Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Hard Times: January 2009

This is an older poem, written right after the real estate bubble burst.

                Hard Times: January 2009

The new year and the bubbles have burst.
Before Christmas, the neighbor’s yard was filled
with inflated hopes: Santa, Frosty, Rudolph
and the whole gang, spotlit and swaying
in their own breezes, towering
and teetering toward the holidays -
a homegrown Macy’s parade.

Now all those luminaries litter the lawn,
a collection of collapsed dirigibles,
deflated and dead, like wrinkled corpses
on a suburban battlefield, as if
the Grinch never learned to sing
and pulled the plug on them all.

They’ve been there for weeks.
Has that neighbor given up
and quietly moved out?
Or is he simply waiting for a miracle,
for Santa to rise again as the Easter Bunny
with all his eggs in some new basket?



Monday, May 30, 2011

Honest Appraisal

As the sub-title indicates, I wrote this after watching a TV show where people have their antiques appraised.  The poem borrows language from the show but applies it to something different.

                                              Honest Appraisal
                                      (after Antiques RoadShow)
                         
                           If these memories were in near mint condition-
                           without the ragged repair work after the divorce
                           or the obvious embroidery around the first date-
                           then they might be worth restoring.
                           But since there is a glut in the failed marriage market,
                           you should put them back in the attic,
                           along with the dead pets and lost football games
                           and the love letters you always meant to write.

Sunday, May 29, 2011

In Praise of the Erasable Pen

I write almost all of my first drafts in my journal in erasable pen.  It looks more serious than pencil but can still be erased and changed easily.

                                                     In Praise of the Erasable Pen

                                                  Less than indelible, it admits
                                                  all permanence is pretence anyway
                                                  while its eraser top proclaims
                                                  perfection is a ruse as well.
                                                  Mistakes have been, are being, will be
                                                  made. Aye, there’s the rubber that meets
                                                  the written word, promising to expunge
                                                  all error, eventually, so that even this poem
                                                  may be pardoned as part of a perpetual first draft.

Saturday, May 28, 2011

List-less

In a creative writing class, we students were challenged to write a list that was a poem.  Contrarian that I am, I wrote about being without a list at the grocery store.

                                                                  List-less

                                             I wander the grocery store aisles,
                                             trying to visualize my refrigerator
                                             while passing by what I need.
                                             Then I stare at the shelves
                                             and grab what I want.
                                             Mick Jagger was wrong.



Note to those who don't know the Rolling Stones: One of their most popular songs says something like, "You don't always get what you want, but if you try sometime, you might just find, you get what you need."
That's the gist of the quote; Stones fans can correct any words I have wrong.

Friday, May 27, 2011

Inside the Box

During the summer, we collect our mail at a very old post office.

                                                     Inside the Box

                                       The antique post office boxes
                                       stand stacked in rows
                                       like tiny treasure chests,
                                       their aged brass dully glowing
                                       in the lobby’s filtered sunlight.
                                       Patrons peer through misted glass
                                       to glimpse shadowy possibilities
                                       (the staggered lean of envelopes,
                                       the graceful curl of magazines)
                                       then crouch or stretch like safecrackers,
                                       slowly spinning concentric circles:
                                       the outer letters, the inner pointer
                                       carefully aligned. The doors open and
                                       the prize is revealed: mostly coupons
                                       and come-ons, counterfeits reminding us
                                       in this life of circulars, much is promised
                                       and little delivered.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

On Losing Another Poetry Contest

This is a poem by a sore loser- me.

                                                      On Losing Another Poetry Contest

                                                    Does this race go to the swift,
                                                    with the first poet out of his writer’s
                                                    block and into a blazing
                                                    metaphor winning the day?

                                                   Or does strength prevail, and the
                                                   heavyweight lifting love
                                                   and death and time over the head
                                                   of his audience is the one
                                                   who gets to give a victory
                                                   grunt and drop his subjects
                                                   to thud and bounce on the floor?

                                                   Or is it sheer endurance
                                                   as the last poet standing
                                                   goes on and on about some crushed
                                                   flowers or Grandma’s cooking
                                                   and staggers across the line
                                                   to embrace the prize?

                                                   More likely, though, it comes down
                                                   to artistic impression
                                                   and all the judges
                                                   are from East Germany.

Note:  From an American perspective, back when there was an East Germany, its Olympic judges were notorous for favoring their athletes and being biased against all others.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Permission to Land

In this poem, I mix some things about my dad with some things about me and some total pieces of fiction. I hope it gets to the feeling I was trying to convey.

                                                        Permission to Land

                                         Sometimes when we kids got cranky
                                         in the backseat, our father would
                                         pull the cigarette lighter from the dash
                                         and pretend to be the pilot
                                         he had once hoped to be,
                                         back when he had a private license
                                         and had followed the turnpike
                                         in the fog from Wilkes-Barre to Philly
                                         in a Piper Cub with his new bride
                                        white-knuckled beside him,
                                        wondering how wild a man
                                        she had married.

                                        She was more comfortable
                                        in the Studebaker as Dad,
                                        the traveling salesman, merely
                                        made believe, speaking into the
                                        lighter as if it were a microphone:

                                        “This is your pilot speaking.
                                        We are cruising at 60 miles an hour
                                        at an altitude of three feet. Please
                                        keep your seat belts fastened.
                                        Estimated time of arrival,
                                        shortly after you stop saying,
                                        ‘Are we there yet?’”

                                       This would keep us quiet for a while.
                                        If Mom and Dad were lucky,
                                        we would even fall asleep
                                        and have to be carried
                                        from the car into Pop-Pop’s cottage.

                                        I think of this while driving the same turnpike,
                                        late at night, the backseat empty, the kids grown,
                                        a thin Jersey wall between me
                                        and the oncoming traffic.
                                        Dad landed long ago on some far-off,
                                        smoke-filled field, killed by all those
                                        cigars he said he never inhaled,
                                        leaving me alone at the wheel,
                                        staring into the dark and wondering
                                        are we there yet?

Note to my Greek students:  Yes, this is an old one that you've already read - and maybe even written an essay about.



Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Rescue Dogs

This one was inspired by a something I heard the American poet Billy Collins say.

                                                               Rescue Dogs

“I tell my poetry workshop students, if you’re stuck in a poem, just have a dog come in.”
                                                               Billy Collins, Chautauqua Institution, 2009

                                I picture a climbing party of novice poets,
                                trapped on a narrow, wind-battered ledge.
                                Tied together at the waist by an overextended
                                metaphor, they collapse and gasp in the thin air
                                of abstraction, crying out for help.
                                At that moment, a Saint Bernard,
                                large pawed and panting,
                                scrambles over ice and rock
                                to offer the climbers what they need -
                                the chipped and weathered oaken cask
                                of concrete images hanging from his furry neck.

                                Or I imagine a lone poet, lost
                                 in deep woods of his own devising
                                 as he tries to follow Dante or Frost,
                                 who have left no breadcrumbs or broken branches.
                                 Disoriented, he stumbles over a hidden meaning
                                 and falls into an arcane abyss.
                                 At that moment, his faithful collie
                                 races barking to the farmhouse
                                 where the mother, holding a dish towel, says,
                                “She’s trying to tell us something.”
                                “Yeah,” the father scowls and strokes his chin.
                                “Timmy’s fallen down that damn well again.”
                                 He spits in the barnyard dust, then wipes
                                 his mouth with the back of his hand.
                                “I told him to quit messing around with allegory.”

                                At this moment, my dog Snuffles,
                                a shepherd-hound refugee
                                from Death Row, looks up at me
                                with the hurt but hopeful
                                eyes of the once abandoned.
                                I rise from my desk. Her tail sweeps
                                the floor as I scratch her head and then
                                offer her the tethered freedom of the leash.
                                She is once again delighted
                                the world is just beyond our door –
                                and she can lead me through it.















Rescue Dogs


“I tell my poetry workshop students, if you’re stuck in a poem, just have a dog come in.”

Billy Collins, Chautauqua Institution, 2009

I picture a climbing party of novice poets,

trapped on a narrow, wind-battered ledge.

. Tied together at the waist by an overextended

metaphor, they collapse and gasp in the thin air

of abstraction, crying out for help.

At that moment, a Saint Bernard,

large pawed and panting,

scrambles over ice and rock

to offer the climbers what they need -

the chipped and weathered oaken cask

of concrete images hanging from his furry neck.



Or I imagine a lone poet, lost

in deep woods of his own devising

as he tries to follow Dante or Frost,

who have left no breadcrumbs or broken branches.

Disoriented, he stumbles over a hidden meaning

and falls into an arcane abyss.

At that moment, his faithful collie

races barking to the farmhouse

where the mother, holding a dish towel, says,

“She’s trying to tell us something.”

“Yeah,” the father scowls and strokes his chin.

“Timmy’s fallen down that damn well again.”

He spits in the barnyard dust, then wipes

his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I told him to quit messing around with allegory.”



At this moment, my dog Snuffles,

a shepherd-hound refugee

from Death Row, looks up at me

with the hurt but hopeful

eyes of the once abandoned.

I rise from my desk. Her tail sweeps

the floor as I scratch her head and then

offer her the tethered freedom of the leash.

She is once again delighted

the world is just beyond our door –

and she can lead me through it.















Monday, May 23, 2011

Tempus Incognita

I have queued up some older poems to be posted while I am away on a trip.  They are still my poems, though, and I hope to have a bunch of new ones to share when I get back.

                                                     Tempus Incognita

                                           We buy a new calendar each fall
                                            and fill in our planned events ,
                                            planting our flags on days
                                            as if they were islands the explorers
                                            claimed for some distant king.

                                           We map the future in regular squares,
                                            the present our prime meridian, but
                                            all projections remain distortions,
                                            and with the passing days,
                                            the crisp lines of demarcation blur
                                            as dentist appointments drift into
                                            staff meetings and
                                            vacations collide with
                                            court cases.

                                            Still, we hang the calendar inside
                                            the front door with no
                                            serpents on its borders,
                                            a banner reminding us of
                                            hope and order as we go
                                            bravely into the new world
                                            each morning.

                                           Late at night, though, the
                                           whole house creaks and
                                           shifts, like a ship struggling
                                           against the current carrying us
                                           over the edge of it all.





Sunday, May 22, 2011

Typing Tip

I'm short on time today (leaving on a trip), so here is a short poem.

                                                    Touch Typing Tip

                                                      Find your home
                                                      row first or else
                                                      everything will
                                                      nr honnrtodj.

Saturday, May 21, 2011

Phone Calls After Midnight

I suspect that this is more for parents than for children.

                                                    Phone Calls After Midnight

                                                      Are never good news –
                                                      are never I got the job…
                                                      I met this girl…
                                                      Congratulations, you won…
                                                      Even It’s a boy!
                                                      often waits till morning.

                                                      No, it’s usually
                                                      I know it’s late…
                                                     Are you the parent…
                                                     It’s your father…

                                                    And if it’s an unfamiliar
                                                    voice asking for a stranger,
                                                    I do not resent the wrong
                                                    number, but simply say
                                                    No problem
                                                    and go back to sleep.

                                                    Unless I get thinking
                                                    about the person
                                                    they meant to call.

Friday, May 20, 2011

The Tautology

Sometimes it seems we all spend our time beating our heads against the same wall.

                                                      The Tautology

                                                      It is what it is
                                                      and is not what
                                                      it is not
                                                      is a lesson rarely
                                                      learned
                                                      but repeatedly
                                                      taught.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

The Art of Modeling

My wife is a painter, and I was posing for her the other day.  The poem comes from pretending what I might think if I were a professional model.  I experimenting with some longer lines here, supposedly reflecting the interminable length of time a model has to hold a pose.  I think there's a poem in here somewhere, but I'm not sure I've found it yet.

                                                     The Art of Modeling

                                      It takes a lot of effort just to stay the same.
                                      Ears itch, smiles sag, muscles ache to move,
                                      but I must ignore all desires and make an instant last
                                      hours – longer if the artist captures it correctly.

                                      I must master mindful mindlessness: no thought, no
                                      motion – all stillness and form. The trick is to make
                                      stasis seem dynamic and stiffness natural.
                                      I was good at playing Statues as a kid.

                                      Photographers freeze movement in a moment;
                                      painters and I do it on the installment plan.
                                      We collaborate over hours or days or weeks
                                      to preserve a second of life of canvas.

                                      Most model-artist relationships are purely Platonic:
                                      They see us as mere forms: the line of a leg,
                                      the curve of an arm, the plane of a back.
                                      Our personality is a by-product of the paint.

                                     Yes, like playing statues staring at eternity.
                                     One time a second nude model showed up
                                     at a class. He looked straight at the students
                                     for a while, then left: Picture of an Exhibitionist.

                                     I’m the poser, pretending to do whatever
                                     I seem to do. Feigning sleep while wide awake,
                                     playing a one note concerto on a cello
                                     I can’t play, smiling at someone who isn’t there.
                                     It takes a lot of effort just to stay the same.







Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Pill Box

I only take vitamins at this point, but looking at the organizer that contains my pills for the week got me thinking.

                                                            Pill Box

                                        Now the days are filled with pills,
                                        a calendar of compartments
                                        to keep the doses divided;
                                        a Maginot Line of medicines
                                        aimed at preventing brittle bones
                                        and promoting a healthy heart,
                                        at keeping the blood thin and calm
                                        and the colon spotless clean.

                                        But the enemy always sneaks
                                        round the other way, and these weekly
                                        organizers are more like plastic trains,
                                        all headed for the same station.
                                        We can but prolong the journey.




Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Does Beauty Make It Better?

I'll let this one stand alone, without an introduction.

                                              Does Beauty Make It Better?

                                       Are flower farmers happier than those
                                       who sow wheat or reap rutabagas?
                                       Do diamond miners sing more often
                                       than those in coal or copper pits?
                                       Is the suffering of the poor less
                                       among idyllic alps than city slums?
                                       And is adultery only for the ugly
                                       while the comely have affaires de coeur?


Monday, May 16, 2011

Life Scan

I was using my fingers to count out the syllables in a line of my poetry when I began wondering if Shakespeare did the same or did he function by artistic instinct in his writing and in his life?  (Yes, there are few lines with eleven syllables, but I thought they sounded better than any ten syllable versions I could invent. Artistic instinct or laziness?)

                                                             Life Scan


                                  Did Shakespeare count his feet on his fingers
                                  Or did he just sense when a line should end?
                                  Did he know when to go, when to linger,
                                  When to be a lover and when a friend?

                                  Did his life take the same turns as his sonnets?
                                  We know so little of how he lived his days.
                                  Did each have the mark of art upon it
                                  Or were some wasted in dull common ways?

                                  Did he spend time groaning at the dentist’s
                                  As well as moaning on his beloved’s bed?
                                  Was he kind to every stage apprentice
                                  Or did he curse and kick their butts instead?

                                  Lacking a time machine, we’ll never know –
                                  Was his life a triumph or just so-so?



Sunday, May 15, 2011

Sensible Shoes

When you're writing a new poem almost every day, sometime you have to think on your feet.

                                                             Sensible Shoes

                                           I like shoes that feel like sneakers
                                           but look good enough for work.
                                           Nothing fancy- just light,
                                           comfortable,
                                           and inexpensive.
                                           (I’ll save the dress shoes
                                           for weddings and funerals.)
                                           But now both my bargain
                                           pairs make a sticky click
                                           when I walk-
                                           like a gummy thumbtack
                                           that isn’t there.
                                           Different brands, same flaw –
                                           and perhaps the same Asian
                                           sweatshop where some child
                                           nodded off over the machine
                                           that molds soles or else
                                           totally awake made some
                                           flawed to remind us
                                           of what we’re walking on
                                           and at what cost.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

The Drive Home

We've stopped taking the turnpike and interstates to one place we go to each summer.

                                                         The Drive Home

                                            Despite the convenience of
                                            interstates and iPods,
                                            I like to take local routes
                                            and tune in local radio.
                                            Sometimes it's good to find out
                                            what the world has to offer
                                            rather than just listening to what
                                            you think you want to hear.
                                            There's so much beyond my personal
                                            play list: Christian rock and rap, right
                                            wing talk, Latino music, Big Band and
                                            country, country, country. ( The radio
                                            is my crude GPS. When I get
                                            rock or classical, I know I'm near
                                            a college.When I get nothing, I know
                                            I'm lost.) I learn news that never
                                            makes the satellite stations: rummage
                                            sales, arrests, break-ins, choir concerts
                                            and special blood drives for the boy
                                            who has that disease they don't want
                                            to name on the air.  It's helpful
                                            to know where you are is not always
                                            where you want to be.  And when I
                                            stumble across a favorite song, 
                                            I somehow feel I've earned it.