moon pools and slumbers
and May's awakening.
Endpoint and Other Poems
Alfred A. Knopf
from Poetry Daily
Renga # 28 = 0 (boo!)
Poem # 1
have you been carrying that mirror long?
because you are not here i have been
scheming. the scale surges before us, is wide
and so very often drafty. remind me
of vertigo's trusty cures.
(was it the feet missing a safe perch
or the eyes reeling earthward?)
but with my arm, crooked,under my head
i am snug and parallel to the ground
and yes, i have been waiting
We stood on the rented patio
While the party went on inside.
You knew the groom from college.
I was a friend of the bride.
We hugged the brownstone wall behind us
To keep our dress clothes dry
And watched the sudden summer storm
Floodlit against the sky.
The rain was like a waterfall
Of brilliant beaded light,
Cool and silent as the stars
The storm hid from the night.
To my surprise, you took my arm–
A gesture you didn't explain–
And we spoke in whispers, as if we two
Might imitate the rain.
Then suddenly the storm receded
As swiftly as it came.
The doors behind us opened up.
The hostess called your name.
I watched you merge into the group,
Aloof and yet polite.
We didn't speak another word
Except to say goodnight.
Why does that evening's memory
Return with this night's storm–
A party twenty years ago,
Its disappointments warm?
There are so many might have beens,
What ifs that won't stay buried,
Other cities, other jobs,
Strangers we might have married.
And memory insists on pining
For places it never went,
As if life would be happier
Just by being different.
"More and more, they groan when it comes to poetry days...They like the fiction — standards such as “A & P,” “Lost in the Funhouse,” “Good Country People” — but lines such as these by John Ashbery leave them cold:“. . . The sky calls To the deaf earth. The proverbial disarray Of morning corrects itself as you stand up. You are wearing a text.”
What’s a “proverbial disarray?” they wonder. And how can you wear a text? Yeah, yeah, we can interpret all kinds of ways, but it doesn’t seem right when you have to work so hard to get a grip on the basic meaning."
"And what does this opening from Levertov mean to them?
“Who’d believe me if
I said, ‘They took and
split me open from
scalp to crotch, and
still I’m alive, and
walk around pleased with
the sun and all
the world’s bounty.’ Honesty
isn’t so simple:
a simple honesty is
nothing but a lie.”
What the heck do you mean when you say that simple honesty is a lie? asks the young man or woman who wants clarity and straightforwardness from adults.
Or this from Anne Sexton:
“My friend, my friend, I was born
doing reference work in sin, and born
confessing it. This is what poems are:
for the greedy,
they are the tongue’s wrangle,
the world’s pottage, the rat’s star.”
When 19-year-olds they read those lines, they think, “Huh?” Or, “Rat’s star?” Plus, when poets write poems about poetry and texts, teachers may find it intriguing, but kids who don’t plan to major in literature couldn’t care less. They can’t relate."
and after the students' positive reaction to Gioia's poem, Bauerlein ended with this:
"The occasion was a lesson in poetry teaching. Don’t choose poems so difficult and remote from young students, especially the non-humanities majors. They may be brilliant and powerful, but if their brilliance and power requires too much guidance and contextualization on the teacher’s part, they won’t work.
And don’t assume that because a poem has regular cadences and rhyme, tells a recognizable story, and is accessible to the 19-year-old sensibility that it doesn’t achieve the brilliance and power of the difficult, oblique, intense poetry of the anthology pieces."
Renga # 27
train wreck the arch of her back
as she turns and heads for the exit
staggering in the darkness
towards a window of light
that suddenly explodes
the way all light explodes.
And further, there, the dark
tunnel pushing on toward sunburst.
the curator, kuwabatake, ramblingsoul
We are in danger of losing
the ability to look up,
to the old ceiling and its sighs,
or, outside, to the tree
we first climbed at nine.
And to the sky,
of course, how could we forget
Rain. Summer's silent spell penetrating the concrete.
And we stare, inspecting fallen things.
There's a halo somewhere.
Or angeldust. Even in the hollow of church bells, where
we often hear whispers
of prayer, we will never find
it, never remember
the high sky.
Lately, I am turning into a dust nova.
Other things go tweet throughout the day--
A speck, a dart, a beep. Twittering
and permanent then dissolving
back into firmament.
kuwabatake, lawrence, ramblingsoul
Let me be the first to say
that I know the name for everything
and if I don't I'll make them up:
dukkha, naufragio, talinhaga.
Just like the young
whose hearts give no shame,
I love the excesses of beauty,
there is never enough sunlight
in the world I will live in,
never enough room for love.
I fear none of us will last long enough
to prove what I've always suspected,
that the sky is a membrane
in an angel's skull,
trees talk to each other at night,
ice is water in a state of silence,
the embryo listens to everything we say.
I am afraid for the child skipping rope
on the corner of my street,
the girl on the train with flowers in her hair,
the man whose memory is entirely
in Spanish. I am more afraid of losing consciousness
when I go to sleep, or that in my sleep
I will grow old and forget how desire
once drove me mad with wakefulness.
Just like the perfect seasons
they will die
and I will die
and you will die also;
no one knows who will go first,
and this is the source
of all my grief.
mga prends, tuloy n'yo naman IntPoWriMo Renga natin. Thought Parade naman d'yan, o. :)
Renga # 24
When you were taught about veins,
you noticed how they mimicked
the roots of trees.
Delivering silent stories,
pages falling, myths.
Once, there throbbed within
the twisted body of the Balete tree
This much I know:
this world was made for keening:
heart water leaping
through body's hearth
smoke seeks earth seeks sky
Fire's ghost can never be held
but how it dances
the slow waltz into fading wisps of ash,
into smoke faintly holding into silhouettes
of bodies now gone.
martin, ria, ramblingsoul, PS Eliot, kuwabatake
Hi! Ako po si Yol. Isa po akong underwear designer. Ngayong tag-araw, maglalabas ako ng collection na pinamagatan kong Urbanidad. Binubuo ito ng mga underwear na binurdahan ng mga slogan at street sign na matatagpuan sa minamahal nating lungsod. So far, ito po ang mga slogan at street sign na maari niyong pagpilian, sakaling gusto niyong umorder:
Keep off the grass
Slippery when wet
Accident prone area
Please use the other door
Do not disturb
Please fall in line
Watch your head
Not for hire
No pets allowed
Hard hat area
Beware of falling debris
What you eat is what you are
Thank you, please come again
Handle with care
Caution: Hot Filling
Please don’t leave my valuable unattended
Please feed on the animal
Keep ticket for infection
Baby on board
For clients only
Mag-ingat sa so
No blowing of Horn
This bank is equipped with a time delay device
Isipin ang susunod na gagamit
Isang sawsaw lang po
Batak mo, stuff ko
Think positive ka lang
Nice to look at, lovely to hold, but if you break it, consider it sold
Sit like a queen, don’t sit like a frog
Renga # 22 = 0
since no one contributed (and it's already quite late in the day), i just tried to finish the poem.
it is is it the dyslexic
quixotic lyric it is
or is it? the critic tickles
the twine, thick spine,
the line it is is it