Far From It

Every morning I tie

a capelet of sorrow

around my neck,

letting the velvet

plush, as dense as

a cattail’s, weigh down

my shoulders,

my glance~~

even now,

when Grandmother fluffs

her feather bed,

and the ground hugs

a comforter of white.

I measure time in bowls

of tea,

like Goldilocks testing

her tongue:

Too Hot!  Too Cold!

And each night

I fold paper cranes

into my sleeves,

bright and jagged

as the sorrel

and frisée,

still green

in the snow.

Designed to fail

And so I befriended a little boy

and he trusted me and I him.

We’d tell each other stories

from our day;

mostly true,

some pretend.

He told me of the backyard,

the dirt world,

the little berms of daisies

and snail swirled ponds.

And I gave him my wisdom

of the grown-ups:

how we think that they’ll

never lie or let us down,

but inevitably they do;

they’re designed to.

And in that moment

of disappointment,

we bow to them,

and acknowledge

their broken muddiness,

as also our own.

Later, I heard that his family

was moving away.

I didn’t know where.

I stood on their vacant lawn,

trying to remember my number

to leave for him on a receipt,

a cookie fortune in my pocket,

a cracked toy tractor plastic piece.

It began to snow and I still could not

write the number where I could be

reached in case of emergency.

Even if I did remember,

wouldn’t it get left behind,

somehow, only to become

a scooting gutter canoe

in the thaw.

 Oh how, oh how

I didn’t want to let go

the sticky frog summer

of his smile

when he saw me.

 Oh how, oh now

to know

a phone line would never come

close enough

to save me.

Never Trust a Sailor on Dry Land

The Addict and Me, Part IV

Never Trust a Sailor on Dry Land

Back to the romance, as it were.

We arrived in town.  I was smitten.  S. stood in the blazing sunlight outside the bus station in his suit jacket and jeans, a cigarette dangling, backpack slung to one side, joking with his mom on his cell, smoky blue shades over his brown eyes, just the right combination of urbane and offbeat.

Mom held court at a local coffee house and we went to meet her there.

She got up from her table that held a small pile of Smithsonian’s and newspapers and other journals.  She took off her reading glasses and gave me a warm hug.  I liked her immediately.  Mom was lively and chatty and I watched as S. brought his energy up to match hers.  But she was a mountain stream in spring, a freight on the open rails; she kept rolling.  S. began to flail his hands in agitation as he tried vainly to interject.  I instinctively reached my hands across the table to hold his, to calm him.  His mother had about a hundred suggestions on what we should do.  I hadn’t eaten anything but a scrap of a donut for about six or seven hours and was famished.  This brought approbation from her.  What was S. doing?  Here his guest was about to faint from hunger.  Mom described a few places nearby and their menus, at least what she would order.  There was a nice deli down the street.  The ice cream parlor on the corner also had sandwiches and soup, perhaps.  Didn’t they have soup?  Would I like some soup?  We could also go to her place in the foothills and have fresh Colorado peaches and ice cream.  S. and I finally decided to go to the deli.

At the deli I ordered an Eggplant Parmesan sandwich and S. got a Rueben.  We sat on a bench outside as I inhaled my sandwich and S. called his sister.  She had just recently had a baby, her first, the first grandchild for both families, and they were all getting together at a restaurant for dinner.  S. was too nervous to eat his sandwich.  I didn’t know it at the time, but he was nervous about my meeting the baby.  He thought that since I didn’t want children of my own that I hated them.  It wasn’t true.  In party situations, pets and babies are practically safety nets for the socially awkward.  At the restaurant, I politely said hello to everyone and then got down to cooing over the baby.  She didn’t or wouldn’t judge me or ask me any embarrassing questions.  I could just smile and hold her little fingers while the grown-ups talked.  Since we had just eaten, we didn’t stay for dinner and as quick as we were in, we were out. All was well in my eyes.  I was entering S.’s world and I wanted to know everything about him.  There was so much I didn’t know, so much which would take a long time to understand.

S. and I had planned to go hiking in the Rockies the next day, so we had to make a grocery run to get gorp and such.  I love grocery stores, especially in new places.  I find fruit and vegetable displays mesmerizing, even if I’m not buying any.  Here was a large bin of peaches for less than a dollar a pound! The butter had a picture of an elk on it!  I needed some coffee and yogurt and granola for breakfast. We picked up some gorp, but I also wanted chèvre and crackers. We needed to buy a knife if we were going to get cheese.  I had promised to call in to a friend back home who was worried about me flying off to see some guy I had met on the internet.  So, while S. was off hunting for a small paring knife, I called my friend and told him everything was fine, S. was just off looking for a knife, ha-ha-ha. 

In my mind, everything was fine.  I was having a good time.  But as I started to look at dried fruits and nuts, I could see that S. was getting fidgety.  “I just can’t stand fluorescent lights for too long.” he said.  OK, we could go.  He apologized again in the parking lot, “I needed to get out of there; it was taking too long.”  As we drove back to his place, I wanted to put my hand on his thigh, his knee, something; but I felt a wall had gone up.  He was silent. 

He had a small room in a house with space enough for a desk and a bed.  We put groceries away and climbed on the bed to watch a movie.  There we were, inches apart on top of the covers, but those inches felt like a wide gulf.  I saw his eyes start to flutter shut and I thought, “Now!  I could just lean over now and quickly kiss him.”  But he soon opened his eyes and kept stiffly far away.  I didn’t dare breach this gap between us.  He looked almost fearful.  When the movie ended, I left to go to my motel room and sleep.

Posh Puja

Darjeeling Train Tracks in the Himalayas

Come by train, my love,

Your heart straining

through the rusting heat of Delhi,

From the dust rise up

And come

To a lake in Kashmir,

Beneath the Himalayas~~

I’ll be waiting.

Follow my voice,

Whispering your name,

Soft as pashmina,

Through supple fields of semolina.

And we’ll embark,

Shikara together~~

Your feather cockaded,

My pale orchid veil,

In the green-grey rippling

Silk moiré waters,

We’ll shyly eye each other’s reflection.

There we’ll filigree sigh,

the air, crushed pearls between us;

The rosewater sky will deepen to dusk.

A single gold thread of light will bind us.

I’ll touch your feet with mine,

Your hands, I’ll clasp.

Under the red canopy,

Sheltered together,

The heavens will shower us with flowers

At last.

A Shikara docked on Dal Lake, Kashmir

Your Name

I want to hold your name

As a book I keep reading—

Hands aching into the night.

I want to pin it in my hair

A bright shining jewel—

Wear it round my wrist

A jangling charm.

Let it follow me adoringly—

Then lead me like hounds,

Ebullient and braying,

Into the woods

Where frozen I crouch,

Your name

Like a secret

In my mouth.

May 2007

Love the Fearless Artist in You

Earthbound

Are you rocks or roots, now.

Clumps of dirt from heaven

Drum down and drown the yellow pine.

Black thorns and shriveled hips

Bristle under the grey skies.

Once

A box of chocolates,

A heart held

In sweaty palms,

Slubbed red ribbons tied thick,

A handprint left

A slight shudder

On lily silked flanks,

Lupines and Anise Hyssop kisses

Uprooted and crumbled,

Drawn from the elk-flecked meadow,

New & sweet, spotted like a fawn,

Sleeping soft shallow breaths,

A whispered promise to the crook of a tree,

No names carved,

Only an impulse

Suddenly

Immobilized.

Book Shelf

The Row of Spotted Dog Guardians

The Soulful One

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

OK, kitty-cats, here are some pictures of my book shelf.  I live in a very small house (600 sq. feet) and had to lose a lot of books to make the move. This used to be a very small closet, but ex-boyfriend converted it into a built-in bookshelf on this side and a walk-in bedroom closet on the other.

I had to include close-ups of my little Japanese friends.  I was hanging out with some people who were avid collectors of vintage stuff.   I decided that I would limit myself to one specific thing.  I bought my first pair of Japanese Spotted Dog Salt and Pepper shakers at an antique place on Clark Street in Chicago.  They are not terribly rare, or expensive, or collectible, but they make me happy.

Hmm.  Bookshelf notes:  I didn't want to post these because I seem to have such a hodge-podge of things.  Some pairings make me laugh.  "The Complete Photo Guide to Home Repair" rests on top of Edward Gorey's "The Doubtful Guest."  "The Immoralist" is atop "The Ethical Slut" which is above "The Heritage of Russian Verse."  (Oh, dear.  I considered polyamory for a minute, once, but it didn't work out.  I can't even manage monamory.)  I've got lots of short stories and poetry.  Much Rilke, of course.  And unfiled cds here and there.  A Zeppelin boot below Billie Holiday and Aaron Copland.  Rostropovich. Yup.  Ooh, there's some Rory Gallagher.  I might listen to that right now.  "This is the Empire State Express . . . "  Yes. 
"The Golden Notebook" I "borrowed" from a housemate twenty years ago and have never finished.
The Barthelme I had forgotten about until I read a poem that reminded me of "The Falling Dog" and I had to pull it out to re-read:  "Yes, a dog jumped on me out of a high window.  I think it was the third floor, or the fourth floor.  Or the third floor.  Well, it knocked me down. . . ."
Anais Nin's "Delta of Venus" is rightly beside Meridel Le Sueur's "Ripening."  Sylvia Plath has the ignominy of resting next to three books on Dachshunds while a vintage postcard of deer in the northwoods falls out of its frame.
A Christmas cactus grafted from my mother's pokes into the frame of the bottom shelves which house photo albums, some music books (Italian Arias?), and hidden behind an oversized book of children's stories is a lovely picture book entitled "The Female Portrait in Russian Art" which leans on Helmut Newton's "Sleepless Nights."
Well, I guess that about sums it up. 

The Next Right Thing

My neighbor came over to give me tomatoes

and some basil sprigs from his garden.

He seemed agitated as we stood in my yard.

He petted my little dog Bela as I held him

and then he touched my arm

as he said goodbye:

“I have to go make dinner.”

I have to go make dinner for my girlfriend,

for my loving partner

that you don’t have

and in our nice cedar-sided house

with our friends who come over

for barbeques and beer on weekends,

unless we’re camping,

are we camping this weekend or next,

maybe next.  Can you look in on Lola Kitty?

He petted my arm.

It has been so long since someone has touched me,

caressed me.

I went into the house and cried.

I’m trying so hard to do the right thing.

The post-it asks:

What is the most compassionate thing

you can do for yourself right now?

I consider a beer and the couch,

and crying it out,

but I do core exercises and yoga,

followed by a half hour’s meditation outside:

blanket down, blank me on the green green green.

Back inside I check some poems online.

There’s a post on Hemingway at Key West,

and I recall my trip there

with boyfriend long gone,

arriving at the grenadine sunrise

with the roosters and the cats

and being swallowed by something in that house

some feeling came over me under the draping crystal

chandelier, as my hands passed over the field guides

that lined the shelves going up the white washed stairs,

gasping

and then to Cozumel

where I was horrible:  anxious and bitchy.

I just wanted a decent cup of coffee

I just wanted everything to be perfect.

I didn’t know.

I didn’t know how to live.

I want to make amends.

I apologize to the air,

poor boyfriend,

to myself:

I’m sorry,

I didn’t know.

And all that is gone.

It seemed that I used to go

places and do things.

Now I just stay at home.

I’ve gotten so much better, though.

This morning I, perfect me, who

glides through life with ease and grace,

knocked over and broke a full cup of beautiful Mayan coffee.

I didn’t cry, or swear, or try to blame the dogs.

I just mopped up the brown and jade shards

and made another cup.

I didn’t know

I could do that.

Desk

The Marble Topped Table from my mother's house last summer when I intended it to be an art workspace.

 

A Collection of Postcards spread on the table after an impromptu antique mall outing.

The Table Today:  some books have moved in and a blank comp book awaits.

The Picture on the wall by my computer (in the same room):  My mother at the Indiana Dunes in the mid 50s.

The Bristlecone Pine Thrives

I have to thrill

at the sight

of your rose gold flats

beneath the Chiavari chair,

your warm scarf of silk orchids

and lilies draped there.

The gift of red orange

bittersweet vines

you twined in your hands

now wreath the lamp

and I wonder at the

soft rise of your breasts

above the white flowered

flow of your belly

beneath my hands 

&

the timeless give and take

 of your breath,

at rest.

Flame in Snow

for Jillian
 

Quiet flame,

mountain azalea,

all the little bones

of your fingers fan dear,

unhooking pale crinoline butterflies

hammocked  under old growth

here.

Crank down that window

as you breeze through the forest

and inhale the luxury

of the least expected.

From behind plumes of lace,

the egrets which edge your face,

from the swamp of the car,

the smudge pots of then.

Now breathe in skeins

of canopied light,

your heart a phoenix,

a brass cornet,

triumphant,

singing high.

Even the waxwings

know who you are.

Old Rose

Along an Avenue of White Elms in the Sun

yellowing at their tops,
how I would too
change for you,
in a glad wave
curl up
to your voice,
warm-dark oscillation,
my green edges
bending to yours.
I asked only for open eyes
before the night’s wild shards
brushed over.
And I see.
I see with my hands
reaching up
to touch dear limbs
ageless aging,
all beauty,
ever-changing.

At the Club

Open the temple gates unto my love,

Open them wide that she may enter in,

The sacred ceremonies there partake,

The which do endlesse matrimony make,

And let the roring Organs loudly play

                  --Edmund Spenser from “Epithalamion”

There is a certain feeling,

A visceral vibe,

You know it’s going to be a good night.

The DJ is spinning,

Spilling treasures ebullient onto the floor.

Crossing over Jordan,

No worries or dangers or cares

On that bright shore.

No poisonous pairs

Looking to wheel home a third.

The men are all clumped dark and far

Away, skulking at the bar.

The night, the dance, belongs to the girls.

Eyes kohled, hair hennaed.

Fantastic-lashed pastel petals glitter.

Grown-up schoolgirls

Catholic short-skirted.

Azerbaijani princesses girded

With black leather bras

And leopard poly skins.

Goth nurses twisted hair

Ghostly openly stare

Black and periwinkle wide.

High strapped booted tight

Atop heels of consequential height,

All are lost in essential delight.

Rose attar, neroli, clove,

Patchouli, musk,

The garden roars

Cinnamon, jasmine, sandalwood.

And all, we all are such touch whores,

Endorphin freaks demanding more

Wordless promises petting, praying:

You won’t hurt me, I know

You won’t hurt me.

Only comfort to cut the pain

Connect reassure another smother

Shyly asking with hands brushing

A shoulder smooth

A breast caress sweet

In Drum & Bass

House trance bump ass

Scratch vinyl slick.

But our romance ends

When the needle comes up.

The smoky remains,

A tremolo echo

That lives only here

At the club.

2008

Will we make it to the Ball?

We've been a bit delayed by some mending that needed tending.

   Got a bit of gin and tonic, though.  Hope to see you all soon!

Check out all the action here:

Willow Manor Ball

The Distaff Side

You come on

aflame and rolling

through a room,

from slack-hips

to paint-blistering fingertips.

A flickering St. Christopher

blazes high above

your breasts.

My lip catches the crest

and drags across,

running the length

of your shoulder,

unsealing that envelope,

pulling smolder~~

An ash-borne crumbling acrobat,

glancing off

fawn-brushed thighs,

threading silk slung

pink crinkle crinoline loops.

Speckled marble balustrades melt

under the weight of sighs.

Waxwings beat aflutter

and down-dive.

Flywheels shudder

off singing sinews’

sympathetic cries.

Satellites luminous

rise

and expire,

Shunted down dusk alleys

of defunct desire.

Runcible

come, charming spoon,

so thin & elegant,

silver thrilling,

cold and brimming

with sea cockles

from warm plush

cream and green

bits of moss

scrubbed clean.

and butterfly

do we then

their shells

that wing

our lips

supping

blue.

who then is the pussycat

who then is the owl

who?

Golden

On your way home,

on the wooded,

hidden path

to your door,

where flagstones jut,

tectonic,

you told me,

in that careless mess,

where that rod of re-bar

sprouts menacingly

for no reason,

you saw the sudden yellow

of an aspen leaf

fallen

in the last light,

indescribable.

Nonetheless, 

in your breathless,

in your silence,

that golden

I knew.

Accepted Rejected

 

Jimmy Page

Well, so, uhm, I'm published, I think, and also not.
My entries into the Rattle Poetry Contest were all rejected, but something I sent to Unadorned Press was accepted for publication.  I took the Rattle rejection rather hard.  I had lots of support (and one guy at work who said, "What, do you think you are that good?"  To which I got to reply simply, "Yes.") from you all here and in FBlandia and my local writer's group.  One person in my group had been a reader for a small press.  He told me that it was easy to discard the stuff that was poor, but among the good works the decision process of what made the cut was more arbitrary.  Often times pieces he would champion wouldn't make it.
The Unadorned Press situation is cloudy.  I had sent them two poems and was informed of acceptance by being tagged in a photo on Facebook.  No email message,  no indication of which poems were accepted.  I have a feeling that this is a very small press, maybe just one guy in New Hampshire who, if I send him $5, will send me what looks like a plastic file folder for a term paper with my work and about ten other poets.

So, the question remains:  What do I want?
And that is where I am right now.  I was reminded by my writer's group that I do have an audience, I have readers already.  And for that I am grateful.  What would being published or not being published change about that?  I still feel this sort of desire to be acknowledged and given a stamp of approval by some unknown "them."  Meh. 
And, why the picture of Jimmy Page?
It's a fairly arbitrary addition to this post, but when I was trolling around the interweb, I came across this picture on someone's page of "Things I Like" or some such, and I thought,  "Yeah, I like that, too."  So,  just a random picture of Jimmy Page reading someone's horoscope in a random world.

in that bed with Dena

There where you stir the sugar insufferable,

incessant, you stir it.  Hard crystals dissolve,

handfuls of blazing white go milky and soft,

hot blue lips lovingly kiss and sing radiantly under

your copper.   Your ping hammered kettle turns solid

to liquid.  Melting chains form as you work

the Rosary {Sotto Voce} Queen of Heaven

The Mysteries                            Joy & Pain        

                        slowly added,

washing down gems, precious blessings

And the turmoil slows, bubbles slack and link,

dragging like school-less summer days, shoe-less

in hot amber.  Sticking all the little tics,

once thrown high as branches,     hair whips

               rain sheets and lung-lust cries,     

                        click clipped as

                   errant bugs and bees.

You are on the fault line.           Plates are shifting.

Under the sweet bunch grass, a Vireo gray and small,

secretive you whistle          then listen.

The colors change        The desert painted

               Tongues of flame

    waver in your wild white eyes:

                    You hold

                        Waiting waiting

                  suspended

                   Pinching the grain

                       The salt

                   The pink rose

                       Essential

                   The tiny blade

                       The straw

              The stone

                               You drop

      

Marigold Garland for my Sister

no cigarettes at all, no champagne on your birthday

For Stacy

My dear girl,

I don’t know any prayers for the dead.

I can only burn the cedar wood

as the arbor vitae is engulfed in the last light,

then blow out the candles,

exhaling your name.

Osiris resisted you once before

as you were lying intubated

and mummified after your accident,

but now he sucks the lime

and bleeds green for you.

Sweet stalks of wheat

line your vessel for the other side.

Moss roses crown your curls.

The Mourning Cloak butterfly,

in clinging ink shadows,

falls from its fluttering sky

as I place loosestrife

and hyssop

and the last of the warm day

lilies by your pink bauble face,

kissing you good-bye.

Contests & Competition

I took the big (for me) step of submitting a few poems to a contest and a few more to an open call for submissions to a small press.  I haven't submitted anything for publication in 30 years or so when I had the temerity to send my works to Poetry and American Poetry Review.  My rejection notices commented that my style was clever, but scattered, or some such.

Yesterday I was jumping around like a bug on a hot rock, hastily editing and formatting poems to email by deadlines of August 1st.  I felt as though I were submitting tax forms.  I crossed my fingers and hoped that I had "done it right."  Today I wonder what all my anxiety was about.  I felt the fear of judgment, that my work wouldn't be "good enough."  I felt the fear of finality--is this the final edit, or could this poem use more polishing?  So, I'm left with questions about what I want, why am I doing what I do.  I don't have high hopes of "winning."  It was important for me to just take this step and see what happens. 

I was pushed into doing this by a friend who is always telling me to submit my work, that my imagistic style is what the market wants.  I don't know.  What is the market?  Is it a closed system of incestuous MFA logrolling?    I think online blogging has changed my market.  I enjoy reading and following blogs.  Small press and self-publishing seem to make sense.  If you have an online following, why not sell them your chapbook?  Why not find a like-minded soul who can illustrate it?  

Anyway, curious about other's thoughts on this.  Yesterday, I felt as though I were sending my children off into the netherworld without sweaters or galoshes, but today I am thinking, "What's the big deal?"  Either I get published by a small press or a magazine, or I don't.  Does that change what I want to do?
I still want to work on my craft.  Posting online and getting feedback and support and reading other blogs is the most helpful poetry workshop I've been in.  
I'll be pulling some poems from my blog that I've submitted.  Thank you all for reading and commenting.

Rowboat

Mesmerized by the lustrous glittering beads,

the sweat on your upper lip,

damselflies alight and rise again,

spiral in a haze,

haloing~~blue green grey.

You keep rowing.  

I'm handling diamond-backed snakes

and speaking in tongues to the sun.

You keep spitting out problems,

tricky equations.

Tell me Tell me Tell me

What’s the sum?

I’m trying to reach out, to get there.

Between incessant strokes,

I screw up my eyes to a blackboard,

but decimal points are fluid,

pages in a magazine, fragrant ink motes.

Backwards floating,

Catalpa brushes my neck

and I remember how to breathe

out loud.

Unlocked, your yellow pine wrists

and your green apple pulse twist

through me.  Your sorghum kiss

Drips into my heart

Which opens,

Fluttering.

Madame X

Sitting here tonight, heavy summer air

sagging at the screen door,

in my plunging black slip,

single fluorescent lamp lit,

a bit of sunburn blushing my pale edges,

dodging flits of furred moths

and watching the pendulous

crook legs of the harvester

spider work the small arc

of the crown molding,

I think of the long gunmetal rows,

the back stacks, where I’d sneak

deep in the library to listen to opera:

Prince Igor, perhaps,

large headphones strapped on

heavy and green with a black coil,

waiting out the light until closing.

And while the boyars wailed

I handled the old spines close at hand:

a slim set of faded turquoise Chinese Love Poems,

a thick, glossy, mis-shelved John Singer Sargent

with its jacket slightly torn,

in which I might chance upon

a card, a fuchsia 3”X 5”

tucked in a page where you had written

two or three lines about me, unmistakably:

the chime of my laugh,

or the tangle of my thin silver

earrings, small hammered

glinting pieces

which invariably you’d feel

compelled to straighten

in your desire

for order,

squinting through the slow

pale curl of the Marlboro Light

dangling from your lips,

your soft hands

easily smoothing the twists.

Common Nighthawk

I used to be flesh and blood,

but now I ghost down streets

gray-cloaked by dusk;

no weight to my muted feet.

When did I fade out and husk

to a thin hollow reed.

A blaze of Canary grass

gathered up so warmly once,

now strewn down,

feeling only the twilight sound,

the rasping, invisible skree

of the nighthawk calling me.

Comparisons only lead to overstretching

(A found Rhyme Royal, kind of)

Stretch to a point where you feel a mild tension.

Do not bounce!  Breathe slowly, rhythmically.

Any stretch that grows in intensity is an over-extension.

If possible hold onto something and keep your knees bent slightly.

Be relaxed in your mind and body:  breathe easily.

Interlace your fingers and gently pull backward.

Hold only the tensions that feel good.

Read more Rhyme Royal at:  dVerse Poets

St. Louis Blues

Bricky, Bricky City,

Lawyers begetting Lawyers,

Police-issue pistol grip heels

Pump & Sway,

High-rise glinting the catenary curves

As Saarinen’s Gateway broaches the West.

Beleaguered at the frontier of your chair,

Whip-stitched,

Pan-Am Blue,

I escalator,

Ratcheting in bumps,

Beautiful & bifurcated,

Burbling:—Baby—

Plummy soft we polymer

Ashiver, Half-clad.

Can I pull the shades of your sudden cement-buckling sigh?

Can I trace the thudding plush halls of your heart,

While my own laps your thighs thickly,

Slow & full,

The Mississippi itself.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~