Poem 10

Dear novelist

Let me express my awe

Your ability to dive into

Fleshy soft unknown

A body to come home to at nite

Wake with each morning

I envy your base of continuity.

Tenacity is not for poets &

I do speak for myself

When tenaciousness is lack

I slip in melancholy muck

So each word squeezed is painful and

Every image eyeful

No lively description here I fear

Just recollection

Dear Novelist you stay with something

‘til it’s right and then

to understand

you fit your body whole

Protected second skin

Glove around

The poet walks into walls

Never comes home at nite

Sleeps with whom she wants

For a good line a soft bed

A place to hide

Then sacrifices all things good

For a word she would

For a life she would not

Never at home in her skin

Nervous & itching & hot

C’mon give her a scratch

With long nails

Slow strokes

Lively tales

You know you can

And that you want to

Or leave a bowl of milk

On the steps beside her things.

You with the long stories

Enough wood for this hearth

Poem 9

The ad read:
    Experience required, salary commensurate.
It sounded perfect
I gathered my papers
Showered & dressed
Got there on time
Sat in a line

They gave us paper
Said to write
something happy.
I could see the man next to me
had no pen so I gave him one.
Soon the room was bartering for pens or pencils
and before we could begin our time was up.
Someone was collecting the (mostly) blank sheets of paper
People were shuffling toward the door
Some of us remained seated

Then I went home.
I watched the news
read a book
listened to the radio
& fell asleep with the lights on.

Poem 8

To read the quiet lines of the poet or to
follow the blur of the painter
you will be the grasping hand on cliff's edge
a second before the fall
You will be the pinnacle of light
on a shooting star before the event horizon
No one shall witness
or record.

Go on spend your life
scribbling & scratching
a free range chicken
home on the range top eventually.
Keep moving  spiralling  tumbling
back into the beginning
the ending
the nothing
the All.

Poem 7

Dirty snow slips between
brown lawn like sand
the last of it glistens goodbye
You could hear its crumble
if not for birds feeding
the wind's push.

Later on asphalt
we cut through air
on elliptic orbs
Riding through the neighbourhood
as restless as stallions
set free.

Poem 6

There is a square of sunlight on living room floor
my dog finds daily (weather permitting)  he eats his
first meal then slurps his water bowl dry
finds the red ball or the green & should I
be engaged by task or dreams
he ambles over to the front room
more like a worker leaving the factory
aching & tired   he reaches
the luminous patch
I hear his bones
a heave of air
then always as all dogs do
the satisfied smacking
the settling heart.

Poem 5

His last break-in


It's the way they leave the lights on
every evening at five even though it's spring &
the melting snow on the drive is pure & white
it's the same lamp there
in the corner against the pale blue wall
which tells him they're old
not to mention a wreath on the door
the embroidered throw just visible on the sofa
the living room wall is covered in photos
it tells him they're old
it tells him they're gone


the glass pops out of its brittle frame
and lands without shatter on a bed of envelopes
if he's lucky there's a card or a cheque
he sees Doris White's name on a lavender envelope
but before he can fill his greed & take his feed


He see Doris on the floor
her blue eyes staring 
at the wall of photos
she's stiff she's cold
she's really gone

Poem 4

This is no joke


A guy walks into a bar
says Whiskey Sour with 6 drops
bitters  get the drink with six straws
instead looks around the empty bar says
He doesn't get it
Bartender says neither did he
Have some nuts but
What's the joke?
He could use one right now
with the rain & damp, the pain
Have some ruts he hears

Poem 3

-SLIPPING AGAIN-

Freud says one cannot distinguish between leaving & being left

The poet from time to time mistakingly

writes living instead of leaving & deft for left. 

 

She begins:

“ If all trees are oak trees

or some pine for love

when truth arrives on its way south to escape the cold”

She madly scribbles words about living

(She meant leaving)   then

She mentions the cold

innate notions   ingrained flight routes  and when it comes to what is deft  

(She meant left)

She cannot find the words

Feeling enough has been already said

She is ready to close her notebook

retract the lead in her pencil &

head out beneath periwinkle skies

At this point oblivious when birds fly overhead  
or speak from branches (and once only) 

They whisper the secret mission they are on and

How they know flight patterns & seasons

Far more random than the human mind can fathom

Restless with a promise to return

balanced on a wing

a new story inside hollow bones

and the softest of thick feathered

warmth covering a cage of ribs

which has never contained anything

but that which we can never touch

They  would tell her this and more, for a few seeds only.

But she has closed her notebook and is late for something she has forgotten where.

Poem 2

After reading Jan Horner’s new book ref=dp_image_0

an Empress of all the streetlights

a cake and all its candles

Reading you

reading her or

what was left

Left me alighted (charged)

Electric was my answer

for what’s your favorite word

A silly game after a dinner long ago

but I can see how necessary

this word in your world when

plugging in to hers

It’s been ten years

from me to you

and a hundred

from you to her

Can one frail life run on dragon blood

bridge two run on words

Poems with questions are maddening

When the poet is the one with the pen

I left your city in the year of the dragon

anaemic and bloody at the same time

Battles lost, a war

called on lack of interest

rain atmostpheric disturbances

inclimate and too intimate to share

The last time I saw you was in a coffee shop

& it was raining out

See?

I think you cried

But not for me

Thankfully not

And I did too

I was saying good bye

But did not know it at the time

& it was really coming down

Poem 1

This morning while checking stocks, weather, email

from a chair in the house

I looked up from my Apple

to the Magnolia tree because a flicker of red

caught my eye

There are no blooms this early in March

but from the action in the trees

I saw 2 Chickadees

& knew the fingers of Spring

were tapping.

Then a quick flick of red

teased me again

from the cedar this time

and then onto the pine

A Cardinal

the one who woke me up

made himself clear

to me

to my dog

to the whole neighbourhood

as he sang his tune out to his love

poemperdai

It may look Latin but it is the sound of a drunk person (possibly) saying she shall write a poem each day. I will only write them here on the post. (I am she.) The poem will be purely spontaneous, but every attempt at creativity is of course my goal. Not sure what limits to put on this exercise, regarding length or style, like try a sonnet on a Sunday (...hmmm Sonnet Sundays sounds good!) or a Sestina on a Thursday (that was random), but I want this to be organic so that I don't (won't) lose interest. Who is out there anyway? Who in cyberspace will monitor/witness this? I really don't care. It came to me in the car on the way home from Walmart (a store I once declared I would never shop at) with a new bird feeder & some seed/feed. Indeed. I had a poem in my head but it is gone now, but I came up with the idea of this blog becoming something more than a collection of art or random images. Okay, going to start this now.

Clement Cycles, c.1897 Prints by PAL (Jean de Paleologue) at AllPosters.com

Clement Cycles, c.1897 Prints by PAL (Jean de Paleologue) at AllPosters.com

Place is

A small space in a big place the tiny balcony becomes vast while I become small. Pacific air swirls around like fall on a summer day.

Reflecting on the present aware that the past is nipping at heels at windows, in my own reflection.

A Theory about Sports

Once again, I am reminded that countries without venues for an organized expulsion of male aggression, become warlike and violent. What I mean by venues, are large-scaled, well promoted organized sports. My theory may have some holes in it, I am only working it out. In war torn countries, sports has fallen away; most games on Pakistanti soil are on hold due to threats by terrorists against anyone enjoying themselves.

Hearing today that the SriLankan National Cricket team was attacked by Pakistani terrorists with rifles, grenades and rocket launchers, wounding 7 players, killing the driver and 6 policeman. This was the worst terrorist attack against athletes since Palestinian militants killed 11 Israeli athletes in Munich, 1972. My Southeast Asian friends are obsessed with Cricket. It is a national obsession, surpassing that of Baseball, Football or Hockey here in North America.



Cities and villages will come to a stop during tournaments; over 200 countries and more than 1/3 of the Earth's population will watch. Grandmothers will be able to cite stats, scores and winners from years past. Games will last for days at a time. Friends of mine who follow the sport will rise at 3 in the morning to watch live feed via sattelite or internet. Their passion surpases anything I have seen.



The connection between sports and war is something I have been thinking of for years. When I listen to any sports broadcast or read coverage, I cannot help but notice the language that links the two. Games are called 'battles.' There is 'shooting, spearing, slashing and long bombs.'

Those who argue that children who play sports will "learn" aggresive behavior make me very nervous. Sports is an outlet for energy and aggression. It is a place to contain or focus aggression present in all of us. When my dog lies dormant all day, he is very cranky, not to mention out of shape.



I wonder what it would be like to throw a soccer ball into a Taliban training camp. They would probably shoot it, but you get my point.



I don't think that any sports leagues in Afghanistan are on hold while war tears through its land. Where are the professional sports players in war-torn Africa? This is not a western-centric point of view, but a humanistic one. There has to be something that binds us all. It is not going to be religion or politics, but it could be sports if we tried. There are rules, there is team and fan solidarity and as much aggression as the rules allow. Wave your flag, nibble on your national junk food and beverage, but have fun. I know this is hopeless idealism, but it is only a theory.

Confessions

I sometimes steal my neighbor's newpaper. It is usually not until the afternoon that I make my move. I live in a condo and one of the neighbors is not always there, as he has other dwellings. If his cleaner doesn't come by, the paper just lays there. What a waste. That is when I make my move, my dog as my accomplice; he, happy and excited, me, guilty and excited. Being a slow reader, it takes me a day or two to get through (it is a weekend edition) so by the time I am finished reading, it is already Monday and a new delivery has occurred (one that I resist) so I do my part and simply re-cycle the hot pages from the weekend.

Discipline

I am attempting something new. Posting on a site that no one really reads, but appears to be public, may encourage a more disciplined approach to writing. Having numerous projects on the go may be more of a distraction but it is difficult to break old patterns. However, desperate measures are now required. The ego will have to be controlled so no heaving occurs during postations. New words will arise, old concepts must fall away.

Book Review

The Secret Lives of People in Love ISBN: 1-933527-05-6

Simon Van Booy published by Turtle Point Press, NY 2007

Familiar with Van Booy’s lyrical prose, I cannot help but experience the same kind of luxurious language while reading this collection. In the story, The Still But Falling World, set in a small village south of Rome, the lives of the inhabitants achieve a balance between the world of lies and a world of acceptance. Nuggets of truth are found too: “My entire family and her husband and children are living the most beautiful lie.” The ability to do this, Van Booy writes, stems from love. “In Morano, if you’re loved, everything else falls away.” There is a wisdom and vulnerability to such writing. I am reminded of Fernando Pessoa’s recognition that we make use of lies and fiction to promote understanding among ourselves, something that the truth alone could never accomplish. (Paraphrased from The Book of Disquiet, Penguin Classics.)

Reading Van Booy is like loving a melting snowflake in your palm. The transitory nature of life lies beneath the surface of each piece. Its stories are very much like fables you want to carry around with you. In Everything is a Beautiful Trick the story of Magda, an adopted sister from Krakow, whose left arm is missing at her elbow, the reader is taken into the memories of her brother, reminiscing about her death he only imagines. “Memories spill out through a cracked window, melt into the ground between tall grass, and are pushed back up as wildflowers.” This idea that we each have our own versions of the truth makes for a very colorful world, as one experience can lead to a myriad of flowers pushing up later. This collection is full of such gems. I feel a quality of Taoist flow and Buddhist acceptance from this voice, but a voice qualified to move beyond mere acquiescence. Simon VanBooy writes like a master, there are not many others creating works like these today whereby reality is redefined to include imagination. It is the eye/ear/heart of a poet at work here.

There are 18 stories included in this collection, several of which were previously published by Bookman Press in 2002 in a limited run called Love and the Five Senses. Every piece is distinct from the next, but present is a voice the reader will not forget. There is a thread connecting this author to the above mentioned Passoa, and when I read Some Bloom in Darkness, I return to Colette and am reminded “…we can catch and hold—with words…” as VanBooy does so brilliantly for us. In The World Laughs in Flowers, and The Reappearance of Strawberries, both two very beautiful titles so well selected, the theme of memory underlies. “My memories are arranged like puddles—they are littered throughout the present moment. It seems arbitrary, that which the mind remembers, but I know it is not.” This line appears early in the first story, long before the character arrives in Greece to hopefully re-ignite a love before it is too late. In The Reappearance…” a story full of longing and human endurance, we read “without memory…man would be invincible.” This polarization of elation and suffering is what makes the stories believable; it is what makes this collection profound. There is nothing formulaic or too full of itself. It is balanced and quiet sometimes, and at others, it can be over the top pure poetry, lyrical and enlightened.

The Laziest Gal in the Northern Hemisphere

Why, just the title of this blog pooped me right out. Thinking about it now demands a half hour nap. I will have to set all that aside however and complete a sentence or two. Do the cyber gods know how many blogs I may have created then forgot passwords to & now they are floating around thinking I have died? Sometimes that is better. Most web logs are so boring and tedious (including this one) it makes no fucking difference whether we are dead or alive. In fact, if someone started up a web log with the title "writing this while dead" I might change my mind & say that web logs are a little interesting.
I have to rest.

My Page - CrimeSpace

My Page - CrimeSpace