Archive for ‘Poem’

May 9, 2017

Excerpt from Tesora, a novel

Tesora

From Tesora

I look at her hands
on my hands
on her stomach.
A baby.
I hope to see
into the future,
but all I see is
the basket of shadows
the lamplight makes
of our fingers.

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February 11, 2017

Fire Flower (A sonnet)

manikinfireflower

Fire Flower
(A sonnet)

If my eyes were dreams, I’d need no sleep
to picture her face in the light or in the dark.
Memories of her touch would linger for weeks,
not minutes, to soothe my non-poetic parts.
But without the help of imagination’s magic,
I’d drown in ink or lose the fire flower light
that saves all my inspiration from its tragic.
Her eyes might make my darkness take flight,
but eyes are not dreams, they see bright hues
and so lose to dark or to ears with fine hearing.
I’m left with a cold chair, a guitar, and the blues
to pray her ears love my muse without judging.
Imaginary stories don’t warm me like tea,
but their leaves
reveal light’s fortune in thee.

(Art by Anne Abrams)

August 10, 2016

Un-Remembered, a poem to remember

Mannequin:AAbrams

Un-Remembered

I memorize the lines sculpted
by your face into my fingers, but
I can’t memorize words of poems.
If my literary memory loss tastes
like freedom to my speech today,
why can’t I tell you I love you?

If I only memorize love in songs,
I’m pleased by the lack of memory
that forces me to eternally invent.
I must re-touch each point of view,
but un-remember each one, or fail
to allow imagination to draft it all.

To quote Chekhov or Shakespeare
sublimes me like a new-lover kiss,
a finger-kiss touch on Dad’s casket,
or a kiss-off for an unloved poet, yet
the words of other writers lose me.
So I need deep memories of touch
and agile notes of melody to know
how your kiss tastes across a room.
I need your history from A to Z
to touch your future from Z to A.

I can’t memorize words of poems.
I’m pleased by a lack of memory.
Laugh, if you’ve heard this before.

(Art by Anne Abrams)

 

December 18, 2014

Rondeau At The Train Stop By Erin Belieu

Rondeau At The Train Stop

It bothers me: the genital smell of the bay
drifting toward me on the T stop, the train
circling the city like a dingy, year-round
Christmas display. The Puritans were right! Sin
is everywhere in Massachusetts, hell-bound

in the population. it bothers me
because it’s summer now and sticky – no rain
to cool things down; heat like a wound
that will not close. Too hot, these shameful
percolations of the body that bloom
between strangers on a train. It bothers me

now that I’m alone and singles foam
around the city, bothered by the lather, the rings
of sweat. Know this bay’s a watery animal, hind-end
perpetually raised: a wanting posture, pain
so apparent, wanting so much that it bothers me.

Rondeau At The Train Stop By Erin Belieu.

 

 

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December 3, 2014

New poem by Walt Whitman

New poem by that upstart poet, Walt Whitman:
“To Bryant, the Poet of Nature”

 

 

September 28, 2014

Position Needed, a poem for peace

Position Needed

United States Secretary of Peace:
an Executive Cabinet position to
be appointed by enlightenment
itself. This Secretary may not be
removed by any president ever.
Secretary of Defense answers to
Secretary of Peace who has veto
power over anything it says or does.
The United States Secretary of Peace
answers to no one but to peace itself. 

  (Photo by Anne Abrams)

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August 8, 2012

Emily Dickinson, Virgin Recluse—Not

Wild Nights by Emily Dickinson, The Text

Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile the winds
To a heart in port,
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.

Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!

—”Wild nights! Wild nights!” is a poem of sexual passion. Colonel Higginson, her editor, wrote:

One poem only I dread a little to print–that wonderful ‘Wild Nights,’—lest the malignant read into it more than that virgin recluse ever dreamed of putting there. Has Miss Lavinia [Emily Dickinson’s sister] any shrinking about it? You will understand & pardon my solicitude. Yet what a loss to omit it! Indeed it is not to be omitted.

The myth of Emily Dickinson as some kind of  virgin recluse?

We poet gots passion!

July 31, 2012

Four poems from Charles Simic: “The Future” & Other Poems

I’ve been reading a collection of the poems of Charles Simic. I like his poems. He is a Serbian American and was named the 15th poet laureate of the United States. I love the way he juxtaposes ordinary images with evocative ones. When questioned about his style, he once said: “I wanted something seemingly artless and pedestrian to surprise the reader by conveying so much more. In other words, I wanted a poem a dog can understand. Still, I love odd words, strange images, startling metaphors, and rich diction, so I’m like a monk in a whorehouse, gnawing on a chunk of dry bread while watching the ladies drink champagne and parade in their lacy undergarments.” At another time he said: “In America, if you want to know where the heart is you listen to the blues and country music.” This juxtaposition is also something Margot Suydam does well in her work (found below). Here are two excerpts of his:

“I like to cloister myself
Watching my thoughts roam
Like a homeless family
Holding on to their children
And their few possessions
Seeking shelter for the night.”
and:
“Friends of the small hours of the night:
Stub of a pencil, small notebook,
Reading lamp on the table,
Making me welcome in your circle of light.”

Here are four of his best poems from “The Future & Other Poems.”
http://www.pen.org/blog/?p=10928

March 28, 2012

“You can observe a lot by watching”—Yogi Berra

Yogi Berra

I sit in my window in springtime
writing a story about life and death
in World War II. Just past the view
of my notebook is a dogwood tree.
Half its buds are purple, half the blossoms
are pink, half the blossoms are lavender.
There is only one day in a year
the tree shows such color.
Fifteen people walk past it
talking on phones, gazing at feet,
texting friends in far states of mind.
One woman crosses the street to it
and looks around as if surprised
that no one sees a burning bush.
She aims her eyes and camera.
Another in a lavender top
stops and looks into it as if
it’s a mirror:
it is one
and she is one.

March 9, 2012

What Did Freddie, the Beagle, Steal?

What Freddie Stole

Dad’s beagle tugs a bone from
under my boot and sprints
around me. I cut him off against
the fence. He drops it and barks.
He slurps it up again and runs
behind the rose bush. I sit down.
He peeks out. Chase me, he says.
I let the walnut tree rub my back.
He lays the bone beside his paws.
Orange from the sun sets in his eyes.
His tongue wags like a tail.
A flight of geese honk over Norm’s farm
and I hear their calls echo off the hill.
Don’t you know he’s never coming back,
that he’ll never rattle your water bowl again?

I’m not going back in there—
that living room is too full of polite.
I didn’t announce it was Dad in the canister
although he would have liked the audience.
He would tell his bullfrog jokes again.
He can learn to listen now.

When Steve held the canister up
they squared their shoulders to him
one last time. I could see in their eyes
what they didn’t want to know.
I let Freddy back inside.
They didn’t wait long.

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