April Poem-A-Day 24: Abridged by Bowdler

Abridged by Bowdler

Marcel said…
…soft incense…
…fall…bright…
roar…calculated.

…assuage you,
…massage you.

…cold from…
seeping…
…rough sighs…

Finally…creep,
…bed of fire…
the…you.

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 23: The monster in retrospect

This is desperately in need of being edited down to half the size but I've been poking at it for days and I'm a bit sick of it. Too many cutesy alliterations litter it and they should be severely purged. And it loses focus in the last quarter, meandering to a weak end. This illustrates that you can make me write daily poems but you can't make me write well.


The monster in retrospect
Could not stand to fight.

This desire to club him
in the orchard rows
rises from fertile ashes,
the fragrant fruit
bearing sad witness,

There is no romanticizing
this vicious beast ravening:
he lusts for blood,
he brings only pain.
His only goal clear:
a feast of you.

Never let illusion
delude you, blur your
bounds of safe haven.
Never attempt to tame
a fulltime hunter:
he will devour you,
he will consume you whole.

Yet here be a mystery:
unbidden within you,
the dark primordial destroyer
throws off hibernating sleep,
discards the anesthetic cocoon.
Ancestral instinct, inchoate and strong,
bares red teeth, shoulders aside
the civil veneer and does not bide
with endless patience or vain hope.

Facing the monster calls forth
indwelling strands of strength:
forged from generations,
descended through warriors,
crafted by countless survivors.

This transformation,
so resolute, so complete, so awful,
confounds the monster:
prey should never resist,
never turn to face the pursuer,
never turn to act like a hunter.

Then he begins to feel fear
eating into him from the edges,
eating out from his chill grey heart,
melting his cocked confidence,
the vampyr in sunlight.

In that preternatural moment,
his abilities fail,
his power falls away,
his nightmare bounds free.
Chained by surprise,
drained of momentum,
a weak and quaking coward,
toothless and de-clawed.

Now mewling and puling,
the monster abject in defeat,
as if he deserved mercy,
as if he had ever granted mercy.

This is now so clear:
his cravenness was hidden,
his strength an illusion,
a thin façade, scrim sheer.

Now he will gutter,
shunned by stray dogs
repelled by his craven scent.

No longer a strong monster,
merely a pathetic poser
bereft of respect and alone,
surrounded by cannibals.

Monsters make good eating.

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 22: Phantom Tablatures of Rachmaninoff

Phantom Tablatures of Rachmaninoff

When everything is complicated,
I simplify, diminish, reduce my presence.

Complexity perplexes,
mystifies my simpleton mind.
I struggle to comprehend,
to fit the puzzle together
but I’m left gape-mouthed,
a hint of drool setting off
my vacuous blank eyes.

Sometimes the brain stain
overwhelms me and I strain
to pattern, recapitulating
all the corruptible facets
into child-friendly concepts.

I boggle playfully,
renouncing my soi-disant
haughtiness and expertise
for cool clarity and peace.

When recovered, I build up
my tolerance with slow frenzy
until I revolve and rev furiously,
until the revolution completes
another time, another cycle.

Please use small words,
I am confused.

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 21: Bête Noire

Who can resist this bête noire?
He shines among us with confidence,
dripping an almost visible ectoplasm
scattered wide in his wake.

Everyone loves him in the moment
and when he leaves, tragedy flowers.
We make plans of resistance,
behind his back, out of his presence,
but the plots dissolve like sugar in hot coffee
when he comes around radiating.

Charisma is a glamour, an infection,
a powerful dumbfounding poison.
The carrier is immune,
the toxin weakening everyone else
the longer they are exposed to it.

Perhaps the time of assassination
draws near, a solemn solution.
We are weak and enthralled,
our eyes empty and cauled,
unable to muster strong will
or determined forward action.

So we admire ourselves to death,
brought low by gleeful glances,
props and promises of per diem wages.
The beast is within us tonight.

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 20: Noam Titus Dawson

Noam Titus Dawson

You're out on the streets drunk
and pulling around a shopping cart.
Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells,
Here grow no damned drugs, here are no storms,
No noise, but silence and eternal sleep…
I don't think anything could be further from the truth.

Unless you've had your heart set on watching Dumbo.

"Tough love" is just the right phrase:
love for the rich and privileged,
tough for everyone else.

And I have been
your sidekick,
your confidant,
your other half
for so long and
that's how our relationship works.

If you quietly accept and go along
no matter what your feelings are,
ultimately you internalize what you're saying,
because it's too hard to believe one thing
and say another.
Because I can not understand
why anyone would choose that kind of life.

I'll find a day to massacre them all,
And raze their faction and their family…

Their moral values are very explicit:
shine the boots of the rich and the powerful,
kick everybody else in the face,
and let your grandchildren pay for it.

You are definitely a mystery.
All this verbal sparring…
is getting a little dangerous.
So we should just go on a date
before someone gets hurt.

Because let me tell you,
they may all live in fear of you,
but I don't.

© 2009, php

The above is not written by me. I merely assembled it. It's a mashup of quotes from Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus, Noam Chomsky, and the TV show Dawson's Creek. I drew from the above linked Wikiquote pages the phrases I thought interesting and arranged them with a few line breaks here and there.

I see why people like doing mashups: it requires remarkably little creative talent or inspiration. It's kind of fun though.

April Poem-A-Day 19: Incoherent Notes Towards a Deconstructed Poetic Theory

Incoherent Notes Towards a Deconstructed Poetic Theory

4: Parallel/pair reality/metaphor
4a: Individual or serial similes

8: Cyclic rhythm through rhyme
8a: Repetition
8b: Syllabic cadence
8c: Breath cadence

15: Internalized personal experience
15a: Character experience

16: Empathic connection
16a: Disconnection
16b: Social juxtaposition
16c: Misanthropy

23: Betrayal and hostility
23a: Self-betrayal

42: Putative redemption
42a: Refusing redemption
42b: Aggressive alienation
42c: Redemptive alienation
42d: Redemption through surrender
42e: Symbolic redemption

NB: Many sections are missing or lost.

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 18: Contractual Obligation Poem

Contractual Obligation Poem

I made a vow to create/spew
at least a poem a day for April.
(“vow” might be a tad strong
to describe my intent toward
this spastic poetic slaughter.)

I’m dragging behind and
I’m feeling word blind.

No ripe phrases fall
in autumnal waves
from my dry pen.

Be glad I don’t yearn
to create a verbal
Metal Machine Music
on 8-track tape.

I am not a monster.
Not yet at least.

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 17: The Tongue of St. Sister Ray

The Tongue of St. Sister Ray

A droning electric guitar
soundtracks our grope
in a dark corner booth,
burgundy leatherette under us.
(Ian Curtis should begin stuttering soon.)

I never caught your name
so I call you Sister Ray.

We are twin swales, fogbound
as we share our damp,
subsonic bass riffs.

You pat my cheek
as we part,
call me “sweet”
as smoke cloaks you
in shadow.

Come back, Sister Ray:
we can have another
really good time next Friday.

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 16: In my mind, I write wondrous novels

In my mind, I write wondrous novels,
complex plots and insightful characters
woven with a sure, deft touch,
polished as old scrimshaw.

In reality, my crude attempts are flawed,
dull, derivative, sloppy, ill-focused.

I sigh with resignation, knowing
I may never gain the ability to overcome
my amateurish and clumsy mauling
of long form tale telling.

So I write poetry:
stories severely abbreviated,
distilled to strobed flashes
of ciphered allusion and image.

Still, I t’aint much of a poet,
more rough, clumsy versifier.
I’m erratic of rhyme and rhythm,
predicable of theme and symbol,
overly obvious of simile,
repetitive of imagery.

Yet I have some skill with words,
informed by a sly wicked humor,
a penchant for self-deprecation
and an eccentric vocabulary.

And I know how to ruthlessly
rip off my literary elders.
Or I ape them with clumsy abandon
might be the more apt description.
(although this surely slights simians,
this comparison to my blunt hackery.)

I sigh, wistful and pensive,
dreaming of epics.

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 15: Wait for me by the river

Wait for me by the river.

We’ll strip naked and dive
into the powerful waters
to explore and plumb
the secret currents together.

In the eddies we will laugh
at danger while we come down
from the fear adrenaline
ebbing in our shared blood.

I call to you
from the edge of the flood:
Wait for me by the river
so we can swim together.

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 14: The tally complete, her hair down

The tally complete, her hair down,
She sails no more upon life’s river.

No longer shall she long for love,
Or pine for peace within her head.

These human worries of the flesh,
Now dwell in silence unbroken.

When last seen wandering the shore,
Her smile was radiant and bright.
Her demeanor of calm surety
Spoke of deep contentment and right
Alignment with life’s told purpose,
Little showing her want for more.

Weep not for her, shed no hot tears:
Her sleep is well-deserved and blessed.

© 2009, php

Originally I was going to attempt a speed-written poem, starting with random quote. The following quote came up:

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Shakespeare, Cymbeline, IV.ii.258

The quote reminded me of Ophelia from Hamlet and I immediately discarded the whole speed aspect to focus on the Shakespearean poetic form and style. I didn't end up with perfect execution of the style but it does have some of the flavor of the language and phrasing. Sort of. I'm not much of a classical formalist when it comes to poetry and it shows in the few almost afterthought rhymes. What do you expect? I spent all of 30 minutes on it.

April Poem-A-Day 13: Queequeg ages

Queequeg ages,
his harpoon bent
his eyes poor
his arm weak.

Something fatal,
something mocking
calls from the deep sea,
searching for his life.

We corrode with him,
dwindling down days
without requite,
alone in our gloaming.

Yet Queequeg lives:
augment to myth,
strong in memory,
touched by love.

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 12: Maledicta

imprecate, wreak foul language upon heads,
multifarious variations themed, expressed so:

sexuality, incest, gender confusion,
physical inadequacies, sexual dysfunction,
deity, blasphemy, religious contempt, curses,
hygiene, STDs, disease, body parts/wastes,
subnormal intelligence, low social position.

myriad misanthropic topics immediately
resolve into personal insults generally.

(I didn’t mean to say it…
not to your face at least…)

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 11: fragments of her

fragments of her
lodge near my heart
cocooned in pearlescence
formed and forged
by time tears
of geologic force

wake me

when spring returns
we will dream
innocent again
gentle laughter
shared in the shade
of mausoleums

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 10: The garter snakes will return soon

The garter snakes will return soon
to bask in the sun,
curled in the new grass.

The dogs are puzzled by
these reptilian creatures;
the serpents smell strange,
move in unmammalian ways.

So I protect the snakes,
shooing the dogs away,
allowing cold blood to warm
as they doze silently.

My blood warms too
in the spring.

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 9: Balls of sound

Balls of sound
tumble ‘round
my bad brain.

You should not
beat that pot
in my mind.

Terpsichore
glares, in poor
mood tonight.

Take this blight
from my sight
and ears now.

Tongue out taunt.
O, my bad brain.

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 8: Words rarely travel alone

Words rarely travel alone.

Gangs of them gather:
haughty and sly,
reprobate and coy.

Heed their call,
mingle with rare
sweet etyma,
a revel divine.

Savory mouthfeel
and textural pension
frame and then define.

Tenebrous satiation
lingers betwixt
Greek and Latin forms,
odd linguistic mules
slide into pop culture.

This hard bop riff,
this cool improv,
hot shreds musing.

Sing, slung slang!
Roar, raring rara!
Clap, clear claque!

Word gangs rumble,
so watch your mouth.

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 7: Regret

Regret
haunts
3am.

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 6: The gift of vengeance

This is totally unfinished and rough. I found it difficult to stop writing because verses kept tumbling out. I decided to just put it up "as is" despite the flaws since I'm already behind on the poem-a-day thing. Wicked, wicked am I.


The gift of vengeance
flows from her,
a bright burning
touch of art.

Her invisible chord vibrates,
a tremor of Pathos’ lifeline,
and circumstances become
Fateful and malign.

Scales of justice
seek balance,
seek redress,
seed madness.

The fierce itch in him
defies all soothing,
leaves him a wild-eyed
monster for all to see.

Sometimes Vengeance
weaves on the loom
of Justice a pattern,
a cloak of destruction.

Gifted by dreams but
plagued by nightmares,
he can not escape
this certain retribution.

Unmasked tribulation
reaves his soul,
strips his comforts,
repossesses his power.

Her name is terrible and
she is the unflinching mirror
burning with truth,
consuming deception and lies.

Thus he becomes outcast,
banished from civil society,
beset by crows,
deranged by guilt.

Thus consumed from within,
he roils with conflict,
rots from core to skin,
suffers unceasing blight.

This wretch, this violator
of women and children
fragments into madness,
sinks deep into the abyss.

She pursues relentlessly and
nevermore does he find
shelter or refuge,
safe haven or peace.

For his actions and crimes,
he deserves no pity,
no succor and no friends:
loneliness shall consume him.

Her work finished,
he disintegrates,
within and without,
body and spirit.

Her gift is vengeance,
her craft is honed fine.

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 5: The story of Harvey Milk!

The story of Harvey Milk!
Now without all the nasty rage!

I’m watching Milk
remove anger,
subtract outrage,
reduce community
to a bandwagon
hitched to his star.

It’s as if the “White Nights”
never happened,
as if rioting never bloomed
after Dan White was sentenced
to only seven years
for murdering two people.

(White’s lawyers used
the “Twinkie Defense,”
claiming he had
“diminished capacity”
from eating too much junk food.)

The movie leaves me with
an earnest, almost sexless, man
who single-handedly rallied
apathetic and uninvolved voters
by appealing to Democratic ideals.

This is the mainstream Amerikan
version, a cult of personality biopic
which conveniently leaves out
a decade of community organizing.

Tame the scary homosexuals,
defang the radicals,
pasteurize the milieu
until it’s safe and unthreatening.

Raging queens and dykes
still wait for justice.
Don’t be surprised if
a brick in a handbag
is a stylish accessory
when fighting begins.

Depend on it.

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 4: alliterative theme

alliterative theme
situational description
sibilant adverb/noun combo
allusive image
alliterative theme rhyme

simple chorus

restate theme
crisis

complex chorus

resolution

ironic coda/close

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 3: We mark these searing days

After starting a day late, I had to add another poem to bring me up to day three. I'm finding it interesting how much I've forgotten about writing poetry. And each poem is like a newly discovered piece of myself, waiting and wanting. It's fun.


We mark these searing days
with water spilled, dripping
from soaked t-shirts,
freshlets spidering
thighs and ankles.

Dawn finds us
daring the world,
epipens abandoned
as if we no longer needed them.

Burning grass smoke
hazed vision,
slipped between the trees,
faintly scenting our hair.

The dogs are quiet now.

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 2: crack crack Miribelle

crack crack Miribelle
return happy days
again

potent portents
foretell sorrow
(cf auto da fé)
in spades

here mockers
demean your past
revisit your flaws

strong strong Miribelle
let these incidentals
slide away

© 2009, php

April Poem-A-Day 1: Moribund

Late to the party as usual, I guess April is National Poetry Writing Month and some people are writing a poem a day for the month. I might do this but I have lots of other things to do. Well, here's one with a cheery theme.

Moribund

Artifice styles itself primary,
a clever disguise fooling many,
cloaking social decay;
the reek masked by perfume.

We buy the modernity,
the speed and the adrenaline
dazzling us with junkie passion,
while we devolve in ecstasy.

When the fire consumes,
when the sensual burn numbs,
what misshapen beast slouches
from shadows to bleat in confusion?

Blinded by bling,
halt by blows,
dumb by babble.

No sanctuary can hide,
no shield can hold at bay
these rending forces,
whirling and ravenous.

Sound and fury
signifying
signs of the times,
and soft ground.

These are the demands,
these are the mouths
gathering ‘round, hunger
plain and naked.

This is our social contract:
serve as a serf,
a polite whip poised and
a plastic carrot dangled.

This is our cannibal contract:
devouring each other
at the behest of secret kings,
never sated, never sated.

© 2009, php