Class cinquain

On Thursday, December 18, the poetry class at Aristotle University in Thessaloniki and I composed a group cinquain.  Here's the format we were using: 1st line- one word that names the topic
                                                                                 2nd line- two words that appeal to the senses
                                                                                 3rd line- three words that describe an action
                                                                                 4th line- two words that name an emotion
                                                                                  5th line- one word that is a new name for the topic

    Since Professor Kitsi was recording the final version on the board, I have only my sketchy notes for what we came up with. Here is my best recollection, including two alternatives for very different endings. Dr. Kitsi or any of the students can feel free to correct me.

        morning
   warm messiness
drinking coffee kisses
   dizzy tenderness  (or tender dizziness)
       hangover         (or love)
                                                                                

A Day in a Life

I just visited a poetry class at Aristotle University in Thessaloniki. The students there had just come up with individual images using William Carlos Williams as a model. I put their images together in the poem below, which they then read for me.  Efharisto poli.

     A Day in a Life

So much depends upon
a street lamp at dawn
and a full moon
waiting for the sun
to rise –
and the bright yellow
sun shining on
a green and orange
bed, cutting through
the rain clouds.

So much depends upon
a hot cup of coffee,
chocolate cake,
crispy cookies,
melting caramel,
and strawberries,
strawberries,
strawberries
by a fireplace.

So much depends upon
children playing
in a schoolyard
or in the summer’s
heat on a
golden beach,
a bird’s white
wings reflected
on the ocean’s
blue waves
where divers defy
buoyancy and descend
to the untrodden
seabed.

So much depends upon
a wide open window
spreading the sound
of rain
and the hum
of freedom
to a dark and empty
room,
the strumming
of strings and
a new pair of shoes
by the bed or under
the Christmas tree.

So much depends upon
a hug at sunset
as the mist blurs
the celestial dark,
upon two hands
intertwined
two pairs of lips
kissing with eyes
closed or upon
friends on a couch,
talking and teasing.

So much depends upon
a black and white steed
walking with elegance,
a ballerina’s curtsey,
the warmth of the water
washing away the remains
of a stressful day.

So much depends upon
a rounded white candle
smoldering through
the night and a voice
calming your demons
while the midnight wolf
never forgets
he is free.

A New Beginning

     I have posted about 350 poems here, and I think it is time to revisit and revise some of them for possible publication rather than continue to post new work on a weekly basis.
   Thank you to those followers who have stuck with me. I may still occasionally post a new poem here but not on any regular schedule.  If you are finding this blog for the first time, please feel free to browse and, I hope, find something you enjoy.
   Anon.
                                                                                                                     Fred Zirm

Delusions

    Delusions

When I cycle swiftly,

sometimes the rush of wind

sounds like a car

that’s not really there

or masks the noise

of one that is. 

Hard Plumbed

We ran into some complications with a kitchen appliance.

    Hard Plumbed

The delivery man tells us
he cannot replace the old
dishwasher with its solid
copper connection and no
cut-off valve to accommodate
a new and improved successor.

It was installed as if it would
last forever – like a monument
or a bank vault or a heart.

In the Dentist's Chair

Yes, I had a cavity filled last week.

 In the Dentist’s Chair

Reclining like a reluctant

astronaut abducted by masked

and goggled aliens who probe

and pry and then ask you questions

when you are least able to answer,

you must agree to pay your own

ransom for six months of relief. 

Extended Time

In the U.S., students who have been diagnosed with learning issues that make them take more time to process and produce things are given extended time on tests.  This poem takes that phrase a little more literally- and figuratively.

        Extended Time

For the following students,

each minute in school

will seem like an hour,

and the hours will take days,

while the days will drag on

forever until the weeks wear

and bear down like months

and the weekends

never come and

never last as long

as a boring lecture

or this eternal

final exam.  

Set Strike

I just took down the set for my last production as a high school director.

     Set Strike               

First, we remove what makes things

other than they are: the burlap bark,

the styrofoam stone, the painted canvas

cover – all that we pretend is real.

Next, we break down the basics,

the bones that held it all together

with wood and sweat and steel.

Last, comes the masking tape

marking where things were

and where they would be,

leaving nothing but an empty

space where it all begins

again by feel. 

Hasenpfeffer

Mostly a true story.  (I thought I posted this last Monday but just found it saved as a draft.)

                                               Hasenpfeffer

                               The night of the big game, I ascended

                               to the P.A. booth, chosen to spot

                               the rival players for Mr. Sosebee

                               on that wet and rainy Friday.

                               Time after time, I couldn’t pick out

                               a number from the muddy pile, but

                               Mr. Sosebee would still confidently announce,

      “Hasenpfeffer in on the tackle….Hasenpfeffer

       on that catch…four more yards for Hasenpfeffer.”

       It was the last time I was asked to be a spotter.

                               After the game, I found my friend Steve

                               still in pads and cleats in the locker room,

                               staring at the cracked concrete floor.

                               “That Hasenpfeffer killed us,” he muttered.

                               “Don’t take it so hard,” I said.

       “He does that to everyone.”

                               

Climate Change

Just a brief thought about meteorology - and other things. (This is not a reflection on the current state of any relationships.)

            Climate Change

Something hangs in the space between us

and traps what little heat we have,

making our storms more fierce and frequent

without clearing the air for good or bad.  

The Secret Annex

There's one secret we all keep from ourselves- or try to.

                    The Secret Annex

           

            When I took my then teenage son to see

            The Diary of Anne Frank, I assumed

            he knew her story, but found him near

            tears at the end as he asked in disbelief,

            “After all that, she died?  She died?”

            And although we know that’s the ending

            of every tale, still we cry incredulously,

           “After all this, we die?  We die?”

A Hazy Shade of Spring

This began with the light haze of new leaves in the trees and the old Simon and Garfunkel song about winter.

       A Hazy Shade of Spring

The leaves start as the lightest green

fog, caught in the trees’ bare branches

then condense into darker clouds

summoning spring’s perfect storm –  

the sudden shower of birdsong,

bright lightning of the newborn sun,

then the comic thunder of the frogs.

Fourth and Inches

  For foreign readers, you should know that in American football, teams try to advance the ball ten yards (a little less than ten meters) in four tries (or downs).  Most of the game is a tangled chaos of arms, and legs, and bodies - and the ball is placed after each play by pure guesswork.  But if a team is close to the ten yards, suddenly the game becomes an exact science, and the officials bring out a ten yard long chain to see if the team has made it far enough.
   "Fourth and Inches" would mean that the team came up just a little short after three tries. They would need to decide to either kick the ball to the other team or try one more time to get those last few inches. (If they fail, the other team would get the ball closer to where they want to be.)
   As I hope you can tell, though, this poem comes to be about more than football.

    Fourth and Inches

After all those approximations,

we pretend to be precise

and bring out the chains,

buy the ring, write the will

then replay every thing

until we think

we’ve got it right 

and come to accept

as absolute

the purely arbitrary. 

On the Slopes of Mount Olympus

      On the Slopes of Mount Olympus

     

       it is hard to tell the difference

       between what is being built

       and what has been abandoned:

       both stand empty, waiting 

       for the earth to move again. 

Tag, You're Id

This one occurred to me while listening to a lecture on Freud.

Tag, You’re Id

In the cavern

of our unconscious,

all our urges play

hide and seek,

calling out

to each other

in an echo

we hardly hear

of a tongue

we seldom speak. 

The School for the Blind

So I asked the policeman where the School for the Blind is, and he pointed to the building in front of me.

                                                         The School for the Blind

                                                      

                                                         is where you learn to feel

                                                         and want to touch everything

                                                         you truly want to know;

                                                         is where you learn the smell

                                                         of dusk and how it differs

                                                         from the dawn;

                                                         is where you learn to taste

                                                         lemon and moonlight

                                                         in the air;

                                                         is where you learn to hear

                                                         the silence between

                                                         the sounds and beyond

                                                         mere lack of noise;

                                                         is where you learn

                                                         what you can

                                                         and cannot see.

Late Snow

The temperature hit 70; then we had 8 inches of snow. Now it's back to 70 again.

       Late Snow

Snow drops on snowdrops,

and crocuses nearly croak.

Boots boot flip flops;

spring springs an untimely joke.

Wind blows and snow flows.

We all can catch its drift.

White warms in sun’s glow,

melting winter’s final gift. 

Habit

Yes, I woke up, put my glasses on without thinking, then started thinking about this poem.

              Habit

Sometimes when I wake up in the dark,

I still put my glasses on

or flick the light switch on and off

when I know the power’s gone

Just as I pray for those in peril

to a god who put them there.

Though the world is beyond all hope,

it is not beyond all care. 

Blessed Be the Snowbirds

We had our last (we hope) snowstorm of the season this past week, and I could hear the spring birds singing at dawn.

      Blessed Be the Snowbirds

No, not the ones that flee to Florida

but the ones that stay and brave winter’s

last storm and sing, though the dawn

be dim and flake-filled, they believe

in the calendar and not the cold.

Yes, I know their songs may be more

battle cries than lullabyes, bragging

of what they have and wailing for what

they want, but that makes their singing

no less beautiful, merely more real.

Maybe they are winged Whitmans

singing songs only of themselves,

but they sound more like they’re rejoicing

at the dying of the night, and this dark

morning, they have sung me into song.

In The Dark

There's one streetlamp along my morning route that sometimes turns off as I pass it and sometimes turns on.

     In the Dark

One street lamp mistakes me

for sunrise as I set out

on my morning walk,

blinking black

as I pass.

And that same lamp

knows me as nightfall

when I return,

flashing light

on my path.

Loose wires

look like wisdom

when you walk

alone.

Shadow Twins

  Just something I noticed when coming back from my morning walk yesterday. 

 Shadow Twins

Through a trick of light,

I cast two shadows

in the morning sun:

one climbs the front porch

steps before me,

the others stands in

the doorway

to greet us both

or turn us both away.

Snow Plows

They finally plowed our street after the storm, a mixed blessing.

 Snow Plows

clear the path

to the greater good

by burying curbside cars

and blocking freshly dug drives

with piles of what they push aside.

Wind Chill

After hearing the forecast one night, I began to think of what an interpersonal weather report might sound like.

Wind Chill

Do we feel so frosty now

because of what’s blown

between us?

Were we once so hot

because of something

in the air?

And if we ever found

a fair, clear day

could we still see

forever?

Leftovers

 I somehow got thinking of unidentified remains in the freezer. (Past meals, not corpses.)

   Leftovers

We kept our dreams

safe and frozen

until the day

they could come true

but by that time

we had forgotten

which was for me

and which for you

the rich dessert

or the hearty stew.

Brainstorm

Meteorology of the mind.

  Brainstorm

First comes the freshening

breeze and the distant

thunder, then the random

drops before the flash of

light and pounding rain,

mostly runoff  for the

gutter, but some soaks

in until it finds and feeds

those long buried stones

which are really seeds. 

Call and Response

Here's an old, old poem of mine from my youth- one of the few I remember and like, although it's more abstract and allegorical than what I tend to write these days. (Yes, it's been a hectic week and nothing new occurred to me.)

Call and Response

I found myself

in a world of half-truths

that didn't add up.

I found you playing

on an abacus

as if it were a harp.

And when I asked you

for the answer,

you sang to me.

And when I asked again,

you stopped.

Polar Vortex

Another meteorological poem after some record breaking cold air moved down from the North.

    Polar Vortex      

All the Arctic air has

migrated to Manhattan

as if the Earth were lying

on its side. So the glaciers

melt while the Hudson freezes,

and New Yorkers watch for

flying reindeer near the new

North Pole in the Bronx.

Border State

Maryland was caught between the North and the South during the Civil War. It is also often right on the cusp of winter weather systems. These two thoughts came together during an early snow flurry that did not stick.

             Border State

The undecided snow falls as flakes

from the cold December sky but lands

like rain, melting as it touches the still

warm ground. A few degrees south of

a blizzard and north of a thunderstorm,

autumn makes a final stand against whatever

comes after, not too far from Gettysburg.