Oh madness, thy name is Michael.
Thy sword, held high above thy head,
speaks the tale of war and the wrath of God.
Oh Joy, thy name is Charon,
captain of the boat
knower of the currents
voiceless beggar for the last gold coin.
Monthly Archives: August 2011
whistling past the graveyard
my ancestors do not see
or hear, or taste, or dream,
they speak in tawdry accusations
as dawn bends around a crow’s wing
they remember smiles,
and hate me even more.
great-grandfather, please
let the new days ring
from the steeples
I can only beg, here
where the spirits sneer
at the endless nothing.
Great-grandmother it is me
the one you loved
though you never kissed my forehead
please, forgive me
your name is safe
here in my heart.
my ancestors ache for the peaceful thickets
for the cool dusk
and the hymns of fireflies
Great-great-grandfather
please, I mean well.
I mean well.
My ancestors accuse me of worse than hate
they snicker at loves
that never were.
Oh God, save me.
I am less than nothing.
less than nothing…
The Broken Ode to Gender
blessed be the womb
and the sword
the distance between flesh
the beloved gender that eeks between understandings
blessed be the myth
and the mystery, the dead and the scarred
and those too scared to pray.
blessed be the born
and the unborn, the lie
and the truth, the every touch
even those unmade.
oh, Gender, I sing of thee
my beloved one, my only one
myself and thee.
Defining Self & Selfless
Thy name is Terra,
but I shall call thee Fred.
Fred, sipper of malt
cackler of long tales and turtle eggs
Loose the voice that knows the true name
of God & Goddess
so that we might sleep
beneath a kinder star
Fred, my friend, my always-friend
becoming thee
allow the world to know
the cool waters
still running clear
and the kindness of a mountain in summer.
Thy name is Terra,
but I do call thee, Fred.
My brother,
my sister,
my father, My mother my everything
oh Terra, be mine
still
and peaceful
when the moon is born
again.
Haiku: Prison Series
a butterfly
on a grapevine
waiting for sunlight
in blue dresses
twins make paper machet
masks of each other
a gentle touch
softest summer
in a sunlit glade
an endless blue sky
cloudless, and hopeless
over the county jail
orange dances
between proud lilies
sunshine rules the monarch
butterfly on my thigh
we both wait
for something to change
all the butterflies
orange
except one
a fox passes
the glade
in summer heat
a cold starry night
a whole dream
only half a moon
zebra strips
camouflage
the lions see nothing
How I write poetry sometimes
I have this amazing friend, who I was talking to about poetry and such, and she was seemingly taken aback when I said, “I don’t buy into the ‘writing from the heart’ or ‘write what you feel’ or any of that crap. I just decide what to write and write it. I have A LOT of poetry that I’ve written… most of it is absolutely awful. I can’t be worried about that though. One must accept what happens and move on.”I thought at first, it was because she took that as a personal insult to her own work, but I think, maybe that wasn’t it. It is as much an insult to anyone that reads what I write, and doesn’t think it’s crap, and feels inspired or moved by it. It suggests that I”m being insincere and manipulative in everything I write and do.
And, as I’ve said to anyone who asks, It isn’t as if anything I’m writing is some great masterpiece — the English language will be fine without my tiny bit of turd on the grand pile of verbiage.
When I write, the meaning and sincerity are there, even if, during the act of writing, I do my level best to not let my emotions control my pen. I realize that I am at odds with almost every poet I meet on these issues.
I write best when I separate myself from my feelings on things. I construct poems, and try to use craft and skill. One of the first things I do is try to remove the line I like most and rewrite the poems without it. Almost every poet I know, thinks I’m an idiot. BUT, it works for me. Unless asked directly, I don’t tell anyone how to write poetry for just that reason.
To my way of thinking, poetry is just like any other writing. It’s no different to write a poem than it is directions on how to tie shoelaces. The only difference is the effect. A poem typically works towards the emotional; the tools we use to write a poem are more effective in evoking feelings and emotions than the language and tools one uses to describe putting together a bookcase.
When I start a poem, I decide its purpose and atmosphere first. That allows me to select the language, the rhythm, and the images more specifically relevant to the piece. It’s really no different than how I might write an essay and the fact that feelings are set aside does not remove the meaning of the message.
I do not write for some sort of emotional catharsis. My writing gives me all the joy that any act of free will might, but the connection to an audience — the moment when someone understands some something that is in my head, and understands me — THAT is a reason to write.
What I ‘feel’ is irrelevant to writing process except perhaps as subject matter, but what I think, what I learn, what I know, and how I’m able to communicate my feelings and thoughts through writing using poetic tools, or prose tools; that’s an amazing thing full of meaning.
Fully grasping what I want to say, finding some inner calm, and letting go of random stray emotion and feelings before I write, that does not mean that what I write was not ABOUT my feelings, it means I tried to set them aside while I wrote it. Writing for me is about communicating, it’s not about making myself feel good. I’m not often trying to release some inner demons or work out my thoughts when I write. That is more what I do when I sit quietly by myself.
Regardless, the point is this: I’m not insulting you when I say I don’t buy into the write-what-you-feel or ‘write-from-the-heart’ things. I am sure for many of you, that’s exactly what you do, and it works for you.
To those I will inevitably insult whenever I talk about these things — I suppose you can take this as a blanket pre-apology, and then I’ll give you a personalized one after the fact.
Shame and cirrhosis
Kerouac told me the other day
about downs, and ups
broken tibias, and long yardage,
then the pull of words
to Columbia
the push of words when he soured
when he fought, when he failed. (Fuck Lou, hard.)
He was hurt, i think, i wonder.
I am sure
i heard him downtown, it was his echo
he was drunk
on Moody street, muttering in french
I think embarrassed to go home
and let his mother see
how beaten he was
I told him, “Ti-jean, life is not a garbage pile
it is a junk store.”
he slurred a laugh
i wish i knew him better, i wish
but he is gone.
so we disappeared Good men
very very good men, back into the poetry of his liver
there by the gate of Edson cemetery.
proximity to the sun
the world is spinning quietly
in a murk of nothing much
i am dying by the sea
and feeling out of touch
the moon just said good bye, I think
the stars just gave a nod
a million times I despaired
that the cod fish thinks he’s God
the world is spinning quietly
the sun so far away
93,000,000 miles seems an irony
I don’t know what to say.
regarding the shapes of clouds
I can not sit, I am a prisoner of standing
up to see into the sky behind her eyes,
I am handless and footless and wanton mad
a billow of cloud screaming up her skirt,
the gods of air bark orders like dyslexics
to shackle me there in orange plaid pants
they tell me the truth about blindness until
i beg for them to rip off my ears and save me
from the crueler things – like words
she snickers at my bodiless pleas
there are no boys that drift without tongues
pass by without faces, that dream
beautiful things, like me.
there are no boys that drift without tongues
pass by without faces, that dream
beautiful things, like me.
I can not sit, I am a prisoner of freedom
up in the cool airless begging place beneath
the moon, i pillow and pillory the notions
of dogs on tall mountains howling
she pulls a shawl about her, i see the truth
about deafness, until she begs the wind
to save her from the crueler things
like life.
i snicker at her bodiful pleas
there are no girls that drift without tongues
pass by without hips, that imagine
beautiful things, like me.
watching as she idles by
perhaps a lip is just a lip
a finger is a fool
perhaps the vile longings slip
amongst the broken rules
perhaps a kiss is nothing
and a worry even less?
perhaps the sea despairs for me
but still I won’t confess
and a worry even less?
perhaps the sea despairs for me
but still I won’t confess
perhaps a touch is just a touch
a moment isn’t time?
perhaps a sin means only love
and love is just a crime?