The Love Song of Carlos Baerga

In some ways, this is a persona poem.  I feel especially loved these days, but in thinking about Carlos Baerga - a baseball player who was a fine hitter until he suddenly lost his swing - I thought of a person who has lost someone's love and how that feels.

                                                     The Love Song of Carlos Baerga


                                             We learn little from what comes too easily.
                                             The natural hitters struggle the most
                                             when they lose their swing. They never studied
                                             batting – it was just something they always
                                             did well. When the magic leaves them they can’t
                                             re-learn what they were born knowing, so they
                                             go through the motions, the little rituals –
                                             tapping home plate with their bats, rolling
                                             their heads, tugging at their shirts – hoping
                                             to stumble on the spell that will call their talent
                                             back to them, the same way I set the table,
                                             take out the garbage, say “Good Morning” while
                                             I wait for you to love me again
                                             in a way that once seemed as easy as breathing.

Note to foreign readers or non-baseball fans:  In baseball, batters are known for the number of physical rituals they go through while getting ready to try to hit the next ball thrown by the pitcher.

Come Walk on My Volcanoes, Come Taste My Coconuts

This one is just for fun.

                       Come Walk on My Volcanoes, Come Taste My Coconuts

                                 (from a short-lived travel ad for Hawaii)

                              Come swim my shark-filled waters
                              and ride my monster waves
                              or sacrifice a virgin
                              in my hidden sacred caves.

                             Come learn to dance my hula
                             and twirl my flaming torch
                             or get bombed beside Pearl Harbor
                             on my giant tiki porch.

                            Come to my big island;
                            you’re bound to get a lei.
                            Surrounded by my lava,
                            you’ll surely choose to stay.

Airport Security

I'll be boarding quite a few airplanes in the next few months and thought of this.


                                                          Airport Security


                                              After establishing our identity,
                                              we shed our shoes like pilgrims
                                              at some sacred shrine,
                                              then divest ourselves
                                              of our worldly possessions
                                              as well: coins, keys, cell phones
                                              loaded into plastic lifeboats
                                              to follow our footwear
                                              on a silent funhouse ride.

                                              Then we hope we are ready
                                               to pass through the holy gate,
                                               rich men at the Eye of the Needle,
                                               praying to avoid the judgment
                                               of the beep and the embarrassment
                                               of the electronic wand.

                                              As we emerge on the other side,
                                              we scramble to gather our belongings,
                                              like Lucy or Chaplin at the end
                                              of an accelerating assembly line.
                                              We stuff our pockets and grab our shoes,
                                              but there’s no place to sit

                                              so we do the best we can, 
                                              wealthy refugees limping or hopping
                                              toward our destination, towing our
                                              baggage behind us as we try
                                              to carry on.

The Consolation of Philosophy

This poem resembles something I say to my students when they are worried about how they did on a test.

                                                          The Consolation of Philosophy


                                                            None of us has ever done
                                                            as badly as we would have done
                                                            if we had gone and done
                                                            worse than we did.

An Accident Waiting to Happen

I thought about a common saying and imagined an accident speaking to its potential victim.  (I hope the poem works even without this prelude, or perhaps more scene setting needs to occur in the poem itself.  Let me know.)

                                                  An Accident Waiting to Happen


                                      “Come on, come on. You think I’ve got all day?
                                        I’ve got places to be and people to see.
                                       All I need is a moment of your inattention
                                       or your brief belief in your own invulnerability
                                       to make this thing happen. Work with me here.
                                       You have plenty of time to make that left turn.
                                       Stack those stones a little higher.
                                       Look at that beautiful sunset just beyond
                                       the bottom step. OK, OK, go ahead and be
                                       careful. Makes no difference to me. I can work
                                       with some other guy on this proposition.
                                       I may be gone for now, but I’ll be back.
                                       I can be patient if I have to be.”

U-SAVE SELF STORAGE

This poem is based on a sign I saw while driving yesterday in front of one of those places where you rent a small garage to put all stuff you don't want to throw out but can't find room for where you live.

                                             U-SAVE SELF STORAGE


                               One step short of the dumpster or the yard sale,
                               these climate-controlled mini-garages
                               are where we park our former selves and passing
                               dreams, the things we can’t quite abandon
                               but don’t want around us every day:
                               the decoupage boxes and macramé
                               plant holders from our artsy-craftsy days,
                               the guitars we always meant to learn to play,
                               father’s favorite books we never read,
                               the fondue pots we used to gather round
                               with the Johnsons, who are now long divorced
                               all of us living in our separate states –
                               all those things we promise ourselves to trash
                               or give to Good Will the next time we move
                               but then say we might embrace again
                               once we can afford to lead a larger life.

Note: I didn't want to burden you with two other versions of this poem, but I did try writing it once with "you" and once with "I" instead of "we."  I'm still contemplating the gains and losses of each version.  If you can imagine which one works best for you (if any work at all), let me know.

The Bottom Line

This one is dedicated to Bottom the Weaver from A Midsummmer Night's Dream.

                                             The Bottom Line


                              We are like Shakespeare’s ambitious weaver
                              who wants to play all the parts himself
                              in his own dream of a midsummer’s night -
                              who wants to roar and woo and stab and sigh
                              and sing before he cries, “Die, die, die, die die.”

The Stainless Steel Stove

Another poem about an ordinary object.

                                                             The Stainless Steel Stove

                                                            or Prometheus Re-Bound

                                                       Has all your defiance come to this:
                                                       circles of flame too small for a campfire,
                                                       let alone an altar to any god?
                                                       No blazing bonfire or even a spit
                                                       on which to roast an ancient ox
                                                       nor light enough to read by –
                                                       just heat enough to boil water
                                                       or fry some eagle eggs.

Shadow Walking

Last night I was out walking the dog after sunset and watched our shadows grow and shrink as we passed under the streetlights.  I left the dog out of this poem, though.  Perhaps she should be in it.

                                                         Shadow Walking


                                       When I walk the lamp-lit streets, my shadow
                                        shifts with each new light I pass:
                                        behind, beside, beneath, before
                                        behind, beside, beneath, before-
                                        each pool of brightness, a sundial day,
                                        a brief night of dimness in-between.
                                        By this measure, each block I circle
                                        is half a month, and I’ve walked more
                                        months than I have lived, only to return
                                        to a home, either warmly lit with welcome
                                        or so dark my shadow disappears.

Indecision

Here's just one version of a poem today.  (My son said I was being too indecisive by posting two versions.)  The topic of the poem is indecision and being in a position where you could go this way or that.  It's also a silly experiment in seeing where rhyme takes you.

         Indecision


If I were a whirlpool on the Equator,
                 which way would I whirl?
Or a drunk between two toilet,
                  into which would I hurl?
Or a ballerina wearing a diamond tiara on stage at Lincoln Center with Baryshnikov (in his prime) on my right and Nureyev (still alive and in his prime) on my left
               to whom would I twirl?
Like iron filings beneath ever-circling magnets,
               I’m all swirl and counterswirl –
Until I find the oyster
             which makes me its pearl.



Note to foreign readers:  Hurl is slang meaning to vomit, something drunks often due.
General note:  It's my vague memory that whirlpools, tornadoes, and water going down a drain rotate in one direction in the southern hemisphere and another in the northern.  The constant question in high school science class was what they did on the Equator.  Did they have a choice?

The Beat Goes On

Here's a short poem, once again in two different versions.  The first is the one I've tentatively decided on.  The second includes some options in parentheses that I considered for different sections.  The small words (prepositions and conjuctions especially) gave me fits as they would shade the meaning of the poem in one direction or another.  In addition, I also went back and forth between whether the poem is too obvious and heavyhanded or too obscure and indirect.  It is so hard to judge all these things from a reader's perspective, so I just went with what sounded best to me.

                                                      The Beat Goes On


                                             At this raucous concert we call life,
                                             we all have obstructed view seats,
                                             but we must always, always, always
                                             stand and look toward the distant stage
                                             and listen to the music.

Here/s the version with alternatives in parentheses.Let me know if you prefer some of the alternatives.

                                                      The Beat Goes On  (Rock On)

                                        At (for, in) this raucous (rock) concert ( eliminate "we call life")
                                        we all have (add "distant") obstructed view seats,
                                        but (so)  we must always, always, always
                                        stand and look toward the (eliminate "distant" here) stage
                                        and listen to (for) the music.


Note to foreign (and younger) readers.  "The Beat Goes On" is a rock song from the 60s about the rhythm of current event and how they keep unfolding. 

Buy One, Get One Free

Most of the time, I take my glasses for granted, forgetting I have them on, until something draws my attention to the edges of the frame and lenses I am wearing.  Here's two versions of a poem based on that: one in first person singular, the other in first person plural.  I'm /we're still deciding which one works better.

                                                             Buy One, Get One Free


                                        Glasses frame the eyes that frame the world I see.
                                        If I roll those eyes and concentrate, I can
                                        see the frames I bought and the world that blurs
                                        beyond the progressive lenses I paid so much for.
                                        But the frames I was born with are harder
                                        to glimpse. I assume my vision is unlimited
                                        until something – the unseen friend, the unexpected
                                        car – reminds me my eyes do have corners, out of which
                                        I can be surprised. I am not IMAX personified
                                        but more like a simple camera obscura,
                                        grabbing what light I can and guessing at the rest.

                                                                       Buy One, Get One Free


                                        Glasses frame the eyes that frame the world we see.
                                        If we roll those eyes and concentrate, we can
                                        see the frames we bought and the world that blurs
                                        beyond the progressive lenses we paid so much for.
                                        But the frames we were born with are harder
                                        to glimpse. We assume our vision is unlimited
                                        until something – the unseen friend, the unexpected
                                        car – reminds us our eyes do have corners, out of which
                                        we can be surprised. We are not IMAX personified
                                        but more like a simple camera obscura,
                                        grabbing what light we can and guessing at the rest.

Stand-Up Poets

I was thinking of comedians, like Jerry Seinfeld, who base much of their humor on making observations about ordinary things,about drawing our attention to things we already know.

                                                                   Stand-Up Poets


                                                        Did you ever notice some poets
                                                        are like comedians who freshen
                                                        our perspective on the everyday
                                                        with routines that begin,
                                                        “Did you ever notice….?”?

Nearly Departed

The first time I visited school during my sabbatical, one of the students looked at me as if he'd seen a ghost, a friendly ghost, but a mere spirit, nonetheless.

                                                                    Nearly Departed


                                                    Being on sabbatical is like attending
                                                    your own funeral. People are surprised
                                                    to see you among the living and say
                                                    the nicest things to your face, as if
                                                    the eulogies had already begun,
                                                    but then they go back to whatever
                                                    they were doing, and you realize
                                                    the power belongs to the those who took
                                                    your place: to those who are doing,
                                                    not to those who are taking a rest.

Clean-up Details

One last household chores poem (for now.)

                                              Clean-up Details

                                      
                                         My nature loves to vacuum,
                                         to erase dog hairs from
                                         the carpet and crumbs from
                                         the kitchen – to make much
                                         progress with little effort.

                                         I like to mop almost as much
                                         and cut large swaths of
                                         cleanliness though the foyer
                                         filth or make the bathroom
                                         tile gleam with a single swipe.

                                         But I am deviled by the details –
                                         the hard-to-reach corners and
                                         the stubborn stains – so the
                                         dust rests deep between the
                                         mini-blinds and the walls
                                         seldom get scrubbed.

                                         If the house is my canvas,
                                         I’m a broad-brushed Impressionist.
                                         I’ll leave painstaking realism
                                         to Durer, Bruegel, Bosch,
                                         and the Maid Brigade.


Note to foreign readers:   The Maid Brigade is a popular cleaning service that promises to do a thorough job, including all the details I hate to do.  (Since we don't hire them, they just don't get done very often.)

Sorting the Laundry

Another poem about household chores, partially.

                                                     Sorting the Laundry


                                                      Separate by color
                                                      by fabric type
                                                      by degree of dirtiness
                                                      by his and hers
                                                      by new and old
                                                      by winter and spring
                                                      by now and then
                                                      by like and dislike
                                                      by right and left
                                                      by right and wrong
                                                      by remembered and forgotten
                                                      by natural and artificial
                                                      by land and sea
                                                      by hook and crook
                                                      until there are more
                                                      categories than items.
                                                      Then dump them in
                                                      all together and hope
                                                      it all comes out
                                                      in the wash.

Food Chain

I think this is the first in a series on household chores and the sort of things that come to mind when you're doing normally mindless things.

                                                              Food Chain


                                                       I unload the dishwasher
                                                       to make room for the dirty
                                                       dishes queuing in the sink.
                                                       I use one of the newly
                                                       clean bowls for my cereal,
                                                       which gives me the energy
                                                       for all of my household chores-
                                                       like filling and emptying
                                                       the dishwasher.

The Off Season

This poem describes an imagined trip to a place in upstate New York where I spend much of the summer and where the winters are unbearably bitter.

                                                          The Off Season


                                               Hibernation looks like death.
                                               The summer homes are shielded
                                               from the snow in canvas shrouds,
                                               smothering what they protect.
                                               The owners have made their choice:
                                               better mold in the living room
                                               than snow drifts on the front porch
                                               as their houses hold their breaths
                                               until the land is warm again.
                                               The winter wind tries to blow
                                               and bully me downhill where
                                               spring is trapped beneath the ice
                                               of a lake as gray as the sky.
                                               Fishermen have made holes there
                                               so it can barely survive
                                               another cold, long March.

Universal Ohio

I'm not sure this poem has the right ending yet.

                                                                           Universal Ohio

                                                              (a factory in Twinsburg, Ohio - 1969)

                                                       We never knew what we were making there,
                                                       beyond minimum wage. And the company name
                                                       gave us no clue to the product we were producing.
                                                       As summer help, we just did what we were told:
                                                       swept the ever dirty factory floor,
                                                       carried heavy objects from one place
                                                       to another, held metal sheets for
                                                       the regular workers to hit with hammers
                                                       until our ears rang with the constant cry
                                                       of crickets – and punched the clock
                                                       every weekday, hoping to turn time
                                                       into money – until the day the band
                                                       saw nearly took off my thumb
                                                       and I decided minimum wage
                                                       was not enough.

Product Displacement

       If you type kleenex or xerox in Word, it will automotically capitalize them as brand names.
(That's what you're supposed to do legally.)  But real people in the real world use those words when all they want is a tissue or a photocopy.  The following is a bit of light verse claiming the author's right to use such words generically, realistically- without it being a capitalized endorsement of a particular brand.  (I hope this is clear from the poem itself, even without this preamble.)                                  



                                                          Product Displacement


                                            Brands like Kleenex and Xerox always insist
                                            writers not treat their names as generic,
                                            but their call to Capitalize I’ll resist
                                            when writing my epics Homeric.
                                            Tissue and photocopy don’t quite sing
                                            no matter that they’re properly chosen.
                                            It’s better to strike truth’s solid ring
                                            than by lawyers’ cold stares be frozen.
                                            So my heroes keep xeroxing their work
                                            on whatever machine is handy;
                                            though I be labeled an illegal jerk,
                                            I’ll offer maids kleenexes like candy.
                                            And I’d be honored greatly after I’m dead
                                            if all poets would be called generically fred.

Chinese Fire Drill

Here's another poem triggered by a mysterious phrase.  (A Chinese fire drill is exactly what is descibed in the poem.  I don't know if it's called by another name or done at all in other parts of the world. Perhaps, in China they call it an American fire drill.)

                                                                Chinese Fire Drill


                                         That’s what we called it when my friends and I
                                         would scramble in and out of a car at a stop
                                         light, all exchanging seats. I suspect there
                                         was something racist about the name, but
                                         but I could never figure out exactly
                                         what. Did it imply the Chinese were as
                                         frantic and irrational as teenage boys?
                                        Or did it mean the car was as crowded
                                        and chaotic as our imagined China?
                                        Or was it a more neutral allusion
                                        to the shuffling of shapes until we got
                                        the tangram right: the best driver
                                        behind the wheel, the most skilled map reader
                                        riding shotgun, smart asses in the back-
                                        although we were all smart asses back then.

                                        Once when there were more friends than seats, I rode
                                        in the trunk, ( I stand in embarrassed awe
                                        of my reckless youthful self.) We were on our way
                                        to lunch at a bar that didn’t card its customers
                                        during the day. I rode the jolting darkness,
                                        like a victim killed or kidnapped by the mob,
                                        unable to take part in any fire drills.
                                        When we finally arrived, I knocked and knocked
                                        on the trunk door until someone remembered me.
                                        I unfolded myself into daylight,
                                        feeling as cramped and creaky as the old
                                        man I am now becoming, squinted at the sun
                                        and wondered, Exactly how did I get here?


Notes for foreign followers:  1. "Riding shotgun" means to sit in the front passenger's seat, like the armed guard who sat by the stagecoach driver in the American West.
2.  To "card a customer" means to check his driver's license or other identification to make sure he is ol enough to drink.