20 Saturday Dec 2014
I let the music dress me
in a party gown the color
of melting emeralds,
in a scarlet and black uniform
with a sword,
in raggedy rat-fur, and a nightgown
trimmed with lace, let it sweep me
around the Christmas tree,
into glorious battle,
and through the snowflakes
to the land of sugar plums,
let it spin me and twirl me
up onto my toes and lift me
high above the stage
in impossible leaps
until love and goodness triumph
and I descend to earth
to take my bow.
29 Monday Sep 2014
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Raymond Carver is best known for his short stories, but he also wrote poetry and here is one of my favorite poems of his.
Woke up early this morning and from my bed
looked far across the Strait to see
a small boat moving through the choppy water,
a single running light on. Remembered
my friend who used to shout
his dead wife’s name from hilltops
around Perugia. Who set a plate
for her at his simple table long after
she was gone. And opened the windows
so she could have fresh air. Such display
I found embarrassing. So did his other
friends. I couldn’t see it.
Not until this morning.
Raymond Carver
All of Us, The Collected Poems
Vintage Books
24 Wednesday Sep 2014
Posted in Poetry
Tags
I’ve decided to post some poetry from poets that I’m currently reading–I’m enjoying them so much and hope you will too. Today’s is by Jim Moore, from his book of the same name.
Basta! shouts the waiter,
then laughs each time the sky
is rent, delighted.
“Such a long journey,”
my failing mother said,
her voice calm and steady,
crossing seven time zones.
Light gone,
you and I sit in the dark. Our hands
touch, finally, hours
after our argument.
This sudden warmth, palm
to palm: as when thunder stops,
the suddenness of all that silence.
Or the aftershock — deafening —
when an only son
is given to understand
his mother’s business with him
is completely done.
Jim Moore
Lightning at Dinner
Graywolf Press
20 Saturday Sep 2014
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tags
Some months back, I was working on a poem and looked over at the pile of unwashed dishes on the counter and this little poem wrote itself:
Who, oh who, will clean my house,
and when, oh when, will they do it?
Everyone knows it won’t be me,
’cause now I am a poet.
24 Sunday Aug 2014
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Hi, everyone,
I’m sad to say that I’ve decided to discontinue posting poems on my blog; here’s why: I just, within the last few days, realized that I want to be a published poet, to have my poems in literary journals and poetry journals, even to have a collection of my poetry published. Unfortunately, these journals won’t take poems published anywhere else, even on the internet, even just on a blog. And apparently if you take down your poems, the search engines keep archives, so your poems can still show up. So I won’t be posting any more poems online as I write new poems and try to get them published. I’ll be using an interesting online company called Writers Relief that will do submissions for me, targeting magazines most likely to accept my style of poetry, so we’ll see. But first I have to write a dozen or so new poems.
I’m excited about what will be a new venture for me, but sad because I have so enjoyed getting to know you wonderful poets and writers on WordPress, especially through exchanging comments on our writing. I’ll still be around and will check out your blogs, especially my favorites (you know who you are), time permitting. Thanks for all of your support, kind words, and encouragement.
Willow
18 Monday Aug 2014
Tags
Occidental College, L.A, California
1964-1967
Afternoon of a Faun playing, my friend
quoting Dylan Thomas from memory,
the two of us in her dorm room,
long and narrow, curtains blowing,
dark sanctuary lit by her passion
for literature, music, art, drama;
our conversations subtle, oblique;
I groped for her meaning,
as though she spoke a different dialect,
yet how powerful her self, force
of nature, passionate priestess,
art her religion, the highest calling;
at first drawn to poetry but in the end
choosing ceramics, bringing forth shapes
from her soul, boats and birds, abstracted,
symbolic, mysterious; sharing her craft
with generations of students;
fifty years, passion still burning.
17 Sunday Aug 2014
15 Friday Aug 2014
Machinery grinds, an elevator
descends and comes to a stop;
doors open onto a forest
and a woman gets off; the elevator
goes up and vanishes.
She walks into the forest,
among the oaks, among the sycamores,
taking off her clothes as she goes;
mirrors with ornate frames
hang from the branches,
they don’t show her reflection;
she sings, her voice harmonizing
with the murmur of the stream
and the whisper of the wind
in the trees.
14 Thursday Aug 2014
Posted in Ancient ways, Nature, Poetry
11 Monday Aug 2014
Posted in Childhood, Family, Poetry, Sexual Abuse
Tags
Albuquerque, New Mexico, 1952
The back of the garage, dim, dusty,
was my father’s makeshift workshop,
a table set between the lawnmower
and the rakes, hoes, pitchfork.
One fall afternoon when I was seven,
I found him there, wearing
his gray and maroon wool jacket,
repairing a lamp. I told him
if he didn’t stop doing those things
to me, I would tell my mother;
he looked at the ax on the wall,
said I’d better not.
Back out in the sunshine slanting
down on our peach trees, next door
the apple orchard, last of the fruit
picked over by birds, I forgot
for forty years the things he’d done
and went on doing. In the garden
the chrysanthemums, ruined by frost,
had been cut to the ground.
