January 3, 2016
CAPITAL LETTERS ARE FOR FILLING OUT FORMS,
F or the following line
F or each verse
F or each poem
(“TITLES MAYBE” too)
Punctuation , (!) maybe at
For an end to each line , (!)
For each verse . (!)
For each poem
May 23, 2015
I must discuss
A dark circus is in town
A boy in a spin, and trees swing around
He drops, and the swing stops
New dewfrost falls, he’s lost
In all the bare trees
A heavy disguise
Could be of use here
So cover your eyes, please
Your lover’s indecent
And trying on lies
His heart’s denying hard here
It’s a fact; Abstract lies
Squeezebox hymns seem
To squish by inbetween
Lighted & Loudened by a fullmooncloud
Lions let free/ Dark
Circus tonight and if I might
Mix in that crowd
A heavy disguise could
Be of some use
March 9, 2015
A boy in a blue scarf shouted.
But a girl with high boots and a cape
only whispered “Icy isn’t safe”.
Both their lines seemed to lift steamlike, upwords,
opposing most all downfall white
(On his hair, in her eye lashes).
White lit it all, it meant to mask the night.
Ethereal, yet so real, their faces were so pale.
They are, I thought, not far from fainting.
I strained to scout beyond them, they stood out
Stark against wood and trail.
It confused me, admittedly, I might see a painting.
“Watch yourself”, their voices, close,
It sounded some like me who
confoundedly joined their chorus.
Starting down to the river,
I shake off a shiver under my clothes.
I take a deep icy breath, then take a step nearer chaos.
December 1, 2014
Well, I think what happens at certain points in my poems is that language takes over, and I follow it. It just sounds right. And I trust the implication of what I’m saying, even though I’m not absolutely sure what it is that I’m saying. I’m just willing to let it be. Because if I were absolutely sure of whatever it was that I said in my poems, if I were sure, and could verify it and check it out and feel, yes, I’ve said what I intended, I don’t think the poem would be smarter than I am. I think the poem would be, finally, a reducible item. It’s this “beyondness,” that depth that you reach in a poem, that keeps you returning to it. And you wonder, The poem seemed so natural at the beginning, how did you get where you ended up? What happened? I mean, I like that, I like it in other people’s poems when it happens. I like to be mystified. Because it’s really that place which is unreachable, or mysterious, at which the poem becomes ours, finally, becomes the possession of the reader. I mean, in the act of figuring it out, of pursuing meaning, the reader is absorbing the poem, even though there’s anabsence in the poem. But he just has to live with that. And eventually, it becomes essential that it exists in the poem, so that something beyond his understanding, or beyond his experience, or something that doesn’t quite match up with his experience, becomes more and more his. He comes into possession of a mystery, you know—which is something that we don’t allow ourselves in our lives.
from interview in Paris Review./ http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/1070/the-art-of-poetry-no-77-mark-strand
Mark Strand, April 11,1934-November 29,2014
May 27, 2014
An apple, itself ready for it’s fall,
Let go and rolled towards him.
Set upon his hands
His distresses, in his Rousseau Tableau;
Big leaves, big cats, even lions;
Staged around his hazy distresses.
Clearly and neat, his free,sweet fruit…
Is his way for his fall up.
April 15, 2014
I should tackle my dark in a full press block/
truth is useless for a metaphor man/
I’d need stronger measures. I’d witness
A stranger changing in front of a mirror,
Trying on odder fitting outfits,
Lines sure and sheer./
So nervously casual unwrapped/enrapt
So near a naked half turn onto eye/ you’re Right/
Before we go lay fastened on grand pianos,
Braying asses/ assuredly elegant,
We Reflect in perfecting predawn light,
A calm gust must come up.
Only the smallest leaves take swirl
On paths in moon/
Aligning our timings
We counted skies
We chimed in
. (from 2009 & now)
April 11, 2014
I beseech to reach to you
As I had to shade my eyes
I been open and shut to you
(She’s out & out shut out to me)
.As soon as I realized
I became a flame to you
As I had manhandled a candle
Our flicker likes to go to shadows
(we’re far & away too far & away)
April 9, 2014
“The sight of home gave little comfort, save to remind me that it offered a cave in which I could hide from my failures. A drink,a chair by the fire, a pile of miseries yet to be exploited–these were the crude tools I would use to put the events of the day behind me. Then, I would go back to work.” –from “The Visionist”, Rachel Urquhart
s t I N K
of all the lies
in the air
that this liar
is truly unaware of
(is ’truly’ the right word?)
of all the lies
casual and caressing there
the air currents n
night-blooming jasmine (lie)
Golden ones have come from…
(I’ve told em. All alchemy.)
emboldened lies, all born, I imagine,
from an open pen draining onto pages,
.Shiny gold pen
As a shade-less light bulb
(it can be a candle)
Best Klieg-lights this crèche ,
Best showcases this birthplace.
On my knees
To lure verities, (surely, scour our trees)
To cure maladies,
Wrest fallacies from unsound foundations,
Whisper one less lonely
Wise, recognizable incantation;.
Take this shiny gold pen…!
It’s nearby, go forth, go further.
I clear my path,
& Go over…
& I’ve Ivory!
Simba’s mammoth cemetery!
(they must go deep)
Precious sunned bones poised on as symbols
I take a sacred see of symmetry
When poetry’s god the old notions
When poetry goes poetry in motion
All of a sudden certain
Privileged glimpses are blurting out
All of a sudden
Uncertain unseen forces
Focus for for instances,
What wording output
(shushshush on sources)
It’s a code I can tap
April 4, 2014
The taste of the spray,
Back splayed against the lighthouse wall,
Is saltier/ The roar of final nights
Saddled on sea wall gusts
Is Fiercer/ When strength one requires
To withstand, understand, such threats
Is steadier/ The beacon’s cliff path
Is grounds for light/
April 1, 2014
Might mixed media shamen lite
& brainiacs in italics write
Strive To Have Thee Happy P.O.V”?
I only choke on O.K.
OK It looks here we’re lost
It only looks just old whiskey must
Unfolding this old map.
Here, you take the fifth.
I propose we suppose this labyrinth
Is the Casbah