to baffle the French censors.

O sweet spontaneous by E. E. Cummings
O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the doting

fingers of
prurient philosophies pinched
and poked

thee
has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy

beauty how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy
knees squeezing and

buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
but
true

to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover

thou answerest

them only with

spring

Apparently, the man was also a philanderer. He wrote a trove of love poetry, some quite racy. He had an affair with one of his best friend’s wives, fathered a child with her, while they were still married. His friend continued to work on his behalf as a publisher after that. Cummings had a way with words…

supposing i dreamed this)… (IX) by E. E. Cummings
supposing i dreamed this)
only imagine,when day has thrilled
you are a house around which
i am a wind-

your walls will not reckon how
strangely my life is curved
since the best he can do
is to peer through windows,unobserved

-listen,for(out of all
things)dream is noone's fool;
if this wind who i am prowls
carefully around this house of you

love being such,or such,
the normal corners of your heart
will never guess how much
my wonderful jealousy is dark

if light should flower:
or laughing sparkle from
the shut house(around and around
which a poor wind will roam

Now comes the part where…

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We all make lists.

I like lists because they 1) help me remember things and 2) I have a sense of accomplishment when I can mark something off the list. This is particularly true with activities and goals. I like seeing a piece of paper with lines through items.

So with the new year rapidly approaching, I thought that I would put a list here on the blog…not that I have a tremendous following that cares. It seems like a natural place to put stuff like that.

Things I want to do better in 2012
So here goes…
1. Read more books, one at a time – I am a bad parallel reader. I try to read too many things at once. It doesn’t work. Best thing ever – Books on Audio for commutes.
2. Get more exercise – Yeah I know, this is used every year and I give up the ghost every March or so. Consistent, paced activity…that’s all I’m shooting for this year. I want to be healthy, shouldn’t you?
3. Make more money – I know that sounds materialistic. Be real, we all want that, especially in this era of poorly performing stock funds. Actually, I want to be a better steward of what I have been blessed to receive. In that way, it would seem like I am making more money.
4. Have some more poetry published – I do write because I enjoy it, but everyone craves acceptance. I’ve had one item published online (see links), and I’ve been notified that a couple of other poems will be also published online during the first few months of 2012. Stay tuned for more information.
5. Come up with a 10 year plan – I’m approaching what should be the twilight years of my career and I want to have more goals in my back pocket. New interests, travel, any ideas?

What about you? You hearty few who might stumble upon or follow this blog…:)

What are your goals? How do you feel about lists?

Happy New Year to you. I wish you the best in 2012. Work hard, have fun, and be safe.

John

icicle lights

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I see glittering in the eyes
when she does something thoughtful

A gesture that passes between souls
-Unspoken-

or when she says a kind word,
and the light shimmers

chasing other photons down the string
passing through junctures,

and out into air
as new growth.

I see a flickering nimbus
in the darkness,

as I pause to blink,

then hope
that the reflection is undimmed
when I turn to face her smile.

Where the road intersects

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very near the river,
just below the old railway line
and across from the covered deer path
that veered into the unknown,

we discussed our own trails
some thirty years apart.

I had walked it.

He was a cross-country runner.

I recognized the race path
and never once assumed
it to be repeated.

Yet, for a while, he ran in my footsteps
and was running the hills smart.

Meanwhile other runners passed intermittently,
and we handed them cups of water and
they would douse themselves,
discarding the trash along the way.

We picked up the litter
so the path would be as we found it.

-unscarred and ready for travel.

Grasping

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In that moment before grief
When you have a hold on something
-it could be anything-
maybe carrots,
or a sheet of paper,
or pencil.
You release your grip in an instant.
Time does not continue,
yet the object falls away.

Not like dropping a ball,
with a child’s anticipation of return.
Neither as with a moment of revelation,
or when gasps follow a feverish plea
for more.

It is different.

It is a moment we cannot predict,
unable to stage a photograph
of the way the touch vanishes
and grasp fails,
yet the burden of loss enfolds.

Becoming

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If you cannot be a poet, be the poem.
~David Carradine

I struggled,
no…toiled
quietly.
with the puzzle
of what was to be my next poem.

Separating the magnetic pieces of words
on the table.

Shuffling them into phrases
and finding
only prepositions
and adverbs:
Often before,
Sometimes between,
but mostly among
all of the words.

An admirer asked,
“Have you written anything recently?”
with a nod and held-breath and widening eyes

I replied with a slow head-shake.
and a sigh,
then realized what I had not done

-placed myself inside the poem-

I left the table
words askew
until perhaps tomorrow.

Why Rise?

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Daybreak,
crawls in brightness,
stirs living stones with breath
and curls inside the void and forms
a thought.

Wakened
sunlit spirits
coax and spy a wry grin
in your smile, time to linger in
rising.

Leaving
shades that night showed
facing, not turning back,
just as the music builds, entwines
then rests

as one.
Did we lie down
because of shadows dim
or body aches from tiresome whims
of day?

Softened
whispers in streams
of touches, parting rays
just risen, and no recourse but
to stay.

*****************
A blogging acquaintance challenged her readers to write a cinquain. A cinquain is a structured poem consisting of a least 5 lines with 2, 4, 6, 8 and 2 syllables, respectively. The above is inspired by John Donne’s “Break of Day” and is actually a crown cinquain, a collection of 5 cinquains to function as a larger poem. I hope you enjoy.