Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Why I removed 12 posts
This morning I removed 12 posts, each of which contained a poem that hasn't been published somewhere else. I've appreciated the reponses I've gotten to poems that are still drafts. But more and more journals consider poems posted on the poet's blog as already published. Consequently, they're ineligible for inclusion in the journal, which aquires first rights. I'll still blog about poetry. I just can't afford to limit the market for my work.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Newest Poem
For those of you who missed it, here is my latest poem published at Carcinogenic Poetry.
The Last Day of His Life
The last day of his life began
like all the rest except
he found some pills above the sink
and took them down to stare
into their white infinity
then said out loud, Why white?
The last day of his life he packed lunch for his children
and stood waiting at the door while each one filed by
taking the brown bag from his hand and smiling
as he admonished them to study hard.
The last day of his life he kissed
his wife and told her not to worry.
Getting in the car he drove
until he couldn't be seen from the house
then followed the long narrow path through the field to the beach
with its white sand that seemed to stretch into infinity
and sat there watching white clouds disturb
the sky with shapes that had no permanence,
with weight that wasn't there,
and wondered once more Why white?
First published at Carcenogenic Poetry July 24, 2011
Copyright 2011, Joseph Saling, the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blogspot
All rights reserved
The Last Day of His Life
The last day of his life began
like all the rest except
he found some pills above the sink
and took them down to stare
into their white infinity
then said out loud, Why white?
The last day of his life he packed lunch for his children
and stood waiting at the door while each one filed by
taking the brown bag from his hand and smiling
as he admonished them to study hard.
The last day of his life he kissed
his wife and told her not to worry.
Getting in the car he drove
until he couldn't be seen from the house
then followed the long narrow path through the field to the beach
with its white sand that seemed to stretch into infinity
and sat there watching white clouds disturb
the sky with shapes that had no permanence,
with weight that wasn't there,
and wondered once more Why white?
First published at Carcenogenic Poetry July 24, 2011
Copyright 2011, Joseph Saling, the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blogspot
All rights reserved
Friday, January 28, 2011
January 28, 1986
25 Years Ago Today
Challenger: An Elegy
“The world stopped when the Challenger exploded.”
A visitor’s note at the Challenger Web site
(I)
Nothing works. Neither day nor night.
All the stars disappear. Birds in mid flight
Fold their wings and fall, refusing to fly.
The sun sinks slowly then freezes in the sky.
The winds stand still. Fish die in the ocean.
The pendulum’s swing remains the only motion.
(II)
That night I saw Orion rising overhead and knew
That things exist beyond the meaning of the words we use.
Some things are only light, or sound, or pressure on the skin.
Some things inhabit space before the space where words begin.
Now all the words in all the books cannot inhabit space
Reserved for things that vanish from our lives without a trace.
The names we give we give to things we know can be recalled.
And words won’t salvage anything when you see the heavens fall.
Once Jupiter held up the stars for a longer night of love.
Jehovah stayed the sun with force for slaughter from above.
But never once has someone made a minute fail to pass
Or just by willing made the trilling air of bird song last
Beyond its final note dissolved inside an evening wind.
Yet still the sky at night gives hope you’ll hear it once again.
(III)
goddess boat -- serpent
at the feet of Orion,
trailing the heavens
bodies without down-
link fall from the sky, and you,
leaping like a hare,
lift the hunter killed
by his love past my window.
gods and goddesses
tease the human isolate
with monstrous burning
while we raise new myths
from the scattered debris
of human yearning.
Originally published in A Matter of Mind, Foothills Publishing, 2004.
© copyright 2004, 2009-2011 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.
All rights reserved.
Challenger: An Elegy
“The world stopped when the Challenger exploded.”
A visitor’s note at the Challenger Web site
(I)
Nothing works. Neither day nor night.
All the stars disappear. Birds in mid flight
Fold their wings and fall, refusing to fly.
The sun sinks slowly then freezes in the sky.
The winds stand still. Fish die in the ocean.
The pendulum’s swing remains the only motion.
(II)
That night I saw Orion rising overhead and knew
That things exist beyond the meaning of the words we use.
Some things are only light, or sound, or pressure on the skin.
Some things inhabit space before the space where words begin.
Now all the words in all the books cannot inhabit space
Reserved for things that vanish from our lives without a trace.
The names we give we give to things we know can be recalled.
And words won’t salvage anything when you see the heavens fall.
Once Jupiter held up the stars for a longer night of love.
Jehovah stayed the sun with force for slaughter from above.
But never once has someone made a minute fail to pass
Or just by willing made the trilling air of bird song last
Beyond its final note dissolved inside an evening wind.
Yet still the sky at night gives hope you’ll hear it once again.
(III)
goddess boat -- serpent
at the feet of Orion,
trailing the heavens
bodies without down-
link fall from the sky, and you,
leaping like a hare,
lift the hunter killed
by his love past my window.
gods and goddesses
tease the human isolate
with monstrous burning
while we raise new myths
from the scattered debris
of human yearning.
Originally published in A Matter of Mind, Foothills Publishing, 2004.
© copyright 2004, 2009-2011 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.
All rights reserved.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
The Writer’s Wife
“For fifteen years we lived against the sea
Below Ogunquit where the surf marks time
And tide, and days remained unchanged, and each
Of us learned to watch the seasons silently.
He needed me. I cared for him. He wrote.
I listened when he read to help him find
A voice. But otherwise, we seldom spoke.”
She owned a shop in Perkins Cove. A sign
That long ago surrendered to a vine
That choked off half its words and cut its way
Across the paint still offered works of folk
And modern art – some pieces she had made,
But mostly it was others’ work. It soaked
Up time, and she could draw on slower days.
“I’ve kept books I’ve filled with faces from the crowd,
A different one for each of thirteen years.
My therapist suggested it would help
To use a pen to get my feelings out.
It did, so I stopped seeing him and kept
On drawing. Over time it eased the fear
From always feeling helpless and inept.
“The sketches give me strength, and I can hear
Myself sometimes in the mothers standing near
The girls I draw. I’ve labeled every book.
It shows the age its models represent,
First nine, then each year adding one. It took
Me days, sometimes, when, after some effect,
I’d seek a face. But it gave me peace to look.
“My husband wrote a book he called To See
From Distant Stars. It was his way to fill
The void, the way that sketching did for me.
But truth is neither one of us could free
Ourselves from the haunting silence of the night
When even winds and crashing waves grow still.
She’d barely made a sound. Just slid from sight.
“It’s strange how you remember things. A chill
From a current in the sea. Like an imbecile
I thought of being cold. And when the man
With a surf board yelled take hold, I knew my plight
Was sealed. They searched for her for days. A fan
Shaped pattern spread from Wells to York. And tight
Along the shore, boaters scoured the rocks and sand.
“They never found her. Gradually our friends
Began to put their worries on other things.
It often goes that way. Some pain just ends
When another takes its place. A life depends
On letting go. You have to let things fall.
Some say it’s pre ordained, that life springs
From life’s decay, and nothing matters at all.”
She stopped and looking down removed her rings.
“I don’t need these any more. If I had wings
I’d fly away I feel so light. We had
A chance ten years ago. He said he saw
My books and opened them, said it drove him mad
To see what might have been, said his soul was raw
And he was tired of always being sad.
“He wanted to believe we owed her more
Than grief. Five years had been enough. That week
I put my books away and closed the store,
And we considered moving from the shore.
His book had made him famous and Hollywood
Had made him rich. Now he wanted us to seek
What was left between us that still felt good.
“On Friday morning he’d been asked to speak
On God and fate at Boston College. He’d sneak
Away at noon, he said, to see a farm
In western Mass. He said he thought I should
Come too, and then he smiled. He aimed his charm
At me. I knew he always understood
The way his smile could undo any harm.
“I almost told him yes but then said no.
I don’t know why. I heard the harbor bell
And thought it rang for me. It said don’t go.
And so I stayed and felt the undertow
Of loss refuse to let me up. There are caves
Beneath the sea where drowned souls go. They dwell
There undisturbed by tide or clutching waves.
“But we, who’ve stayed behind and sampled hell
And know too well the terror of a swell
We can’t escape fight, just to stay ahead.
And I’m not sure it ends, unless the grave’s
An end and nothing lives among the dead.
I got a call that Sunday night. Fate so enslaves
And taunts us even hope’s a thing to dread.
“He’d swerved too late to miss the deer and caught
The berm and its hind quarter. When they found
Them at the bottom of the hill, they shot
The doe. Twelve weeks went by before I brought
Him home, and now it’s been ten years. I grew tired
Almost at once of tending him. I’d drowned
His girl, he said, now penance was required.
“There is no penance in this world. We’re crowned
The day we’re born with thorns and walk around
Blinded from blood that runs down from our brow.
We both lost sight of what I once admired —
The way he handled grief and could allow
Me mine. Some said his Distant Stars inspired
New hope. But hate was all he offered now.
“Each year to mark the day she disappeared
He’d find the place above the rocks where he
Had stood to watch what every parent’s feared
But can’t conceive. Each wave that rolled in leered
At him and nothing ever changed. He went
Alone before the crash. He and the sea,
A willful pair, both static and unbent.
“Then when he couldn’t walk it fell to me
To push him up the cliff where we were three.
That changed things. He no longer hoped to stare
Down waves and force the ocean to relent
And give her up. How could one prepare
For that first time? He grabbed me and would have sent
Me to the rocks if I’d let go his chair.
“You can’t prepare. ‘Why not this one?’ he cried.
‘Why’d you leave her here but take the child?’
As if I’d never asked the same. I pried
His fingers from my arm. ‘You should have died,’
He said and grabbed my hair. ‘But it’s not you.
It’s all of this. This emptiness. This wild
Insane eternal silence.’ ” She was through.
She pushed her hair back from her face and smiled.
“You know the rest, the way his charm beguiled
A public hooked on fame. Some said they learned
From him. Some looked at me and said he drew
His strength from love. They said that I had earned
My place beside him. No one ever knew
How intensely hot the rage inside him burned.
“And no one cared. No one asked me why
I stayed, or why I took him there each year.
I drew the last face yesterday. A bride
Of twenty-two. My baby girl, my pride,
Was grown and gone. I watched her walk away
To build her own new life away from here,
Away from us. I’ve no reason now to stay
“I took him up early. When we got near
The spot, a seagull rose and in the clear
Air bobbed above the rocks before it rolled
Sideways, falling forward through the wind. ‘Say
She’ll come,’ he said. We stood facing a cold
Wind from the sea. I said, ‘she left yesterday.’
At the cliff’s edge, my hands let go their hold.”
Originally published in The Rain Town Review, Volume 8 Issue 2, 2010.
© copyright 2010 Joseph Saling/the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.
All rights reserved.
Below Ogunquit where the surf marks time
And tide, and days remained unchanged, and each
Of us learned to watch the seasons silently.
He needed me. I cared for him. He wrote.
I listened when he read to help him find
A voice. But otherwise, we seldom spoke.”
She owned a shop in Perkins Cove. A sign
That long ago surrendered to a vine
That choked off half its words and cut its way
Across the paint still offered works of folk
And modern art – some pieces she had made,
But mostly it was others’ work. It soaked
Up time, and she could draw on slower days.
“I’ve kept books I’ve filled with faces from the crowd,
A different one for each of thirteen years.
My therapist suggested it would help
To use a pen to get my feelings out.
It did, so I stopped seeing him and kept
On drawing. Over time it eased the fear
From always feeling helpless and inept.
“The sketches give me strength, and I can hear
Myself sometimes in the mothers standing near
The girls I draw. I’ve labeled every book.
It shows the age its models represent,
First nine, then each year adding one. It took
Me days, sometimes, when, after some effect,
I’d seek a face. But it gave me peace to look.
“My husband wrote a book he called To See
From Distant Stars. It was his way to fill
The void, the way that sketching did for me.
But truth is neither one of us could free
Ourselves from the haunting silence of the night
When even winds and crashing waves grow still.
She’d barely made a sound. Just slid from sight.
“It’s strange how you remember things. A chill
From a current in the sea. Like an imbecile
I thought of being cold. And when the man
With a surf board yelled take hold, I knew my plight
Was sealed. They searched for her for days. A fan
Shaped pattern spread from Wells to York. And tight
Along the shore, boaters scoured the rocks and sand.
“They never found her. Gradually our friends
Began to put their worries on other things.
It often goes that way. Some pain just ends
When another takes its place. A life depends
On letting go. You have to let things fall.
Some say it’s pre ordained, that life springs
From life’s decay, and nothing matters at all.”
She stopped and looking down removed her rings.
“I don’t need these any more. If I had wings
I’d fly away I feel so light. We had
A chance ten years ago. He said he saw
My books and opened them, said it drove him mad
To see what might have been, said his soul was raw
And he was tired of always being sad.
“He wanted to believe we owed her more
Than grief. Five years had been enough. That week
I put my books away and closed the store,
And we considered moving from the shore.
His book had made him famous and Hollywood
Had made him rich. Now he wanted us to seek
What was left between us that still felt good.
“On Friday morning he’d been asked to speak
On God and fate at Boston College. He’d sneak
Away at noon, he said, to see a farm
In western Mass. He said he thought I should
Come too, and then he smiled. He aimed his charm
At me. I knew he always understood
The way his smile could undo any harm.
“I almost told him yes but then said no.
I don’t know why. I heard the harbor bell
And thought it rang for me. It said don’t go.
And so I stayed and felt the undertow
Of loss refuse to let me up. There are caves
Beneath the sea where drowned souls go. They dwell
There undisturbed by tide or clutching waves.
“But we, who’ve stayed behind and sampled hell
And know too well the terror of a swell
We can’t escape fight, just to stay ahead.
And I’m not sure it ends, unless the grave’s
An end and nothing lives among the dead.
I got a call that Sunday night. Fate so enslaves
And taunts us even hope’s a thing to dread.
“He’d swerved too late to miss the deer and caught
The berm and its hind quarter. When they found
Them at the bottom of the hill, they shot
The doe. Twelve weeks went by before I brought
Him home, and now it’s been ten years. I grew tired
Almost at once of tending him. I’d drowned
His girl, he said, now penance was required.
“There is no penance in this world. We’re crowned
The day we’re born with thorns and walk around
Blinded from blood that runs down from our brow.
We both lost sight of what I once admired —
The way he handled grief and could allow
Me mine. Some said his Distant Stars inspired
New hope. But hate was all he offered now.
“Each year to mark the day she disappeared
He’d find the place above the rocks where he
Had stood to watch what every parent’s feared
But can’t conceive. Each wave that rolled in leered
At him and nothing ever changed. He went
Alone before the crash. He and the sea,
A willful pair, both static and unbent.
“Then when he couldn’t walk it fell to me
To push him up the cliff where we were three.
That changed things. He no longer hoped to stare
Down waves and force the ocean to relent
And give her up. How could one prepare
For that first time? He grabbed me and would have sent
Me to the rocks if I’d let go his chair.
“You can’t prepare. ‘Why not this one?’ he cried.
‘Why’d you leave her here but take the child?’
As if I’d never asked the same. I pried
His fingers from my arm. ‘You should have died,’
He said and grabbed my hair. ‘But it’s not you.
It’s all of this. This emptiness. This wild
Insane eternal silence.’ ” She was through.
She pushed her hair back from her face and smiled.
“You know the rest, the way his charm beguiled
A public hooked on fame. Some said they learned
From him. Some looked at me and said he drew
His strength from love. They said that I had earned
My place beside him. No one ever knew
How intensely hot the rage inside him burned.
“And no one cared. No one asked me why
I stayed, or why I took him there each year.
I drew the last face yesterday. A bride
Of twenty-two. My baby girl, my pride,
Was grown and gone. I watched her walk away
To build her own new life away from here,
Away from us. I’ve no reason now to stay
“I took him up early. When we got near
The spot, a seagull rose and in the clear
Air bobbed above the rocks before it rolled
Sideways, falling forward through the wind. ‘Say
She’ll come,’ he said. We stood facing a cold
Wind from the sea. I said, ‘she left yesterday.’
At the cliff’s edge, my hands let go their hold.”
Originally published in The Rain Town Review, Volume 8 Issue 2, 2010.
© copyright 2010 Joseph Saling/the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.
All rights reserved.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
At the Frick
In the museum, the bronze statuary,
Small enough to be held in hand, excites
You. The artist’s craft, his love of form both
Transparent, his hand invisible, his soul,
Poured like liquid stone, became these figures
And we become the air through which they move.
Yet in a poem, I could give you more
Than these perfect bodies. I could give you
All of their warmth, all of their hue, and more.
I could give you the sun in a blue room,
Balconies with no way down, salt-laced rhythms
Of tides, sea birds unreachable. And still
Would I never see or feel in the cold
Dead bronze the things you see, the things you feel.
Originally published in A Matter of Mind, Foothills Publishing, 2004.
© copyright 2004, 2010 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.
All rights reserved.
Small enough to be held in hand, excites
You. The artist’s craft, his love of form both
Transparent, his hand invisible, his soul,
Poured like liquid stone, became these figures
And we become the air through which they move.
Yet in a poem, I could give you more
Than these perfect bodies. I could give you
All of their warmth, all of their hue, and more.
I could give you the sun in a blue room,
Balconies with no way down, salt-laced rhythms
Of tides, sea birds unreachable. And still
Would I never see or feel in the cold
Dead bronze the things you see, the things you feel.
Originally published in A Matter of Mind, Foothills Publishing, 2004.
© copyright 2004, 2010 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.
All rights reserved.
Friday, April 9, 2010
The Sound of the Sun
In the morning all there was
Was the bird and the babble of water
Fed by melting snows and the wind
And the sound of the sun slapping the top
Of the mountain wall.
Originally published in the Columbus Citizen Journal, November 1974.
© copyright 2004 (Joseph Saling), 2010 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.
All rights reserved
Was the bird and the babble of water
Fed by melting snows and the wind
And the sound of the sun slapping the top
Of the mountain wall.
Originally published in the Columbus Citizen Journal, November 1974.
© copyright 2004 (Joseph Saling), 2010 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.
All rights reserved
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Be careful where you put things
I got these from another listserv (for writers and editors). These are bloopers taken from church bulletins or announcements from the pulpit. They just prove that when you're dealing with words, location is everything.
Reminder: April starts Thursday. Check out Bel's challenge for National Poetry Month at the Itsy Bitsy Monkey. Every year she invites her readers to join her in posting a poem a day throughout the month of April. Let me know if you take her up on it, and I'll be sure to post links to your poetic achievements.
- Low Self Esteem Support Group will meet Thursday at 7 PM. Please use the back door.
- The Fasting & Prayer Conference includes meals.
- The sermon this morning: 'Jesus Walks on the Water.' The sermon tonight: 'Searching for Jesus.'
- Ladies, don't forget the rummage sale. It's a chance to get rid of those things not worth keeping around the house. Bring your husbands.
- Remember in prayer the many who are sick of our community. Smile at someone who is hard to love. Say 'Hell' to someone who doesn't care much about you.
- Don't let worry kill you off - let the Church help.
- Weight Watchers will meet at 7 PM at the First Presbyterian Church. Please use large double door at the side entrance.
- Miss Charlene Mason sang 'I will not pass this way again,' giving obvious pleasure to the congregation.
- For those of you who have children and don't know it, we have a nursery downstairs.
- Next Thursday there will be tryouts for the choir. They need all the help they can get.
- Irving Benson and Jessie Carter were married on October 24 in the church. So ends a friendship that began in their school days.
- A bean supper will be held on Tuesday evening in the church hall. Music will follow..
- At the evening service tonight, the sermon topic will be 'What Is Hell?' Come early and listen to our choir practice.
- Eight new choir robes are currently needed due to the addition of several new members and to the deterioration of some older ones.
- Scouts are saving aluminum cans, bottles and other items to be recycled. Proceeds will be used to cripple children.
- Please place your donation in the envelope along with the deceased person you want remembered..
- The church will host an evening of fine dining, super entertainment and gracious hostility.
- Potluck supper Sunday at 5:00 PM - prayer and medication to follow.
- The ladies of the Church have cast off clothing of every kind. They may be seen in the basement on Friday afternoon.
- This evening at 7 PM there will be a hymn singing in the park across from the Church. Bring a blanket and come prepared to sin.
- Ladies Bible Study will be held Thursday morning at 10 AM.. All ladies are invited to lunch in the Fellowship Hall after the B. S. Is done.
- The pastor would appreciate it if the ladies of the Congregation would lend him their electric girdles for the pancake breakfast
- The eighth-graders will be presenting Shakespeare's Hamlet in the Church basement Friday at 7 PM. The congregation is invited to attend this tragedy.
- The Associate Minister unveiled the church's new campaign slogan last Sunday: 'I Upped My Pledge - Up Yours.
Reminder: April starts Thursday. Check out Bel's challenge for National Poetry Month at the Itsy Bitsy Monkey. Every year she invites her readers to join her in posting a poem a day throughout the month of April. Let me know if you take her up on it, and I'll be sure to post links to your poetic achievements.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
First draft
Here's the first draft of a poem based on a Japanese folk tale. I'm not exactly sure what I'm going to do with it yet. I got the tale from a student a number of years ago along with several others. She was writing them down and giving them to me so she could practice English in the Writing Lab. I'm thinking of building a series of poems around them.
© copyright 2010 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.
All rights reserved
Swan
A farmer and his wife, barren past their youth
Find a young swan with hurt wing and take it home.
They place a box for a bed just inside their front door
And feed it rice before they retire,
Saddened by the fearful noise it made when they picked it up,
Glad to be able to help,
Glad to offer love.
In the morning on a rug inside their front door,
A teenage girl curls beside the empty box,
Sleeps fitfully dreaming, she says when she wakes,
Of water like a mirror in the morning sun
And a strange but lovely face she did not know
Staring up at her from below the water's surface
And dreaming, she says, of open space.
It's like falling up instead of down.
Father, she says, can I have more rice?
And, Mother, these clothes feel strange.
Can you show me how to wear them?
All rights reserved
Thursday, February 4, 2010
The Writer's Wife
A week ago, I received my copy of the latest issue of The Raintown Review. In it is a poem called "The Writer's Wife." It's five pages, and it begins like this:
Then about seven years ago while I was living in Birmingham, something happened on a trip to Maine that changed the whole concept of the poem for me. I knew the poem was not about a mother who murdered her kids. It is about what happened to a couple after their seven-year-old daughter was lost by being caught in a rip current, and it tells the story of the next 15 years of their life. Once I realized what the poem was really about, it took me a couple of months to actually write it. And it wasn't easy. It's a formal poem with a difficult rhyme scheme. But once I started, once I wrote the line "For fifteen years we lived against the sea," I had no doubt where it was going or that I would complete it.
I finished the poem shortly before that Christmas. It's a funny thing about writing poetry. I know I've said this before. It's hard work to write a good poem. It's even frustrating work, and you have to love -- not the frustration -- but the work itself. And you have to simply know it's going to come together.Then when it does, you look at it and say, "Of course. This was where I was going all the time." And you immediately forget the work. It just feels natural, as if it always was that way.
I included the poem in a reading I did at Keuka College in Finger Lakes district of New York a few years ago. At the reception after the reading, the poet Bruce Bennett, who had been in the audience, came up to me on his way out and said he thought there was something epic about the poem. That was the greatest compliment he could have paid me. I spent nearly my entire adult life writing it. It feels good to have it recognized.
I can't post the poem here, because it's in the current issue of the magazine. And it's also not on line there. If you want to read it before my next book is done, you'll need to buy a copy of Volume 8 Issue 2 of The Raintown Review or else look back here on the blog in about six months. But since I can't post it, I'm going to repost a poem I first put up here last May. I only got one comment on it, so maybe you missed it. Or maybe you were just being polite.
From the Choir Loft
Singing is twice praying.
On alternating days we sang the Mass
At seven, boys, then girls, then boys again.
Sometimes the only ones who'd show
To sing were me and Hal the organist,
And I could barely hum a note. Refrains
Eluded me, so Hal would sing it solo.
Now Hal had music in his hands and feet;
The organ's pipes were a part of him.
But when he tried for music from his throat,
Well, Father said it sounded kind of sweet
If sweet meant scratchy, hoarse, and thin
And not unlike the bleating of a goat.
From Kyrie to Agnus Dei, Hal
Sang all the parts, sang treble, alto, bass
And never worried what the music said.
The words were all that mattered. Still somehow
He'd hit the final note then turn his face
And wink at me and proudly raise his head.
Hal quit the church when Kyrie became
The simple English Lord and anyone
Who wanted stood and strummed communal chords
For Masses where the singing was the same
As elevator sap, and Hal seemed stunned
To learn that music is in deed the words.
Originally published in Birmingham Poetry Review, Summer/Fall, 2005.
© copyright 2009 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.
All rights reserved
"For fifteen years we lived against the seaIt is my most significant poem to date. And at five pages, it's also the longest poem I have ever published. I wrote the first version of the poem over 40 years ago. The idea came from a fantasy game my first wife and I played when were dating. It was about a woman who had thrown her childen off a cliff. The idea didn't gel as a poem, and although I kept writing it again and again throughout the years, I couldn't make it work.
Below Ogunquit where the surf marks time
And tide, and days remained unchanged, and each
Of us learned to watch the seasons silently.
He needed me. I cared for him. He wrote.
I listened when he read to help him find
A voice. But otherwise, we seldom spoke."
Then about seven years ago while I was living in Birmingham, something happened on a trip to Maine that changed the whole concept of the poem for me. I knew the poem was not about a mother who murdered her kids. It is about what happened to a couple after their seven-year-old daughter was lost by being caught in a rip current, and it tells the story of the next 15 years of their life. Once I realized what the poem was really about, it took me a couple of months to actually write it. And it wasn't easy. It's a formal poem with a difficult rhyme scheme. But once I started, once I wrote the line "For fifteen years we lived against the sea," I had no doubt where it was going or that I would complete it.
I finished the poem shortly before that Christmas. It's a funny thing about writing poetry. I know I've said this before. It's hard work to write a good poem. It's even frustrating work, and you have to love -- not the frustration -- but the work itself. And you have to simply know it's going to come together.Then when it does, you look at it and say, "Of course. This was where I was going all the time." And you immediately forget the work. It just feels natural, as if it always was that way.
I included the poem in a reading I did at Keuka College in Finger Lakes district of New York a few years ago. At the reception after the reading, the poet Bruce Bennett, who had been in the audience, came up to me on his way out and said he thought there was something epic about the poem. That was the greatest compliment he could have paid me. I spent nearly my entire adult life writing it. It feels good to have it recognized.
I can't post the poem here, because it's in the current issue of the magazine. And it's also not on line there. If you want to read it before my next book is done, you'll need to buy a copy of Volume 8 Issue 2 of The Raintown Review or else look back here on the blog in about six months. But since I can't post it, I'm going to repost a poem I first put up here last May. I only got one comment on it, so maybe you missed it. Or maybe you were just being polite.
From the Choir Loft
Singing is twice praying.
On alternating days we sang the Mass
At seven, boys, then girls, then boys again.
Sometimes the only ones who'd show
To sing were me and Hal the organist,
And I could barely hum a note. Refrains
Eluded me, so Hal would sing it solo.
Now Hal had music in his hands and feet;
The organ's pipes were a part of him.
But when he tried for music from his throat,
Well, Father said it sounded kind of sweet
If sweet meant scratchy, hoarse, and thin
And not unlike the bleating of a goat.
From Kyrie to Agnus Dei, Hal
Sang all the parts, sang treble, alto, bass
And never worried what the music said.
The words were all that mattered. Still somehow
He'd hit the final note then turn his face
And wink at me and proudly raise his head.
Hal quit the church when Kyrie became
The simple English Lord and anyone
Who wanted stood and strummed communal chords
For Masses where the singing was the same
As elevator sap, and Hal seemed stunned
To learn that music is in deed the words.
Originally published in Birmingham Poetry Review, Summer/Fall, 2005.
© copyright 2009 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.
All rights reserved
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Wish I had a poem to share
But I don't. Not tonight. So instead I'll offer you some opening lines and let you do what you want with them. I only ask that you share the poem if you use them. But first, let me share some random thoughts about my day.
******
S and I started it at 6 this morning by going to the fitness center in Gaylord's Opryland Resort and Convention Center in Nashville. After a 40 minute workout (despite a painful Achilles tendon), we swam for 20 minutes in the indoor pool. Then because it was raining and cold outside, we spent about 20 minutes in the outdoor jacuzzi. I've felt warm and proud all day.
******
In regard to the Achilles tendon problem: That bum Achilles has been at my heels all day. S thought it was a little bit over the top, but I figure anytime I can get 3 puns in a single breath, I'm doing OK.
******
We were planning to go to the Frist Visual Arts Center in downtown Nashville and then maybe have dinner someplace like The Wild Horse Saloon and hit some of the clubs along Broadway before coming back to Opryland. If you've never done it, it feels a little like New Orleans, albeit on a much smaller scale. But there is one way Nashville tops the Bourbon Street experience.
Nashville is the Music City. (It's home to the Country Music Hall of Fame and to the Bluebird Cafe, which is a songwriter's Mecca.) And because it's the Music City, it's packed with country star wannabes, many of whom are really quite talented, but most of whom can only dream of getting a contract. But that doesn't deter them.
The clubs along Broadway and Second Avenue, let groups come in to play without pay -- they play for tips. And here is what makes it better in that one way from New Orleans. Because they're not paying the band, the clubs don't care if you walk in off the street and listen for free. There's no cover and no minimum drink requirement -- not even one. You can just walk in and listen. And there are enough good musicians and singers to make it worth your while.
The problem today was that because of my injured Achilles, I wasn't sure I wanted to stay downtown tonight and then try to make my way back to the hotel through streets I didn't know using a GPS that sometimes decides it just doesn't like me and wants me to get lost. I could tell S wasn't happy about my suggesting we start back while it was still light. It is, after all, our anniversary weekend.
But we got to the Frist early, and since it wasn't open yet, we decided to go to the other end of Broadway for lunch at the Wild Horse Saloon. Then as we walked back past the clubs on Broadway it was clear -- at 1:30 in the afternoon -- the street was coming alive. So we started going in and listening and moving on to the next club on our way back to the museum. The highlight came at Tootsies at the corner of Broadway and 5th Ave.
I remember the last time we were in Nashville and spent a late night downtown, Tootsies was the place to be. And here it was on an early Sunday afternoon every bit as alive as it was on that Saturday late night when we were there before.
*******
We were also able to enjoy the museum, and then get back to the resort in time to have a pleasant romantic dinner at an Italian restaurant and to enjoy roaming around the shops before coming back to our room. Now we're sitting here listening to jazz and blogging and thinking about tomorrow.
*******
On the way back to the museum, we were talking about how the product model at the Opryland resort resembled that of a cruise ship. And then we remarked on how the cheaper rooms, which were not available when we booked, didn't have balconies, just like the inside state rooms on a cruise ship don't have balconies that extend out over the ocean. And I reminded S how much we enjoyed having a state room with a balcony on a cruise we took several years ago. She said we hardly ever spent time in the room. I said, though, that I spent a lot of time on the balcony in the middle of the night. That's how I came up with these lines.
Standing on the stateroom balcony
Peering into the endless black
Of a horizonless night
******
S and I started it at 6 this morning by going to the fitness center in Gaylord's Opryland Resort and Convention Center in Nashville. After a 40 minute workout (despite a painful Achilles tendon), we swam for 20 minutes in the indoor pool. Then because it was raining and cold outside, we spent about 20 minutes in the outdoor jacuzzi. I've felt warm and proud all day.
******
In regard to the Achilles tendon problem: That bum Achilles has been at my heels all day. S thought it was a little bit over the top, but I figure anytime I can get 3 puns in a single breath, I'm doing OK.
******
We were planning to go to the Frist Visual Arts Center in downtown Nashville and then maybe have dinner someplace like The Wild Horse Saloon and hit some of the clubs along Broadway before coming back to Opryland. If you've never done it, it feels a little like New Orleans, albeit on a much smaller scale. But there is one way Nashville tops the Bourbon Street experience.
Nashville is the Music City. (It's home to the Country Music Hall of Fame and to the Bluebird Cafe, which is a songwriter's Mecca.) And because it's the Music City, it's packed with country star wannabes, many of whom are really quite talented, but most of whom can only dream of getting a contract. But that doesn't deter them.
The clubs along Broadway and Second Avenue, let groups come in to play without pay -- they play for tips. And here is what makes it better in that one way from New Orleans. Because they're not paying the band, the clubs don't care if you walk in off the street and listen for free. There's no cover and no minimum drink requirement -- not even one. You can just walk in and listen. And there are enough good musicians and singers to make it worth your while.
The problem today was that because of my injured Achilles, I wasn't sure I wanted to stay downtown tonight and then try to make my way back to the hotel through streets I didn't know using a GPS that sometimes decides it just doesn't like me and wants me to get lost. I could tell S wasn't happy about my suggesting we start back while it was still light. It is, after all, our anniversary weekend.
But we got to the Frist early, and since it wasn't open yet, we decided to go to the other end of Broadway for lunch at the Wild Horse Saloon. Then as we walked back past the clubs on Broadway it was clear -- at 1:30 in the afternoon -- the street was coming alive. So we started going in and listening and moving on to the next club on our way back to the museum. The highlight came at Tootsies at the corner of Broadway and 5th Ave.
I remember the last time we were in Nashville and spent a late night downtown, Tootsies was the place to be. And here it was on an early Sunday afternoon every bit as alive as it was on that Saturday late night when we were there before.
*******
We were also able to enjoy the museum, and then get back to the resort in time to have a pleasant romantic dinner at an Italian restaurant and to enjoy roaming around the shops before coming back to our room. Now we're sitting here listening to jazz and blogging and thinking about tomorrow.
*******
On the way back to the museum, we were talking about how the product model at the Opryland resort resembled that of a cruise ship. And then we remarked on how the cheaper rooms, which were not available when we booked, didn't have balconies, just like the inside state rooms on a cruise ship don't have balconies that extend out over the ocean. And I reminded S how much we enjoyed having a state room with a balcony on a cruise we took several years ago. She said we hardly ever spent time in the room. I said, though, that I spent a lot of time on the balcony in the middle of the night. That's how I came up with these lines.
Standing on the stateroom balcony
Peering into the endless black
Of a horizonless night
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Character Envy
Jason, the narrator of my novel, is a poet and teacher of creative writing. He seems to have little respect for his own poetry and he doesn't much care for students. Here's a fragment from one of his poems:
If we touch the magic
That makes us real dissolves
Like bullion in a cup of water
And we become mere parodies
Of what might have been.
Thin, watery imitations
Of a hearty broth.
In the following scene he's walking in the woods with his brother's 14 year old step daughter. Jason's father, a painter, died of a stroke in his studio just a few days before. Jason's been called to New Hampshire by his aunt (who is actually his father's mistress) and this is the first time he's met any of his brother's new family. Candi, the young girl, is a big fan both of Jason's father and of Jason's poetry. She's taken him to a spot in a field where she used to go and watch Jason's father draw.
I like that pooem too. In fact, I wish I'd written it. That's what I mean by character envy.
If we touch the magic
That makes us real dissolves
Like bullion in a cup of water
And we become mere parodies
Of what might have been.
Thin, watery imitations
Of a hearty broth.
In the following scene he's walking in the woods with his brother's 14 year old step daughter. Jason's father, a painter, died of a stroke in his studio just a few days before. Jason's been called to New Hampshire by his aunt (who is actually his father's mistress) and this is the first time he's met any of his brother's new family. Candi, the young girl, is a big fan both of Jason's father and of Jason's poetry. She's taken him to a spot in a field where she used to go and watch Jason's father draw.
I sat down beside her. “You liked Pop did you?”
“Very much. It doesn’t seem fair, Jason, that he died so soon after I met him. I danced with him at Howard’s and Mother’s wedding. I was so nervous when he asked me because they were playing a waltz and I was so sure I was going to step on his feet. But he made it easy. I didn’t even have to think about what I was doing. He made it feel like magic.”
“Pop was a good dancer. I can remember when I was little watching him and my mother dance together in our living room. I also remember when they used to go to square dances. He’d wear a cowboy hat and she’d wear this big flared skirt with all these layers of petticoats underneath it.”
“You wrote about that,” Candi said. “’My Mother’s Petticoats.’ It was in your first book. How she would swirl in front of you, fanning you with her skirt and being dissolved in a cyclone of lace.”
I felt humbled. I had actually forgotten that I’d included that poem in my first collection. “You really do know my work better than I do, don’t you?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Did I get it wrong?”
“No. No. You got it just right. I’m surprised, that’s all. I wish I could remember my work as well as you seem to.”
“I like that poem a lot. The way you describe the air moving so fast around you and you stayed still as a stone, and then how your mother wasn’t even there. Nothing but the moving air and you felt left behind. I kind of know what that feels like. Everybody just comes into your life and goes and it’s like they were never there at all. And if the air didn’t move, you would never know it.” She had it just the way I had meant it when I wrote it. “Aunt Margaret was your mother’s sister?” she asked.
“Yes.”
I like that pooem too. In fact, I wish I'd written it. That's what I mean by character envy.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Watch for it
Watch for the winter issue of The Raintown Review. (I'll let you know when it's actually published.) I got word today they are going to publish my poem "The Writer's Wife," which is in my mind one of my most important poetic works.
And while we're on the subject of watching for it, Pastor Sharon at Dances with God gave me an award a while back. I don't as a rule do awards, though I'm very honored when I get one. And this was a special award so I told her I would do it. I just haven't figured out how yet. But I will. Maybe this weekend. In the meantime, if you haven't met Pastor Sharon, you really should. Why not pay her a visit right now.
And while we're on the subject of watching for it, Pastor Sharon at Dances with God gave me an award a while back. I don't as a rule do awards, though I'm very honored when I get one. And this was a special award so I told her I would do it. I just haven't figured out how yet. But I will. Maybe this weekend. In the meantime, if you haven't met Pastor Sharon, you really should. Why not pay her a visit right now.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Epithalamium
For L.M on the occasion of his third marriage
Let me sing for my love a song
And my love will cover me with kisses.
Then never stop singing. Let your voice fill the land
with your new bride’s name.
In the morning, sing to her as you make her toast,
spreading marmalade.
At noon, sing to her over cups of chicken soup
brimful with noodles.
Sing to her in malls; sing on the escalators
and in parking lots.
Sing at the counter and tables of fast food chains.
When you buy movie tickets, sing your lover’s name
while you count your change.
Sing in the soft glow of dimly lighted lounges
with fake fires burning.
As the singer on stage sings a final set and
your love sips wine, sing.
Sing on the drive home and as you check locked windows
while she combs her hair.
Sing to her in the rush of passionate embrace.
But give her also days without singing,
for her heart, just as yours,
must hear the splinters of other songs.
Originally published in A Matter of Mind, Foothills Publishing, 2004.
© copyright 2004, 2009 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.
All rights reserved
Let me sing for my love a song
And my love will cover me with kisses.
Then never stop singing. Let your voice fill the land
with your new bride’s name.
In the morning, sing to her as you make her toast,
spreading marmalade.
At noon, sing to her over cups of chicken soup
brimful with noodles.
Sing to her in malls; sing on the escalators
and in parking lots.
Sing at the counter and tables of fast food chains.
When you buy movie tickets, sing your lover’s name
while you count your change.
Sing in the soft glow of dimly lighted lounges
with fake fires burning.
As the singer on stage sings a final set and
your love sips wine, sing.
Sing on the drive home and as you check locked windows
while she combs her hair.
Sing to her in the rush of passionate embrace.
But give her also days without singing,
for her heart, just as yours,
must hear the splinters of other songs.
Originally published in A Matter of Mind, Foothills Publishing, 2004.
© copyright 2004, 2009 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.
All rights reserved
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Discovery
There was a moment when he heard his lover’s voice
And thought he heard a language, that was more language
Than he had ever heard before. Like black granite
Dropping straight to the sea. Like wind on which gulls glide.
Her words were more varied than roses in sunlight,
Than the mottled maple outside his window when
The sky’s light lay parallel to the earth. And why,
He asked, had he not heard it before? Heard only
Filtered expressions of common speech? The next day
In a boat on the lake he listened to the lap
Of waves from a dying wake. Heard a cicada’s
Hum winding in the August air. Watched schooling bass
Churn the water no more than a pole’s reach away.
He lay down, his face to the sun, and tried staring
At it through the mesh in his hat. That night he walked
The concession area past where swimmers splashed
In the afternoon. At the end of the pier, two
Men sat in an anchored boat, their light a halo
On the silent water, and he heard it again.
In their talk, their words like ice on the quiet lake.
Originally published in A Matter of Mind, Foothills Publishing, 2004.
© copyright 2004, 2009 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.All rights reserved.
And thought he heard a language, that was more language
Than he had ever heard before. Like black granite
Dropping straight to the sea. Like wind on which gulls glide.
Her words were more varied than roses in sunlight,
Than the mottled maple outside his window when
The sky’s light lay parallel to the earth. And why,
He asked, had he not heard it before? Heard only
Filtered expressions of common speech? The next day
In a boat on the lake he listened to the lap
Of waves from a dying wake. Heard a cicada’s
Hum winding in the August air. Watched schooling bass
Churn the water no more than a pole’s reach away.
He lay down, his face to the sun, and tried staring
At it through the mesh in his hat. That night he walked
The concession area past where swimmers splashed
In the afternoon. At the end of the pier, two
Men sat in an anchored boat, their light a halo
On the silent water, and he heard it again.
In their talk, their words like ice on the quiet lake.
Originally published in A Matter of Mind, Foothills Publishing, 2004.
© copyright 2004, 2009 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.All rights reserved.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
My latest publication is now on line
"Captain Lee" [click here] is now live on line at The Chimera, Issue 6. It's a sonnet sequence and was included as part of their "Feature Theme: poems in well-wrought form." It's the only sonnet sequence in the group.
I hope you spend some time with the e-zine reading the other poetry there as well as mine and then come back and let me know what you think. And I'll be happy to answer any questions about "Captain Lee," that you leave in the comments. It may take a couple of days, though. Our phones aren't working and neither is the DSL, and God Bless AT&T who can't tell me what's wrong or when they'll be fixed -- or even let me talk to a real person instead of their computer.
I hope you spend some time with the e-zine reading the other poetry there as well as mine and then come back and let me know what you think. And I'll be happy to answer any questions about "Captain Lee," that you leave in the comments. It may take a couple of days, though. Our phones aren't working and neither is the DSL, and God Bless AT&T who can't tell me what's wrong or when they'll be fixed -- or even let me talk to a real person instead of their computer.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Don't Worry Be Happy
I stole this video from the November Sky Poetry blog. Enjoy.
World Science Festival 2009: Bobby McFerrin Demonstrates the Power of the Pentatonic Scale from World Science Festival on Vimeo.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Sound Can Find No Home
Still, body stripped & blanket draped, you lie
where your final cries rise to mix with sounds
in undulant trees & descend disguised
as August noise. The waning day dies loud
with voice as evening winds laced with smells
of charcoal fires convey laughter from crowds
gathered about a store-front clown, and swells
from a calliope mount toward clouds
drifting in the silent advent of dark.
Sonant waves wash across your heaveless breasts,
but sound can find no home within the stark
confines of your lifeless form. Pulsing crests
pass unheeded, & grief’s urgent sobs die
at your ears. Life’s flood ebbs, returns, flows by.
Originally published in Red Jacket, 1993.
© copyright 2004, 2009 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.
All rights reserved.
where your final cries rise to mix with sounds
in undulant trees & descend disguised
as August noise. The waning day dies loud
with voice as evening winds laced with smells
of charcoal fires convey laughter from crowds
gathered about a store-front clown, and swells
from a calliope mount toward clouds
drifting in the silent advent of dark.
Sonant waves wash across your heaveless breasts,
but sound can find no home within the stark
confines of your lifeless form. Pulsing crests
pass unheeded, & grief’s urgent sobs die
at your ears. Life’s flood ebbs, returns, flows by.
Originally published in Red Jacket, 1993.
© copyright 2004, 2009 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.
All rights reserved.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
the master s words
there is a way they have
............to make you feel dwarfed
....with all, their, commas,
.....and broken phrases
.......and misplaced parenthesis
........and wordsthatruntogether
........................to obliterate thoughts
it s a little like drinking christmas
............wine without a glass or
.......making illicit
love
........for the first time
they have a way to make you feel smaller than an ant
.........crawling across a super highway
but they lift you up above the clouds
.........................to drop you
........suddenly
..................falling
....................past birds
........................hurdling
........................downward
........................praying
........................for an updraft
Originally published in Wisconsin Review, May 1976.
published in A Matter of Mind, Foothills Publishing, 2004.
© copyright 2004, 2009 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.
All rights reserved
............to make you feel dwarfed
....with all, their, commas,
.....and broken phrases
.......and misplaced parenthesis
........and wordsthatruntogether
........................to obliterate thoughts
it s a little like drinking christmas
............wine without a glass or
.......making illicit
love
........for the first time
they have a way to make you feel smaller than an ant
.........crawling across a super highway
but they lift you up above the clouds
.........................to drop you
........suddenly
..................falling
....................past birds
........................hurdling
........................downward
........................praying
........................for an updraft
Originally published in Wisconsin Review, May 1976.
published in A Matter of Mind, Foothills Publishing, 2004.
© copyright 2004, 2009 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.
All rights reserved
Monday, July 6, 2009
It Was Just a Silly Typo
“Time came and went to fast.”
It gave up hours, minutes, gave up seconds.
It passed up the future, ignored the past.
All transactions pending were suspended.
Time came to seek a place of solitude,
To find a way that it could reckon
With the stationary sun over truths
And other matters it knew could not be answered
In earth’s day to day rotation. It called to
The stars to join them, to stop their dances.
It even asked the Western Wind to lie still
Against the water until it calmed the prancing
Waves. And when all things had bowed to time’s will,
Time rose again and went to have its fill.
Originally published in A Matter of Mind, Foothills Publishing, 2004.
© copyright 2004, 2009 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.
All rights reserved.
It gave up hours, minutes, gave up seconds.
It passed up the future, ignored the past.
All transactions pending were suspended.
Time came to seek a place of solitude,
To find a way that it could reckon
With the stationary sun over truths
And other matters it knew could not be answered
In earth’s day to day rotation. It called to
The stars to join them, to stop their dances.
It even asked the Western Wind to lie still
Against the water until it calmed the prancing
Waves. And when all things had bowed to time’s will,
Time rose again and went to have its fill.
Originally published in A Matter of Mind, Foothills Publishing, 2004.
© copyright 2004, 2009 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog.
All rights reserved.
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