E-Book – Available for 24 Hours, May 1, 2011
http://poetrysuperhighway.com/pshffa.html
Perishable and other poems from Japan, April 2011
--Kitty Jospé
DESCRIPTION:
poems inspired by the various disasters that have happened this spring, a trip to Japan and a call to all to consider each action as having consequence.
Perishable
“All things shall perish from under the sky.
Music alone shall live, music alone shall live,
Music alone shall live,
Never to die.” – round I learned when I was seven.
What parable are we ready to hear?
What ear wants to know
How the real might be?
A figment is a way to
Shape the
Here and now,
Whatever ails man
Or beast, truth-teller
Or liar does not leave
The ship of fools.
*
In disaster,
we pale, our energy sapped,
A bier of shale waiting.
Even without earthquake,
hurricane, tornado, flood,
our stars remind us:
we are to perish.
Who is there to bear us?
We seek to pair,
seek to ask, who are you,
you now, and which you later.
And we see, survival is to stand
with another, under-
stand one cannot st-st-stammer
stand alone.
note: If you make words out of perishable you will see that many in the poem come from combinations of its letters and that the word perishable spells it a letter at a time each line, refusing an orderly vertical or diagonal as if each letter depends on others for its existence, without which, it waits, as a sort of perishable part of a sound.
**
A Haiku, inspired while visiting Japan in April, 2011
cherry petal boats
nudge a brown willow leafcurl
in the brook's spring song
**
Changing from Rise to Set
Beginning of May, lilac
will burst in the East, linked
to dandelion fire in the West
not by seed, stalk
nor wind-link
of tornado in the Midwest
a typhoon in the Pacific,
invisibles chaining,
chiming, raising their chin
in a blaze of purple, yellow.
We are buds
wallowing in floodplain
swallowed in this morning’s mist
along with the sunrise.
Whatever allowed the sunset,
bloomed us to appear in shadow.
**
On Television
(a month after the Earthquake/Tsunami in Japan)
We saw spring drown
without a burial;
We saw flames, rubble,
blackened branch just before
blossom-viewing season.
In the wilderness of disaster,
we might not hear your cry,
nor you hear ours.
It is not given to find another’s
hand. But for one quiet beat
in a poem, if only for that length,
against all reason,
if you were to cry out,
another of us,
might hear.
**
Tokyo Spring: early morning in Shinjuku district
We pass the Cocoon tower,
cherry bloom
in half-fluttered petal
reflected in beetle wing of glass,
swaddled by steel bindwork .
By the shrine and branch’s weep
wind scatters blossom—
a man in a black suit
puts down his briefcase,
claps twice in front of the shrine,
shakes the thick rope, bows,
the tips of his fingers press
together, prayer stretching
to the clear sky.
The wind sweeps the space
between us.
**
Near the Cocoon Tower
At night, you see neon switched off
and on the 20th floor,
it is unsettling to feel things shake.
But then I think of the railing,
by brick steps
near the cocoon tower:
instead of simple bars,
bronze figures hold out their hands
and touch: lovers, mothers,
fathers, children, link into a living fence.
How we incubate hope.
How in the mountains,
unbudded branch
and a patch of snow will trade
places: snow to melt
blossoms to snow.
**
Swaying in the Bus from Koyasan to Riyujin
The sign says,
“swaying from left to right may be expected”
like willow, cherry,
in spring breeze threading needles
of tufted cedar.
**
unbloomed spring
Branches of knobbled joints,
thank you for framing temple gates,
raked white pebbles
around the rocks conceived as dragons
rising up from the mist.
I thank bare branches for holding buds—
invisible packages offered to the sun.
It gives me time to see
light painting the naked bark
with the pond’s reflections.
The wind shakes a parasol
of fresh bamboo,
a spider spins ribbons of silver.
We listen to the heavy scent of incense.
**
Frog Singfest
In the roots of the upended cedar,
spring drips through the moss
and deep throated bullfrog,
a mid-range chorus and high-pitched solo.
Love overture!
**
Hanami (flower viewing)
Blossoms offered
to the river,
floating coins,
lampshades
for the sun.
**
Mock Mountain Poem Tracing Poem Monument Calligraphy between Koguchi and Nashi Falls
Forgive me ancestors as I trace my hand in your calligraphy and compose English words.
mountain air blossom
heart with mountain breeze catkins,
spirit carved on stone.
**
Japanese “ai” means love
It waits the way kin hides in
kindness, muted eyes
hide in fiddled fern,
silent stones;
layers of mountain pale
into waves.
**
Teahouse Ruins on the Kumano Kodo from Koguchi to Nashi Falls
The old signs said
We have tofu!
The deer and monkey have not eaten up
The vegetables!
Bath is ready!
On a steep path, the idea of such announcement
helps the imagination hear Shinto gods
chatting over tea with Buddhist entities.
Tofu squares of mercy, medicinal roots,
soothing heat of compassion.
**
Slipping through Tenses
(reflecting on Shikibu’s poem about not being able to enter the temple because of her monthly obstruction and the reassurance of the reply that welcomes her.)
What I had not done, would have done,
have done, or not,
do or not,
would do, or not
will perhaps do
tipping the lense like menses,
collecting, waiting, dispensing.
Now, by a high waterfall, white
tumbles to leap into a shower of
dragon mouths. A sudden wind
gusts the sound into veil.
**
Bowing to a Great Book
Between its pages
a garden,
distant intimacy of hands.
The eye, a sparrow pen
resting long enough to sing
words flitting from branch
to branch to string intent
transformed to reverence.
**
Grave wrappings
of words, able yet liable.
We wait, not knowing beginning,
not knowing if passing ends,
scattering bones of “if”
si, si, that leading tone
in the oldest stone.
Friday, April 29, 2011
NAPOWRIMO -- April 27, 28, 29
NAPOWRIMO:
April 27
daffodil rap song
(with a nod to May Swenson*, Wordsworth)
Spring and the usual yellow trumpets
spread like angels eating crumpets
refusing to be silenced; they have no frets
about tornado, downpour, hail, keep no bets.
This is a daffodil refusing to unwrap
for you, a taffy-filled chew or strap
of a tune for daffodil megaphones
announcing spring in clumps of overtones.
It’s not phones in a row ringing shrill with light
old-fashioned spring parading the “same-old” day and night
not eggyolk ruffled mouthpieces, muted for ears’ scant might
not tuned into echoes, running, but failing to put time in sight
This is a daffolodil saying bigger’s not better
saying stop messing with the writing god’s letter
that says it loves the world. Big cars, oil spreaders,
bigger chicken, one apple feeds four, polished and redder.
Shucks, another development, hushed dealings in the books,
megaboxed houses slapped together for looks.
See the stylized landscaping of owners who took
a contract for Chemical Lawn for velvet green in every nook
Hear me call you daft, and forget the spritely dance
We say, be in tune to spring, without a headphone trance.
It’s the daffodil rap saying, wake up to spring,
put a sign on each person, each living thing
to say, you matter, you’re important, to you I bring
my dafolodeliberate persistence, no matter what.
See me crop up, add beauty in my stationery strut.
And I'm off my megaphone complaining about wrong.
Here, you take the mic, make up something for a sing-along.
I’m holding my mic, and the wind is playing my tune
I’m yellow, white, orange, doubled or delicate, a boon
for the spirit. Won’t you sing with me, if not now, soon?
It's a rap for a daflidap, not a leak or a crap,
a fastfood sneeze or an "oh Jesus" on your knees.
It's spring and I tell you, be-bopping on my trumpet
you don't have to see any angels, or any crumpet,
and I'm off my megaphone complaining about wrong.
Here, you take the mic, make up something for a sing-along.
**Swenson’s words in her poem.
Yellow telephones in a row in the garden are ringing, shrill with light. Old-fashioned spring brings earliest models out each April the same, naïve and classical. Look into the yolk- colored mouthpieces alert with echoes. Say hello to time.
Tornado Watch when “Fine” Turns Italian
Nothing to fear but fear
itself is easy to say to a husband,
or to a tornado, the split-bellied gutter gushing
pounds and pounds of water
where it shouldn’t.
This too shall pass fixes
nothing, as lighting takes giant steps
down the trembling plum
and the wife mis-hears the husband’s
comment about their grown daughter,
too busy for an exclusive father-daughter hike.
Don’t worry
worries itself into the conversation
like embroidery thread whose gnarled knots
hide on the underside; burrows into worrubs
of ground so storm-soaked a step in the grass
sinks mid-calf.
Upper lip mumbling Dharma reminders,
about suffering, impermance, laces
with the lower lip’s serenity prayer.
The right ear feels full of the sea pounding
to deliver an un-oracular message: Do not ask the
tornado’s fat mama funnel to turn into a slim-waisted girl,
and the left ear flutes the idea of
dancing in some sunlight singing,
in some other part of the world.
Storm everywhere, and the two of us
with our own headshaken versions—
but I’m fine. I stitch a small tear
in a pillow case hem, we’ve had for 40 years,
think about the seasons we lived. Really, in the
big picture of things, all is fine, fine. Deal-able.
That’s when magic beats fine into tune,
music ever ready to repeat,
after it plays al fine
and the storm moves on.
APRIL 29, 2011
Images while Spring Cleaning
I’m polishing the glass over old photographs
my parents, my husband’s parents, our children,
forty years of my husband and me.
So many of the pictures make me think
of love-making.
His parents might have duplicated
the love scene of the Indian prince
and the beautiful courtesan, who
knows how to please him.
Their faces seem to say "all seems well
in the pleasure dome".
Perhaps my mother is like bride prepared
by the Prince’s mother, given
a cloth for the blood, a herb
for the pain.
The detail in the movie fits
with one her drunken stories.
How the new princess does not know any tricks;
she is frightened.
The selfish Prince is impatient,
has no time for her,
out of angry duty
plunges in.
Of course, later, the courtesan
falls in love with a rival of the Prince
and the story becomes complex.
What is service? Pleasure? Love?
A picture of my husband and me when we first met
and I waitressed at a steakhouse, reminded
me of the stories I would imagine
about couples I served.
It was clear the young drinking couples flirting
were expecting a good roll in the hay.
Each Saturday, an old couple came,
not helped by drink. They had lost
their fire. They moved from
two martinis to a bottle of wine,
and then to argument. It hurt to imagine
them going home, each to a separate
corner of the house, with a nightcap
angry, lonely, upset.
What did they know about service?
Had they ever known pleasure? Love?
Then, there is the couple, where the woman
flirts, but the man is tired; or the man tries
to interest the woman, but she is preoccupied.
And one time I saw an older man slip open a bag
to reveal a small package of Viagra
and grin at the woman. She was practiced in
hiding reactions.
That was before I knew about the need
of tricking the mind and body into excitement.
This complex braid of pleasure, service,
which can become so loose, love slips out,
or so tight, love has no way to enter.
Rare were old couples, so intimate,
they could stroke alive
the other’s pleasure
in an art of pleasing.
A little play acting is not all bad,
like that picture of us in Hawaii.
Yes, we’re sixty, but look – he’s sitting
on the bicycle, and I’ve stepped on
the front wheel, facing him with
our hands on the handle bars,
and one leg is straight, the other
raised in a perfect L behind my back,
as I lean towards him and he receives
my kiss, and tongues it back,
perfectly balanced. The pleasing
love of it all.
April 27
daffodil rap song
(with a nod to May Swenson*, Wordsworth)
Spring and the usual yellow trumpets
spread like angels eating crumpets
refusing to be silenced; they have no frets
about tornado, downpour, hail, keep no bets.
This is a daffodil refusing to unwrap
for you, a taffy-filled chew or strap
of a tune for daffodil megaphones
announcing spring in clumps of overtones.
It’s not phones in a row ringing shrill with light
old-fashioned spring parading the “same-old” day and night
not eggyolk ruffled mouthpieces, muted for ears’ scant might
not tuned into echoes, running, but failing to put time in sight
This is a daffolodil saying bigger’s not better
saying stop messing with the writing god’s letter
that says it loves the world. Big cars, oil spreaders,
bigger chicken, one apple feeds four, polished and redder.
Shucks, another development, hushed dealings in the books,
megaboxed houses slapped together for looks.
See the stylized landscaping of owners who took
a contract for Chemical Lawn for velvet green in every nook
Hear me call you daft, and forget the spritely dance
We say, be in tune to spring, without a headphone trance.
It’s the daffodil rap saying, wake up to spring,
put a sign on each person, each living thing
to say, you matter, you’re important, to you I bring
my dafolodeliberate persistence, no matter what.
See me crop up, add beauty in my stationery strut.
And I'm off my megaphone complaining about wrong.
Here, you take the mic, make up something for a sing-along.
I’m holding my mic, and the wind is playing my tune
I’m yellow, white, orange, doubled or delicate, a boon
for the spirit. Won’t you sing with me, if not now, soon?
It's a rap for a daflidap, not a leak or a crap,
a fastfood sneeze or an "oh Jesus" on your knees.
It's spring and I tell you, be-bopping on my trumpet
you don't have to see any angels, or any crumpet,
and I'm off my megaphone complaining about wrong.
Here, you take the mic, make up something for a sing-along.
**Swenson’s words in her poem.
Yellow telephones in a row in the garden are ringing, shrill with light. Old-fashioned spring brings earliest models out each April the same, naïve and classical. Look into the yolk- colored mouthpieces alert with echoes. Say hello to time.
Tornado Watch when “Fine” Turns Italian
Nothing to fear but fear
itself is easy to say to a husband,
or to a tornado, the split-bellied gutter gushing
pounds and pounds of water
where it shouldn’t.
This too shall pass fixes
nothing, as lighting takes giant steps
down the trembling plum
and the wife mis-hears the husband’s
comment about their grown daughter,
too busy for an exclusive father-daughter hike.
Don’t worry
worries itself into the conversation
like embroidery thread whose gnarled knots
hide on the underside; burrows into worrubs
of ground so storm-soaked a step in the grass
sinks mid-calf.
Upper lip mumbling Dharma reminders,
about suffering, impermance, laces
with the lower lip’s serenity prayer.
The right ear feels full of the sea pounding
to deliver an un-oracular message: Do not ask the
tornado’s fat mama funnel to turn into a slim-waisted girl,
and the left ear flutes the idea of
dancing in some sunlight singing,
in some other part of the world.
Storm everywhere, and the two of us
with our own headshaken versions—
but I’m fine. I stitch a small tear
in a pillow case hem, we’ve had for 40 years,
think about the seasons we lived. Really, in the
big picture of things, all is fine, fine. Deal-able.
That’s when magic beats fine into tune,
music ever ready to repeat,
after it plays al fine
and the storm moves on.
APRIL 29, 2011
Images while Spring Cleaning
I’m polishing the glass over old photographs
my parents, my husband’s parents, our children,
forty years of my husband and me.
So many of the pictures make me think
of love-making.
His parents might have duplicated
the love scene of the Indian prince
and the beautiful courtesan, who
knows how to please him.
Their faces seem to say "all seems well
in the pleasure dome".
Perhaps my mother is like bride prepared
by the Prince’s mother, given
a cloth for the blood, a herb
for the pain.
The detail in the movie fits
with one her drunken stories.
How the new princess does not know any tricks;
she is frightened.
The selfish Prince is impatient,
has no time for her,
out of angry duty
plunges in.
Of course, later, the courtesan
falls in love with a rival of the Prince
and the story becomes complex.
What is service? Pleasure? Love?
A picture of my husband and me when we first met
and I waitressed at a steakhouse, reminded
me of the stories I would imagine
about couples I served.
It was clear the young drinking couples flirting
were expecting a good roll in the hay.
Each Saturday, an old couple came,
not helped by drink. They had lost
their fire. They moved from
two martinis to a bottle of wine,
and then to argument. It hurt to imagine
them going home, each to a separate
corner of the house, with a nightcap
angry, lonely, upset.
What did they know about service?
Had they ever known pleasure? Love?
Then, there is the couple, where the woman
flirts, but the man is tired; or the man tries
to interest the woman, but she is preoccupied.
And one time I saw an older man slip open a bag
to reveal a small package of Viagra
and grin at the woman. She was practiced in
hiding reactions.
That was before I knew about the need
of tricking the mind and body into excitement.
This complex braid of pleasure, service,
which can become so loose, love slips out,
or so tight, love has no way to enter.
Rare were old couples, so intimate,
they could stroke alive
the other’s pleasure
in an art of pleasing.
A little play acting is not all bad,
like that picture of us in Hawaii.
Yes, we’re sixty, but look – he’s sitting
on the bicycle, and I’ve stepped on
the front wheel, facing him with
our hands on the handle bars,
and one leg is straight, the other
raised in a perfect L behind my back,
as I lean towards him and he receives
my kiss, and tongues it back,
perfectly balanced. The pleasing
love of it all.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
O pen -- April 25
What makes a favorite poem a favorite poem?
The sample of poems below give some clues:
the fun of saying; the fun of playing; the fun of image;
the drama of telling a story; the way one can look at an ordinary object like grass and turn it into something larger from so many angles!
Poems to read/learn by heart to perform. From Poets.org
http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/86
1. Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll
2. Hommage to my hips by Lucille Clifton
3. "Out, Out—" by Robert Frost
4. The Day Lady Died by Frank O'Hara
5. Still I Rise by Maya Angelou
Not on the list but just as good:
6. A child said, What is the grass? by Walt Whitman
The sample of poems below give some clues:
the fun of saying; the fun of playing; the fun of image;
the drama of telling a story; the way one can look at an ordinary object like grass and turn it into something larger from so many angles!
Poems to read/learn by heart to perform. From Poets.org
http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/86
1. Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll
2. Hommage to my hips by Lucille Clifton
3. "Out, Out—" by Robert Frost
4. The Day Lady Died by Frank O'Hara
5. Still I Rise by Maya Angelou
Not on the list but just as good:
6. A child said, What is the grass? by Walt Whitman
NAPOWRIMO day 25 AND 26
DAY 25
April 25
Easter Sunday in 31 syllables
Sun after 3 days of rain! -- 7
I’m as happy as if wearing -- 8
a new bonnet, -- 4
maple shaking diamond eardrops 9
off catkins! 3
**
I'm in a haiku spirit — part of it is the understated nature of Japanese…
A haiku would not have a wordy question like "did you see the winter leaves dropping into the stream with the small boats of cherry blossom" --
But I love the idea of spring shaking off the dusty remains of winter as it grows new skin. How, in spite of return of Spring, it is never identical.
Cherry petal boats
Nudge a brown willow leafcurl
In the brook's spring song
**
I have a hunch this is more a personal process…
DAY 26
Changing of the Guard (Sunrise/set)
Beginning of May, lilac
will burst in the East, linked
to dandelion fire in the West
not by seed, stalk
nor wind-link
of tornado in the Midwest
a typhoon in the Pacific,
invisibles chaining
chiming, raising their chin
in a blaze of purple, yellow.
Actually the buds wallow
in the flood. This morning,
mist swallowed up the sunrise,
and whatever allowed the sunset,
harmonized the two of us.
April 25
Easter Sunday in 31 syllables
Sun after 3 days of rain! -- 7
I’m as happy as if wearing -- 8
a new bonnet, -- 4
maple shaking diamond eardrops 9
off catkins! 3
**
I'm in a haiku spirit — part of it is the understated nature of Japanese…
A haiku would not have a wordy question like "did you see the winter leaves dropping into the stream with the small boats of cherry blossom" --
But I love the idea of spring shaking off the dusty remains of winter as it grows new skin. How, in spite of return of Spring, it is never identical.
Cherry petal boats
Nudge a brown willow leafcurl
In the brook's spring song
**
I have a hunch this is more a personal process…
DAY 26
Changing of the Guard (Sunrise/set)
Beginning of May, lilac
will burst in the East, linked
to dandelion fire in the West
not by seed, stalk
nor wind-link
of tornado in the Midwest
a typhoon in the Pacific,
invisibles chaining
chiming, raising their chin
in a blaze of purple, yellow.
Actually the buds wallow
in the flood. This morning,
mist swallowed up the sunrise,
and whatever allowed the sunset,
harmonized the two of us.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Friday, April 8, 2011
NAPOWRIMO day 6, 7, 8, 9
April 6
response to Wallace Stevens, “Large Red Man Reading”
Behind the Reading
perhaps, a large red man, or a ghost returning
to hear his phrases or one of those stars,
or scars etched into midnight,
mid-point wilderness where memory hears
the clatter of pans, tulips in clay pots, wheels
sinking barefeet first spoken by spoke
feeling
where the shiver spines and pricks
and iron-clamps lock the throat
until the heart expulses broken rocks
veiled in the eyes saying... and yet, and
yet –
April 7
Declaration
I, having loved ever since I was a child, simple things, never having wavered
from looking for them
in a pine tree, first robin, last goose calls, first star,
Never, when surrounded by sidewalks and click of high heels, lose thought
that all can spell into Awe,
Never, when anxious to appear confident, discount, discredit, diminish
the power of the mourning dove or first bells of lily of the valley, or when
befuddled by lack of sleep, or drink, or heartache, even then, declare
my love for the dignity of being; no matter what country, what season,
what party in power, whatever combination of interests; Yes, this love
I declare.
**
APRIL 8
Silent L's
Silen(shhhhhh) tells.
April lips past sips
to sail pairing
seasons.
April 9
Left in the dust
is not a good feeling.
My Dad opens his agenda –
sees empty pages.
Each day, slips out the window
as he stares at the bay,
holding a book
a shell of dignity in his lap.
Now his second wife
is a stranger, the last thirty years
strangely erased.
He is still in love with my mother,
still, after 65 years
unable to understand why
she left him.
I feel doubly bereft
as the dust gathers.
response to Wallace Stevens, “Large Red Man Reading”
Behind the Reading
perhaps, a large red man, or a ghost returning
to hear his phrases or one of those stars,
or scars etched into midnight,
mid-point wilderness where memory hears
the clatter of pans, tulips in clay pots, wheels
sinking barefeet first spoken by spoke
feeling
where the shiver spines and pricks
and iron-clamps lock the throat
until the heart expulses broken rocks
veiled in the eyes saying... and yet, and
yet –
April 7
Declaration
I, having loved ever since I was a child, simple things, never having wavered
from looking for them
in a pine tree, first robin, last goose calls, first star,
Never, when surrounded by sidewalks and click of high heels, lose thought
that all can spell into Awe,
Never, when anxious to appear confident, discount, discredit, diminish
the power of the mourning dove or first bells of lily of the valley, or when
befuddled by lack of sleep, or drink, or heartache, even then, declare
my love for the dignity of being; no matter what country, what season,
what party in power, whatever combination of interests; Yes, this love
I declare.
**
APRIL 8
Silent L's
Silen(shhhhhh) tells.
April lips past sips
to sail pairing
seasons.
April 9
Left in the dust
is not a good feeling.
My Dad opens his agenda –
sees empty pages.
Each day, slips out the window
as he stares at the bay,
holding a book
a shell of dignity in his lap.
Now his second wife
is a stranger, the last thirty years
strangely erased.
He is still in love with my mother,
still, after 65 years
unable to understand why
she left him.
I feel doubly bereft
as the dust gathers.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
napowrimo day 6 -- see also poetic conversations
Reflections by Kitty Jospé, guest blogger:
P eople
Of
E very
T ribe
R egion
Y es to your voices!
Are you writing a poem a day? I love this challenge and have posted them under “NAPOWRIMO” on my blog. http://kdjospe.blogspot.com/2011/04/napowrimo-april-poem-day-april-45.html I am a teacher of language, poetry and art appreciation, and love preparing lectures on music, word, art, human expression.
Saturday April 2, in a gathering of poets, we all read our favorite poems and why they are among our favorites. I presented a topic of the day on Style and Performance and how we are captivated by tone and language more than content.
Here’s the “occasional” poem I wrote – i.e. the ditty for that occasion.
If by YOU – the world’s your oyster, you’re the one to tell—
the poem, your pick
to play open, or closed, or simply on the half shell
For the Edna St. Vincent Millay poem, I picked, (Modern Declaration), I would not have enjoyed it as much, nor been able to read it convincingly without analyzing the syntax. By responding to it (on April 1), I was able to dig deeper not only into her poem, but find an echo in my own voice.
This idea of resonating with another voice in a conversation, might be called by some “imitation” – but it is deeper than that. We observe the style, the manner, linked to a time period, culture, affectation, but underneath it is a universal element of being human which makes us say, “I recognize that” – and if it is GREAT, we want to follow suit.
My poem for April 6 is a response to Wallace Stevens, “Large Red Man Reading”
Behind the Reading
perhaps, a large red man, or a ghost returning
to hear his phrases or one of those stars,
or scars etched into midnight,
mid-point wilderness where memory hears
the clatter of pans, tulips in clay pots, wheels
sinking barefeet first spoken by spoke
feeling
where the shiver spines and pricks
and iron-clamps lock the throat
until the heart expulses broken rocks
veiled in the eyes saying... and yet, and
yet –
P eople
Of
E very
T ribe
R egion
Y es to your voices!
Are you writing a poem a day? I love this challenge and have posted them under “NAPOWRIMO” on my blog. http://kdjospe.blogspot.com/2011/04/napowrimo-april-poem-day-april-45.html I am a teacher of language, poetry and art appreciation, and love preparing lectures on music, word, art, human expression.
Saturday April 2, in a gathering of poets, we all read our favorite poems and why they are among our favorites. I presented a topic of the day on Style and Performance and how we are captivated by tone and language more than content.
Here’s the “occasional” poem I wrote – i.e. the ditty for that occasion.
If by YOU – the world’s your oyster, you’re the one to tell—
the poem, your pick
to play open, or closed, or simply on the half shell
For the Edna St. Vincent Millay poem, I picked, (Modern Declaration), I would not have enjoyed it as much, nor been able to read it convincingly without analyzing the syntax. By responding to it (on April 1), I was able to dig deeper not only into her poem, but find an echo in my own voice.
This idea of resonating with another voice in a conversation, might be called by some “imitation” – but it is deeper than that. We observe the style, the manner, linked to a time period, culture, affectation, but underneath it is a universal element of being human which makes us say, “I recognize that” – and if it is GREAT, we want to follow suit.
My poem for April 6 is a response to Wallace Stevens, “Large Red Man Reading”
Behind the Reading
perhaps, a large red man, or a ghost returning
to hear his phrases or one of those stars,
or scars etched into midnight,
mid-point wilderness where memory hears
the clatter of pans, tulips in clay pots, wheels
sinking barefeet first spoken by spoke
feeling
where the shiver spines and pricks
and iron-clamps lock the throat
until the heart expulses broken rocks
veiled in the eyes saying... and yet, and
yet –
NAPOWRIMO! APRIL -- A POEM A DAY! April 4,5
April 4:
before a pilgrimage in Japan
Due, dew,
Do, too
(To do two)
heart’s dues
as dew dews.
Soon, we will walk, strengthen legs, heart, be visiting henro, the word for pilgrim and pilgrimage, perhaps holding a staff, tsue. I will look for circles of temples in the shape of lotus blossom and mist draped peaks, and clear my mind so that darkness can pass through without sticking.
Dew’s due
To do
What dews do.
April 5
50 words, soul-first
scrubbing the insides
So no churning stomach
No out-of-bound heart pound
(Not that organs are ever temple silent)
Such noise invites darkness to stick:
black tar
anger taut in the torso,
compressed sorrow
collapsed saltblocks in the throat.
Two days of scrubbing.
Ah! All’s clear!
-- even borrowed scenery.
before a pilgrimage in Japan
Due, dew,
Do, too
(To do two)
heart’s dues
as dew dews.
Soon, we will walk, strengthen legs, heart, be visiting henro, the word for pilgrim and pilgrimage, perhaps holding a staff, tsue. I will look for circles of temples in the shape of lotus blossom and mist draped peaks, and clear my mind so that darkness can pass through without sticking.
Dew’s due
To do
What dews do.
April 5
50 words, soul-first
scrubbing the insides
So no churning stomach
No out-of-bound heart pound
(Not that organs are ever temple silent)
Such noise invites darkness to stick:
black tar
anger taut in the torso,
compressed sorrow
collapsed saltblocks in the throat.
Two days of scrubbing.
Ah! All’s clear!
-- even borrowed scenery.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
NAPOWRIMO! APRIL -- A POEM A DAY! April 1, 2
NAPOWRIMO! APRIL -- A POEM A DAY! April 1
Here we go for April 1st. The first day our dog is officially 15 years old.
The 3rd day after my Uncle died.
April 1
Response to Heather McHugh’s “Etymological Dirge”
Let us pray for the dead, here in the
Dark of wee hours. They have no sun to wake them.
Let us rejoice in the calm of their silence.
The balm of working in the dark
Kindles word to thought, feeling
For instance, tall becomes grand,
as in high in stature mutated to gi-zal
as in quick and soon syllables
race into flame chasing figure eights
setting tunes to win our heart.
Let us pray for the dead, sing requiem
With a coda measured to bring
the idea of some Dominus,
who will comfort our fear
help us swing our invisible tails
as if we were again beautiful,
beyond someone’s idea of normal.
Let us pray for the placers of masks,
worn by living and dead, as we look
at a life, praying for light to define it.
APRIL 2
Grave wrappings
of words, able yet liable.
We wait, not knowing beginning,
not knowing if passing ends,
scattering bones of “if”
Si, si, that leading tone
in the oldest stone.
Nod to Tom Holmes: The Oldest Stone in the World
I wrote this poem for Dennis Adams' photograph and will read it this afternoon.
Here we go for April 1st. The first day our dog is officially 15 years old.
The 3rd day after my Uncle died.
April 1
Response to Heather McHugh’s “Etymological Dirge”
Let us pray for the dead, here in the
Dark of wee hours. They have no sun to wake them.
Let us rejoice in the calm of their silence.
The balm of working in the dark
Kindles word to thought, feeling
For instance, tall becomes grand,
as in high in stature mutated to gi-zal
as in quick and soon syllables
race into flame chasing figure eights
setting tunes to win our heart.
Let us pray for the dead, sing requiem
With a coda measured to bring
the idea of some Dominus,
who will comfort our fear
help us swing our invisible tails
as if we were again beautiful,
beyond someone’s idea of normal.
Let us pray for the placers of masks,
worn by living and dead, as we look
at a life, praying for light to define it.
APRIL 2
Grave wrappings
of words, able yet liable.
We wait, not knowing beginning,
not knowing if passing ends,
scattering bones of “if”
Si, si, that leading tone
in the oldest stone.
Nod to Tom Holmes: The Oldest Stone in the World
I wrote this poem for Dennis Adams' photograph and will read it this afternoon.
NAPOWRIMO -- April 3
Possibility
In a great city, a sky-scraper lyre,
Played by light arrowed into bull’s eyes
Nothing shakes the lines, caught as if tacked
by still-burst spots, starred eyes
Black and white singing or silent,
Depending on the ears of your eyes
No lack of good or bad luck for six keys
strumming vertical shine. Which are “I’s”?
Buildings saying, I, I, waiting to be seen.
Clean force, cleared forest, aye, aye
A chance to view in black and white
What might not strike the inner eye
Piano keys and rockets singing empty blues
two claps of sun revise
by Kitty Jospé
**
This poem is a response to a black and white photo by Dennis Adams entitled, X-Tower#1, the first photograph on this site: http://www.artdga.com/Art/gallery_4.html
It will be shown along with other work at the City Gallery in an exhibit starting June 17.
In a great city, a sky-scraper lyre,
Played by light arrowed into bull’s eyes
Nothing shakes the lines, caught as if tacked
by still-burst spots, starred eyes
Black and white singing or silent,
Depending on the ears of your eyes
No lack of good or bad luck for six keys
strumming vertical shine. Which are “I’s”?
Buildings saying, I, I, waiting to be seen.
Clean force, cleared forest, aye, aye
A chance to view in black and white
What might not strike the inner eye
Piano keys and rockets singing empty blues
two claps of sun revise
by Kitty Jospé
**
This poem is a response to a black and white photo by Dennis Adams entitled, X-Tower#1, the first photograph on this site: http://www.artdga.com/Art/gallery_4.html
It will be shown along with other work at the City Gallery in an exhibit starting June 17.
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