Security

This poem is a little less gloomy, I hope.  (By the way, if there are any thieves out there who know where I live, this is just a poem.  My alarm system is actually armed to the teeth- and I have a vicious dog as well.)

                                                              Security


                                                Is just a sign in the front yard.
                                                I’ve stopped arming the system
                                                each time I leave (it was such
                                                a bother), so I hope any
                                                burglars in the neighborhood
                                                come to the front door,
                                                are easily discouraged,
                                                and are not illiterate.
                                                (I have great faith in
                                                the power of the written
                                                word.) By now, I’ve forgotten
                                                the exact procedures and
                                                can’t remember the secret
                                                place I hid the manuals
                                                so thieves can’t read them,
                                                but at least they are safe,
                                                wherever they might be.

                                                My worst nightmare is coming home
                                                to find the alarm somehow armed
                                                in my absence
                                                and all ready to ring
                                                while I desperately punch in
                                                all possible passwords and codes:
                                                birth dates, anniversaries,
                                                old addresses, grade point
                                                averages, the phone numbers
                                                of old girlfriends
                                                until the police arrive
                                                with sirens and searchlights
                                                and bullhorns and helicopters
                                                to arrest me for mental
                                                vagrancy and lock me up
                                                until I remember
                                                who I am.

Burning Bush

We spent a lot of time huddled close to the gas fireplace during the blackout- which is finally over!!!! I'm afraid that most of my poems written during the power failure are a bit gloomy, but there are just a few more to go.  I hope things will brighten up after that.

                                                                        Burning Bush


                                                  The ceramic logs in the gas fireplace
                                                  burn and burn without being consumed.
                                                 They give flickering light but little heat
                                                 and never crackle or spark or speak
                                                 of what it is like to last forever
                                                 to those who live with ashes and dust
                                                 and stare deep into the flames for an answer.

Repair Crews Are Working Round The Clock

It's the third day of no power after a winter storm here.  Here are some thoughts about the situation.

                                                   Repair Crews Are Working Round the Clock

                                                Winter trees cannot bear too much beauty.
                                                 Diamond ice and ermine snow bend their bare
                                                 limbs to breaking, taking all our power with
                                                 them. Water falls in many forms; what helps
                                                 trees grow can kill them in the end. The remains
                                                 make firewood to fight the cold. More winter
                                                 warmth, less summer shade- all is built on trade.

Walking the Dog

Don't read the following if you don't like poems about bodily functions (or early drafts of poems about the aforementioned).  That's what I get sometimes, though, when I think about what to write while walking the dog.

                                                               Walking the Dog


                                            Although she’s the one on the leash, I often
                                            envy my dog’s freedom when we take a walk.
                                            She seems to see the whole world as her
                                            territory to smell and taste and mark
                                            there and there and there. And when her inner
                                            GPS finally finds the right spot,
                                            she stakes a much more monumental claim.

                                           How strange I must appear to her, always
                                           walking in straight lines on sidewalk or
                                           the left side of the street, facing traffic;
                                           never stopping to sniff or squat or lift a leg;
                                           confining my business to home, the one place
                                           she’d never think to soil; and marking the same
                                           spot over and over: here, here, here, here, here.

In Remembance

No power or Internet at home, so I'm posting this from Caribou Coffee.  I got thinking about mnemonic devices and thought up this silly story/poem about Roy G. Biv (for remembering colors of the spectrum) and some of his fellow mnemonic rhymes and acronyms.  The most obscure is probably the one involving Aunt Sally. It's for remembeing the order of operations in a complex equation. The following is anything but high art.

                                                                           In Remembrance


                                                          Although hailed as King of the Mnemonics,
                                                          Roy G. Biv took little solace in his
                                                          colorful career. He knew it was all
                                                          a sham. Not every good boy got the favor
                                                         he deserved and many red-skied nights
                                                         brought him and his sailors little delight.
                                                        He sighed and shared such thoughts with February
                                                        alone, his sole drinking companion.
                                                       (Roy always paid for the drinks since his friend
                                                        was always a little short.) “Never mix,
                                                        never worry” was all his friend would say
                                                        while sticking to whiskey and shunning
                                                        philosophy. Then one day a drunken
                                                        lady burst into the bar, screaming, “Roy,
                                                       Roy, you surely remember me.” “You want
                                                       we should lose the broad?” asked Roy’s bodyguards,
                                                       Lefty Loosey and Righty Tightie. “No,”
                                                       said Roy, recognizing the old woman
                                                       and thinking of his happy childhood
                                                       by the Great Lakes, a place he once called HOMES.
                                                      “Please excuse my dear Aunt Sally,” he announced
                                                       and then asked his beloved guardian,
                                                      “What can I do for you?” Sally lifted
                                                       two four-fingered hands in hopeful prayer,
                                                       saying, “You can order an operation.”
                                                      Roy fell back but then sprang forward to say,
                                                     “When I first saw you, I was gloomy and struck quite dumb,
                                                      but now I pledge I will restore to you the mighty rule of thumb!”

Our Stink Bug Invasion

We been lucky.  North of us, the stink bugs arrived in Biblical swarms, blocking windows and covering furniture.  Here they have appeared one at a time, usually dead or dying.

                                                                 Our Stink Bug Invasion


                                                has been more subtle and discreet than most;
                                                they’ve appeared as single spies and not
                                                battalions - and only briefly, dying
                                                or dead, so we get to witness a final
                                                flight - a diving swan song- or find a
                                                supine corpse on the carpet, lacking only
                                                a lily for its RAID audition. No call
                                                backs here- just a simple burial in
                                                a Kleenex shroud. We resist the temptation
                                                to crush them as we could. Is that mercy
                                                or cruelty, denying them the chance to live
                                                up to their name in a malodorous death ?
                                                We don’t get to watch the performance of
                                                their lives, just the closing curtain call.

I Can't Believe It's Not Butter

Sometimes it pays to read the Nutrition Facts.  At least, looking at the facts behind America's Favorite Buttery Spray gave me something to write about.

                                                           I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter,


                                                      but I can believe it’s the Platonic idea
                                                      of butter, preserved in plastic, to be
                                                      sprayed on pasta or bread- ethereal
                                                      incense for some sacred ceremony.
                                                     “No calories, fat, sodium, carbs or
                                                      protein,” the label proclaims. Nothing
                                                      to prove it exists, yet it is there to be
                                                      savored: butter unchurned to its purest
                                                      essence, distilled from ingredients
                                                      the Magi could have carried: xanthum,
                                                      lechtin, and carotene. Each spray, a leap
                                                      of faith, but the proof is in the topping,
                                                      for then 15 milligrams of sodium
                                                      appear when poured, not sprayed, on potatoes.
                                                      Something comes out of nothing, defying
                                                      reason as all everyday miracles do:
                                                      the wine bottle glugs before the wine pours
                                                      out, fireflies burn without heat, and sea mist
                                                      hovers over our daily wonder bread.

Applied Mathematics

For a while, I've been thinking about how certain mathematical rules can be (mis)applied to relationships.  Here are some separate short poems I've had gathered into a sequence so they, I hope, form one poem that traces the rise and fall of a relationship. I'm experimenting with having some sections in the voice of one or both of the characters and others being more like a narrator's voice.  (I may have been influenced by what Tolstoy does in Anna Karenina,  dipping into the minds of the characters and then making his own commentary.)  I'm not sure how clear this sequence and structure are.

A few reminders about some of the math terms I use for those of you whose math is rusty. (I had to double check some of them myself.)
Commutative property.   A + B = B + A   (This is also a property of multiplication and addition but not of division and subtraction.)
Transitive property.  If  A = B and B = C, then A = C.  (If two separate things each equal a third thing, then those separate things also equal each other.)
Zero product property.   Any number times zero equals zero.
Order of operations.   In any complicated equation, the first thing you do is perform the operations contained in parentheses or brackets.  So in (3 + 2) x 5, you start by adding 3 and 2 before you do the multiplication.
Identity property.   Any number multiplied by one equals that same number; it is not changed.
You also need to remember that when you multiply a positive number by a negative number, you get a negative number.

Any mathematicians out there can alert me to what mistakes I've made.
Today the copy and paste process seems to have double spaced everything and moved all the lines to the left margin.  I hope you can still read it as a sequence of 12 short poems, each one with a title.

                                                                                    Applied Mathematics



1.

Identity Property


Anything multiplied by nothing but its own

singularity ends up being nothing but itself.



2.

Transitive Property



He thought:

I love sunsets.


You love sunsets.


What follows from that?



3.

Commutative Property I



She thought:

Whether I add you to me


or you add me to you,


the sum should be the same


but greater than either


one of us alone.

.

4.

Number Signs I



He thought:

Subtracting a negative can be the same


as adding a positive.



5.

Opposites



She thought:

Multiplying opposites creates a negative;


but adding the right ones can produce a positive.




6.

Simplification



Can produce the lowest common denominator-

or an elegantly balanced equation.




7.

Order of Operations


The parenthetical comments come first;

in this drama, the asides are more

meaningful than the monologues.

The longer speeches come later.



8.

Number Signs II



She thought:

Subtracting a positive can be


the same as adding a negative.



9.

Commutative Property II



They thought:

Is dividing me by you the same


as dividing you by me?



10.

Number Line



X and –X are equally far from zero,

as are love and hate from apathy.



11.

Zero Product Rule


They know:

Everything x the absence of something = nothing.






12.

Solving for X



Is a lot simpler

than answering Y.

Some variables are easier

to isolate than others.

Thoughts of a Wakeful Wife

Let's try a poem with no introduction and see if it stands on its own.

                                                               

                                Thoughts of a Wakeful Wife

                        Late at night, I can’t tell the difference

                        between the dog’s deep breathing and yours

                        until I hear the snuffled snort, the brief growl,

                        the sighing whine, the rustling scratch

                        of restless legs – and then I know. 

Romeo and Juliet: The G-folio

I'm not sure this is a poem, but I got thinking of what a Shakespeare text might look like if subjected to targeted advertising, a la Gmail. etc.  (Sorry about the spacing at the beginning.  Can't seem to fix it.)
All the Shakespeare text is supposed to be on the left and the Google ads on the right.  That's what it looks like in Word and in Preview, but every time I copy from Word and post this, it intermixes the two.  My apologies.  If I find time to re-type everything directly into the blog, I will.  Until then, sorry about the mess.

                                                                  

ROMEO                                                                                     More about:

He jests at scars that never felt a wound.                                      1001 Jests: Set the table on a

                                                                                                            roar with Yorick’sYuks.

                                                                                                      Plastic surgery.  Get rid of

                                                                                                     unsightly scars at scarsbgone.com

JULIET appears above at a window

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?              Window repair.  Broken windows
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.                                          are a pain. Click here for quick relief.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,                                 Sunscreen: Avoid the sun’s
Who is already sick and pale with grief,                                     harmful rays. Stay fair.
That thou her maid art far more fair than she:                              Careers in astronomy: The
Be not her maid, since she is envious;                                              sky’s the limit
Her vestal livery is but sick and green                                           Maid service: Call Maid in the
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.                                                Shade.
It is my lady, O, it is my love!                                                        Knit Wits: Learn to cast off
O, that she knew she were!                                                               and other purls of wisdom.
She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.                                              Prized Pupils Eye Care: Visit
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:                                           our site for sore eyes.     
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes                                  Earn an M.B.A. at home: We
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.                                      make business a pleasure.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?                           Ned’s Head Shop: The longest
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,                journey begins with a single trip.
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven                             Lamps R’ Us: Lighten up today!
Would through the airy region stream so bright                        Free streaming videos: Megahits
That birds would sing and think it were not night.                       in megabits.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!                          
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,                                      Smell the Glove: Get Spinal Tap’s
That I might touch that cheek!                                                  classic LP at www.lostwax.com

Who's There?

This was written on the bus back from NYC.  (Yes, Paul Simon, while counting the cars on the NJ Turnpike.)  It sounds a little prosaic at this point, and I'm not sure I capture enough of the context for it to be clear.  (To my family members- this game may be something Diane and I played once as opposed to something that was habitual for the whole family.  It's OK if you don't remember it; that is part of what the poem is about.)

                                                                

                                           

                                             Who’s There?

                       

On long family trips, we sometimes played

a game in which one person would tap out

the initial knocks to “Shave and a haircut”

and we would see how long we could wait

before someone would rap out “Two bits.”

This game was long on suspense but short on

action as we would wait miles, days, even

months before someone would finally succumb.

“Remember this!?” that someone would exclaim

in a proclamation of triumph in

defeat as losing the game was deemed worth

the delight of reminding us of what

we had almost forgotten. I am still

waiting for those final raps, reminding

me of who knows what.

                       

Playing Scrabble

I haven't played Scrabble in years, but for some reason as I lay in bed this morning trying to find a poem, I was reminded of how it feels trying to find the right word while playing that board game, at least, how it feels to someone who is not a Scrabble expert. (By the way, I'm not sure whether or not I need the last two lines of the poem.)

                                                              

                                              Playing Scrabble

                        All the words in the world are always there

                        if you had only learned them – and remembered

                        what you learned.  Of course, so much depends

                        on the letters you are dealt and on what other

                        people place on the board.  One word leads

                        to another, like in the scene in Anna Karenina

                        when Sergey means to propose to Varenka,

                        but she mentions mushrooms, and they never

                        discuss marriage at all.  You want to shake him

                        and shout, “Just say what is in your heart!”,

                        but you never do and he never does. 

                        Each person decides which letters they will play

                        and which they will keep.  Some settle for

                        the simple, obvious word and the immediate

                        reward: others wait for something larger later.

                        So often you end up staring at the remaining

                        spaces and your Q or Z or X  and know

                        the right word is out there somewhere, but it’s

                        like trying to recall the name of a

                        classical piece you promised yourself never

                        to forget, the one that starts with the horns

                        sounding so hopeful, has a stirring march

                        in the middle – and nothing but a single

                        melancholy violin at the end.

                        Sometimes, when you least expect it, the word

                        appears.  And sometimes not.

Audio Tour

This one comes from touring the Guggenheim- with a little bit of MoMA thrown in.  As I wandered through the Impressionist and Kandinsky exhibits, I began to wonder what an audio tour of things other than the artworks might sound like.  Here's a first try.  I'm not sure it has enough curator language yet or actually arrives anywhere.

                                                                  

                                                   Audio Tour

                                                            1.

                        #205   Woman Looking at “Woman Looking at Mirror”

                                    Notice the woman closely inspecting Manet’s

                                    brushwork or, perhaps checking the subject’s

                                    bare back for blemishes.  No matter what angle

                                    she takes, she can’t see the blue-gowned woman’s

                                    face- and, in turn, we can’t see hers.

                                                            2.

                        #263    First Impressionists by the Degas Statues.

                                    This couple seems to be on a first date. Note how

                                    the man appears obligated to comment comically

                                    on each statue, adopting the pose of a ballerina

                                    and then a woman emerging from her bath.

                                    His date giggles but then looks at her watch.

                                    Observe the tension that remains unresolved

                                    as we move to the next room.

                                                            3.

                                     #312     Bench

                                    An exceedingly rare object in this collection

                                    and a much-coveted find.  A truly interactive

                                    piece on which some sit to contemplate a painting

                                    more fully, others to do nothing more than rest.

                                    People circle it slowly, politely- savoring its

                                    three dimensionality and waiting for a place to perch.

                                                            4.

                        #342   Later Impressionists by a Kandinsky Painting

                                    Note the strained dynamics of the older couple

                                    as the woman comments on the cosmology

                                    of “Several Circles: while the man is lost

                                    in space, praying to some deity in the ceiling.

                                                            5.

                        #412  People with Notebooks

                                    Here and there we see people jotting things down

                                    in large spiral notebooks and small leather journals.,

                                    From this distance, it is hard to tell if they are writing down

                                    analytical insights, a grocery list, or notes for a poem.