Knocking From Inside

Reading in the Bathtub

2009-11-25T15:24:00.001-08:00

If you are a reader you'll know what I mean
when I say that the left hand just never gets clean
from reading in the bathtub.

So how'd you like "Strange and Mr. Norrell"?
"The story is great, tendonitis is hell
from reading in the bathtub."

My books are all crinkled and spotted throughout,
the pages look wilted, like orchids in drought
from reading in the bathtub.

Some bookstores describe a used volume as "foxed"
but mine are more "ottered", or "salmoned", or "loxed"
from reading in the bathtub.

The love scenes are passionate, tender or dreamy
but when I read through them they all just turn... steamy
from reading in the bathtub.

There's splashes of bubble-bath all over "Dune"
and my mouth tastes of soap when I "Drink Down the Moon"
from reading in the bathtub.

I think that the S-bend that's under my bath
is clogged with the same Doom that came to Sarnath
from reading in the bathtub.

If greycaps appear in my house, it's a cinch
they sprang from my waterlogged copy of "Finch"
from reading in the bathtub.

And now I've destroyed my last copy of "Shane"
it fell in the tub and dissolved down the drain!
I think that it's time that I learned to refrain
from reading in the bathtub.

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Captain Obvious

2009-11-25T09:05:00.001-08:00

Three Word Wednesday: Give. Obvious. Thanks.

GIVE WAY FOR SNOWPLOWS
DO NOT PASS ON RIGHT. Thank you,
Captain Obvious.

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Construction on Path

2009-11-24T15:20:00.001-08:00

because each seeker constructs the path
with her feet, step by step
while the path unmakes itself behind. No turning back—
but there is returning.

and the best one is
your daily practice. But there's no free ride.
Sometimes you have to get out and push.

This is where the tunnel twists and dips
and you have to dive headfirst into the unknown.
Plenty of people have gone this way before
but I can't convince myself I won't get stuck
and suffocate.

the sound of the brazen hinges
on the gates massive as neutron stars
and hot as blue-white Sirius.
But here the remembering soul forgets itself—
forgets the doors are there
forgets the doors are.
THERE!

Note: This is a partially found poem. The text in the images is from signs currently posted on the Eastbank Esplanade.
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Pushcart nominee

2009-11-24T14:56:00.000-08:00

Barefoot Muse nominated "Pleistocene Relic" for a Pushcart Prize.

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Mangoes by the Road

2009-11-24T08:02:00.000-08:00

The roads into the hills are steep
and scorching powdery dust
clings to our ankles. Surrounded
by strangers and a language I don't speak
we stop to buy a mango.

The smell revives me. Food, drink,
ambrosia in a plain green skin.
Gold-rich juice cuts the road dust
from my thirsty throat. Flesh
strong as meat fills my belly. Excelsior!

--for Read Write Poem
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A pleasant surprise

2009-11-24T07:30:00.000-08:00

The most recent issue of Eclectic Muse includes two of my poems-- "Ingenue" and "Cicisbeo". They make a nice pair.

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Distillation

2009-11-23T07:28:00.000-08:00

You know, my Friend, how I took on this Task
To seek the Essence in a Vintner's Cask
That holds it even as the Heart confines
The Soul like Liquor in a Chemist's Flask.

These Earthly Trials do but the Soul refine
Bring Spirit forth, as Fire that breathes on Wine
Producing thus a purer Distillate
Partaking of that Nature most Divine.

At last the Spirit sheds its Fleshly Weight
Then Fire dies down, and Pressures soft abate
While Essence captured in a coil of Glass
Must cool and gather to a Condensate.

And thus is Essence parted from the Mass
As Soul from Body in the End must pass.

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The Only Label

2009-11-20T09:39:00.000-08:00

My body's not a billboard. I will wear
no logos, brands, or corporate IDs.
This is the only label I will bear.

I'm owned by no-one's party policies
or economic interests. I'll display
no logos, brands, or corporate IDs

upon this flesh. I was not made to say
these empty things about what you should buy
for economic interest. I'll display

this label only: Owned by the Most High,
concern myself with Love's concerns, and not
these empty things. About what you should buy,

I'm standing silent ever since I got
this badge with honor and humility,
concerned myself with Love. For I am not

an item that's for sale: I am free.
My body's not a billboard. I will wear
this badge with honor and humility.
This is the only label I will bear.

--for Inspire Me Thursday
calligraphy courtesy of Wikimedia

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Blustery

2009-11-17T09:18:00.001-08:00

Rain swirled under the awnings in blustery
gusts of unseasonably warm November winds

on Broadway where the wheels of the morning rush
hissed through puddles and a diesel-scented wind

announced the arrival of the number-nine bus
splashing a bow-wave over the kerb like a wind

on a pond that sends ripples among bulrushes
gushing over the banks. It hardly feels like winter,

the warmth of the storm like arms embracing us,
passion renewed in a season turning toward winter.

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Closer to True

2009-11-10T10:29:00.000-08:00

I was restless in grieving the last of the leaves with their banners of scarlet and gold
All faded to brown in the gutters and drowning, awaiting the silence and cold.
Walked out in a dawn that was roofed with an awning of clouds that were stained by the sun
And bare branches raised up to worship the shades that recalled all the leaves that were gone.

We wrestle for clearer sight, souls to be mirror-bright, skies that are sunny and blue
But heavy clouds hover and sometimes uncover a color that's closer to true.
While leaves that are turning remember the burning of summer in autumnal hue
And limbs that stand stark against gathering darkness point always and only to You.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside

I Call the Weather

2009-11-10T08:22:00.001-08:00

but not on the phone—
I call it "pissing-down forty-mile-jetstream-gust standing-under-firehose two-trees-running-from-a-dog duck-drowning gully-washing Pineapple-Express fish-in-a-lifeboat
rain"
that's what I call it.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside

The Wind Stole My Shadow

2009-11-05T18:58:00.000-08:00

Today the wind was so strong
that it tore away my shadow. Come back, thief!
My heels are still bleeding
while she dances with the leaves
that she will follow into the dark earth.
I won't see her again until spring.

Who would have thought my shadow
would be so unfaithful? Rapacious wind,
I will hold you responsible
if my husband should fail to recognize me
if mirrors take my image and refuse to return it
if the sidewalk rejects my footprints
for want of my shadow!

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Karmic Sunflower

2009-11-04T10:05:00.001-08:00

Three Word Wednesday: Karma. Obey. Wither.

karmic sunflower
withers in obedience
to season's dharma

sunflower by Aleksandra P.; tie-dye pattern by Erin Calaway-Mackay

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Crow Head

2009-11-04T09:58:00.001-08:00

They're comin' to get you, Dale.

(bird eye provided by Sias van Schalkwyk; fractal by Apophysis)

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fall like an arrow

2009-11-04T09:25:00.001-08:00

the sound of the beat of
the city-wide heart
the rustle and murmur
the stop and the start

they've slaughtered the horse and
they're burning the cart
they're hanging together
they're falling apart

let's beat a retreat through
the pathways of art
we'll fall like an arrow
and fly like a dart

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Full Moon and Fog

2009-11-03T09:37:00.000-08:00

The sun sets behind a bridge,
black railings against the scarlet sky
adorned with silhouettes of crows.
There is a sound of water.

Streetlights fade into visibility
among bare and unpruned branches
over buckling sidewalks. Grass grows
in the middle of the street.

Downtown, broken glass facades
streaked with rust and pigeon droppings
blink away the last gleams of sundown.
Full moon and fog fill the empty city.

--for Miss Rumphius' poetry stretch: what isn't there.
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We have come a long way

2009-11-02T13:19:00.000-08:00

A poem about the Black Power salute of the '68 Olympics just won a first place award from the Alabama Poetry Society. (#4 - Heroes)

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Papillon

2009-10-27T07:31:00.000-07:00

She grew from a sweet, joyous puppy into a kind and gentle old lady. She loved us without reservation and scorned her bed to sleep in front of our door. She guarded our home faithfully into the last days of her life.

Everyone loved her. Vets who see hundreds of dogs a day commented how sweet she was. People who were afraid of dogs were charmed into petting and cuddling her. She had the gift of happiness.

I do not for pray for mercy, for she needs none. The Judge of all things pets her head and tells her she's a good dog, and she wags her tail and smiles.

"Near this Spot
are deposited the Remains of one
who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferosity,
and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.
This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
if inscribed over human Ashes,
is but a just tribute to the Memory of
PAPILLON, a DOG."

adapted from Byron's "Epitaph to a Dog"

5 Things About October

2009-10-26T09:27:00.000-07:00

Mushtaq tagged me for "5 Random Things". My collection isn't very random, but there it is.

I love October wind
scattering gold in front
of a grey storm-wall. I love Ray Bradbury
who invented October (before him
it was just another page on the calendar),
and I love the candles
in the jack-o-lantern hearts
of my city. I love the stained-glass
leaves on the Tartar maples.
I love the smell of windfall apples
on the sidewalk. Allah,
how beautiful is Thy creation.

Let's hear from...
Rafael
Mike
Rethabile

Y'all don't have to do it in poetry...

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Anvil Turbulence

2009-10-16T10:53:00.001-07:00

Today the clouds are distant palaces
with alabaster domes and marble walls
of swirled grey. No floors. The chalices
of rain are carried down the sloping halls
by angels poised to some true vertical
on arbitrary levels. Under vaults
of moisture dangerous with electrical
discharge, they polish steel lightning bolts
and glassy drops of hail. They ballroom-waltz
through three dimensions, rise-and-fall gavotte
around the floating thunder-catapaults.
These storm-attending Terpsichores are not
confined to pinheads. Anvil turbulence
is where you go to find if angels dance.

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October Song

2009-10-12T14:39:00.000-07:00

Golden summer's gone to silver shadows on the sky
Fallen leaves have stained the sidewalk with their copper dye
Tarnish dims the sun and leaden clouds come cruising by
Metal in my heart reflects the metal in my eye.

Shuttered windows turn their blinded faces to the storm
Windows that were edged with lacework back when it was warm
Put that parasol away now, can't you see it's torn
Turn my shuttered heart away from this cold winter morn.

Music plays inside the walls, it's cold and dark outside
Daylight, give me back an hour for one October ride
Winter's wind is cold and bitter, winter's wings are wide
Shed no tears for summer laughter, those have all been cried.

For Read Write Poem's October prompt

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Vowel Cosmorama

2009-10-12T09:39:00.000-07:00

The English language, said to be
the bastard progeny of Norman soldiers
and Saxon barmaids—exploded
after the conquest, it's true, chelating
consonants with reckless caprice.

Ancient reprobates must have croaked
vehement complaints against the new
ways of speaking—but the irresistible
insolence of the exulting new generations
swept them thrashing away.

A poor investment of effort, trying
to hold back the congress of tongues
in the name of "purity"—as though
vowels could be held to the moral
standards of a private cosmos.

words courtesy of Read Write Poem
Yeah, "cosmic" for "cosmorama" was a stretch.
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Short stuff

2009-10-10T22:14:00.000-07:00

I mentioned 350 Words in a previous post. I dug up an old piece, "Vanport: 2050", and republished it on 350 Words as "The New Vanport Flood".

Here's the interesting thing. The original piece was 600+ words. I cut it by almost half, and managed not to lose anything I considered essential. (Except, I see that the 350 Words site seems to have destroyed the paragraph breaks. Oh, well.)

In the intro to the short stoy "The Last Defender of Camelot", (anthologized in a collection by the same title) Roger Zelazny wrote that when he originally wrote the story, the first place he submitted it said they'd take it if he could cut the length by half. He tried taking out every other word, but it made the story sound funny.

I didn't try that. But I did decide to go for a word-by-word cull, rather than, say, chopping out the paragraph about the St. Johns Bridge. It was a fascinating exercise: I'd had no idea there were so many ways you could get rid of the word "the", for instance.

More details Outside Over There.

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Wind-Breath

2009-10-10T17:04:00.000-07:00

October is when the wind gets inside my skin
turns me inside-out, becomes my breath
as a spray of scarlet leaves becomes my heart.
And my bones know what the black stones
in the old retaining wall at the corner know--
black basalt, come from the hottest fires of earth
as the soul comes hot from God's forge.

Wind-breath, God-breath, stirring the city
you speak in so many strange tongues
moaning around buildings, whispering in trees
chattering with dead leaves. Flesh can't contain
such knowledge; it leaks away with each exhale.

So this is the season of skeletons and bare branches
fleshless fingers pointing the way. Yes, I will
follow the fading candles down an avenue
of jack o'lantern skulls. In time. In time,

for now I am held fast by the fragrance
(as delicate as a cobweb across my face)
of tiny pale tea roses, the last of summer.

keeping up with Read Write Poem's October challenge
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350 Words

2009-10-09T10:41:00.000-07:00

is a website that's part of the 350 global climate change event. Check out the event. Also check out 350 Words. Write them something.

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