The Artist’s Means
She was my mother.
That meant she thought she understood.
It was a long time ago and she is dead.
And her life’s become
As luminous as hydrangeas in October.
Blue or blushing— chromed with early frost,
And ready for the weight of snow,
closer to the earth.
A lash slipped beneath my eyelid.
Ruff of torn grass
the wild turkeys scratch
for grubs—
Perhaps a princess seam
where the shoulder meets the sleeve.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
I'm back, sort of... Daily Poem, October 14, 2009
I've missed posting poems daily, am trying to get back into that groove. To get me going, here's one I drafted in Rome in June 2008. It's a hybrid, part poem, part flash fiction, part something else.
Dime Novel: The Pantheon
I know their hurt.
Each one its own kind.
Being the accused.
The accuser.
Wronged.
Wrong.
She's almost crying.
Self defense exhausts her.
She's alone. He's tired
of all that.
I never said YOU,
she insists, I SAID 'WE.'
But he knows
what he heard.
Dime Novel: The Pantheon
I know their hurt.
Each one its own kind.
Being the accused.
The accuser.
Wronged.
Wrong.
She's almost crying.
Self defense exhausts her.
She's alone. He's tired
of all that.
I never said YOU,
she insists, I SAID 'WE.'
But he knows
what he heard.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Here's today's Daily Poem - September 7, 2009
Thinking We Know What We Want, We Reach For It
I’m thinking again, of the grackles we watched last night.
Not thinking— I’m seeing them again and hearing
as they rise en masse from the crown of an old oak,
where, until that moment we had not realized they were roosting.
Hear their twittering, their anxious chatter as they take flight
and turn in unison from the east and loop west, that spilled cackle as they rise
and fall by some shared intuition on the air above the stubble hay.
See one small flock break from the rest and fold back on itself,
east, but further south, like a wave retreating at a slant over its own foam.
I’m hearing the sound of perhaps 500 wings flutter as they plunge
forward, a sound like the swish of silks over taffetas as Odette hurries
down the swept gravel path toward some assignation. She is wearing grackle-
black. See how it shimmers with flecks of autumn leaf. She is rushing because
Swann has been sulking lately and she must, she simply must get away.
And because dusk is falling. Because the air is cooling and the red sun rests
in a net of chestnut limbs. Because she is always hurtling, like a bird,
navigating some unseen path, rushing toward what might fill the void.
See the birds return in twos or threes from the neighbor’s lindens.
How they disappear into their silence.
I’m thinking again, of the grackles we watched last night.
Not thinking— I’m seeing them again and hearing
as they rise en masse from the crown of an old oak,
where, until that moment we had not realized they were roosting.
Hear their twittering, their anxious chatter as they take flight
and turn in unison from the east and loop west, that spilled cackle as they rise
and fall by some shared intuition on the air above the stubble hay.
See one small flock break from the rest and fold back on itself,
east, but further south, like a wave retreating at a slant over its own foam.
I’m hearing the sound of perhaps 500 wings flutter as they plunge
forward, a sound like the swish of silks over taffetas as Odette hurries
down the swept gravel path toward some assignation. She is wearing grackle-
black. See how it shimmers with flecks of autumn leaf. She is rushing because
Swann has been sulking lately and she must, she simply must get away.
And because dusk is falling. Because the air is cooling and the red sun rests
in a net of chestnut limbs. Because she is always hurtling, like a bird,
navigating some unseen path, rushing toward what might fill the void.
See the birds return in twos or threes from the neighbor’s lindens.
How they disappear into their silence.
A stanza from Wallace Stevens I want to share
I'll post my poem later today, but I couldn't resist this stanza from Wallace Stevens. It's from his poem, "Variations on a Summer Day" and it captures, I think, the essence of this gorgeous September day in Plymouth, MA., and what it will be like this evening under the Corn Moon.
XI
Now, the timothy at Pemaquid
That rolled in heat is silver-tipped
And cold. The moon follows the sun like a French
Translation of a Russian poet.
---
XI
Now, the timothy at Pemaquid
That rolled in heat is silver-tipped
And cold. The moon follows the sun like a French
Translation of a Russian poet.
---
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Daily poem, September 6, 2009
This is short and rough. I decided it needs to float in the ether for a while so I can see if it has legs.
What He Said
The son is in the father.
They both lie down in their beds at night
and wake in the morning from dreams of weeping.
They cannot remember the meaning of their tears.
I remember dreams in which I scream, but
rarely remember fear.
It is more likely I have made the sound of falling in a river
or heard a woman posing as a shutter, closing off the moon.
More likely I felt her hand upon my cheek
and lost my reason and tried to heave the stone of want
out of the way to show the light within me.
More likely I have forgotten what screaming means.
What He Said
The son is in the father.
They both lie down in their beds at night
and wake in the morning from dreams of weeping.
They cannot remember the meaning of their tears.
I remember dreams in which I scream, but
rarely remember fear.
It is more likely I have made the sound of falling in a river
or heard a woman posing as a shutter, closing off the moon.
More likely I felt her hand upon my cheek
and lost my reason and tried to heave the stone of want
out of the way to show the light within me.
More likely I have forgotten what screaming means.
Friday, September 4, 2009
A revision of a daily poem - sept. 4, 2009
I'm having trouble getting started on new things, but happy to be revising. Here's one from August 25, much more refined I think.
On Being The Muse
That day I am attending to the olive groves
just before sunrise— to their image from the terrace at Monte Zuzzu.
The oldest trees toss their heavy crowns on the light wind,
and all through the groves is kiss-kiss-kiss as olive leaves
play each other. The pale, almost platinum sky is about to assume its rosy veil.
All of it part of the record of my existence.
I am alone on the patio in my white nightgown
staring over the groves to the Adriatic
which the sun has not yet shaped into a cymbal
that will ring with the shrieks of gulls following the freighters—
I am inventing that sound;
being so far inland, being so far up the terraces,
being half asleep and in thrall to the olives’ music,
being the only thing
awake, a gleam on water,
the note of a song not yet heard.
On Being The Muse
That day I am attending to the olive groves
just before sunrise— to their image from the terrace at Monte Zuzzu.
The oldest trees toss their heavy crowns on the light wind,
and all through the groves is kiss-kiss-kiss as olive leaves
play each other. The pale, almost platinum sky is about to assume its rosy veil.
All of it part of the record of my existence.
I am alone on the patio in my white nightgown
staring over the groves to the Adriatic
which the sun has not yet shaped into a cymbal
that will ring with the shrieks of gulls following the freighters—
I am inventing that sound;
being so far inland, being so far up the terraces,
being half asleep and in thrall to the olives’ music,
being the only thing
awake, a gleam on water,
the note of a song not yet heard.
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