May 31, 2009 - Sunday
Honoria's lament on Ra's second leaving
Ra brought me
the sun and the heat
sticky with sweet
sweat between breasts
and the breathless
nights of nothing
more than giving;
Ra, too soon leaving
on the morrow’s morrow
and my heart
goes a bit with you
wishing joy to find
but more to see you soon
to see you come
once more to shudder.
May 18, 2009 - Monday
to meet the wind
There’s a man
his name
is Chad John.
Not yet young as I
he stood
in the distance quiet
his red skin,
black hair, suit
at the burials
of my grandfather
of my grandmother
(learning a trade);
of my brother his age,
coming forward
into his own,
in that kindred gaze
we met
in the rain
that March so green
lush the good damp
Terra, my earth
swallowing bits of soul.
I have looked for you,
Chad John,
at the cemetery gate
but the years are gone
and another inters
the dead there.
And with your leaving
I have let go the place.
Please, my father,
let’s not bury
anymore dead there.
Let us breathe deep
the life that’s left to us,
ourselves
to meet the wind
one day.
May 17, 2009 - Sunday
and the sun and the moon voyeurs
Beer spilt
in the turbulence
discovered
when a shaky leg ventures
from their nest.
She laughs low, startled.
She had asked of him,
in a lulling moment
“can only Christians sin?”
he thinks yes.
“but I do covet you,”
she sighs, spooning tight,
“I do covet.”
And in the morning she had left
to errands, only to return
to smoothed sheets
and the scent of a man of light that lingers;
the hours
her touch spent burning
each crease and line of him
into dust, each smile.
Always,
Honoria comes away
from him with a clean heart;
Ra in her bed
and the sun and the moon
voyeurs.
May 7, 2009 - Thursday
Poetic Statement that prompted "poetic statement"
I'm honestly at the point where I don't know if this makes sense to anyone but me, but I've never tried to analyze my writing and I lost the assignment sheet half way through writing. (Yeah I'm a dork.)
Poetic Statement
In this age of the worker bee, the Corpocracy, and virtual relationships, people left disconnected from themselves as well as from each other find escape in cinema and pulp fictions, rarely delving too deep into critical thought. Many are happy in this world of façade. Many, however, realize their disconnectedness and search for meaning and connection. Though I realize the late sixties, early seventies brought about the theory of Naked Poetry as open form , I feel this term lends itself more accurately to the nakedness of the poet in revelation of self and confession. For what is it to be naked? A basic definition would include; 1. Plain-spoken; blunt: the naked truth: 2. without the customary covering, container, or protection: a naked sword; a naked flame. Naked Poetry, therefore, is not the superficial expression of sentiment but the transparency of craft in articulating an aspect of the human condition, its intent to evoke emotion from the reader, to connect the reader to universal thought. The disconnected find connection in this style of writing; Naked Poetry.
Yet how does one connect to another, to universalize thought? I contend through language. And what is language, but the expression of a form through words as labels; Plato’s Theory of Forms. In the Meno dialogue, Plato describes a form as the "common nature" possessed by a group of things or concepts. The theory can be explained as innate knowledge possessed prior to birth of the physical body. Essentially, prior to birth we each possess all knowledge. It is then lost when born and must be relearned through experience and even trigger if you will. The naked poem allows the reader to be able to connect, reading into it what they will, and taking away from the poem what they need; no two readers taking away or needing exactly the same thing. For example, in the Poem, “Ra, his way, to Honoria’s bed is found,” I received two very distinct interpretations and reactions to the phrase, “her glory wet,” reactions at opposite poles of like and dislike, comfort and discomfort.
As the poet, however, I can only put the confession out there for the reader as the confession wants to be written (my own concept and articulation of the specific form in direct, explicit language), editing the framework of language and craft around it; alliteration, consonance, assonance, specific word choice, enjambment. Language, (words as labels) therefore, becomes the medium to articulate the forms. That is not to say that the relearning of knowledge is not without individual interpretation. On occasion, syllabic utterance is substituted to produce its’ own effect; the harsh k sounds, the soft s and sh, and so on. We are aural beings moved by sound and as in Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky, a comprehensible language is not always necessary to evoke reader response or to express a form.
All in all perhaps this may typify me as a confessional language poet. But in the end, I don’t feel I identify with any one mode of criticism. I am happy with a piece if it has evoked emotion or initiated a response from the reader, but in doing so without intent. When everything is written, the poem must also remain my own (organic) catharsis of expression, my own interpretation of the forms, my own way of reconnecting to self as well as to others.
Ra, his way, to Honoria's bed is found
Ra, his way
to Honoria's bed
is found.
And Honoria
lay
legs akimbo along his length
exhausted
as the morning slinks
between closed curtains;
no sleep or little
too many hands at work
brushing soft
against her glory wet
as she herself
tugs and moans
and the hours grey.
Oh these two that touch
desire deep
laugh and smile,
one would think…
yet Love,
sparks not profound.
Still,
amidst their search, Ra
his way
to Honoria's bed
is found.
*I've only posted one of the eight poems in the portfolio, the one I referenced. Sorry about the absence of formatting, and my footnote is missing: Naked Poetry and The New Naked Poetry, eds. Stephen Berg and Robert Mezey.
May 3, 2009 - Sunday
poetic statement
to
articulate a thing
that should have been
perhaps
left in the unknowing;
oh weep my heart
to have lost something
true
in the finding.
*In finishing my poetic statement for a class, I feel exorcised of demons and a bit empty, like I just vomited my soul in analyzing the psyche of my own poetry. ;(
April 22, 2009 - Wednesday
edits for spring portfolio
on being a ballerina
melancholia
the piano
a sadness that spoke
but when my ankles
weren’t strong enough for point
mother pulled me from the class.
I, the never
prodigious:
ballet
piano
violin,
cello
flute
guitar.
but words
in books
I owned
thoughts
she could never pull me from.
hands
Ra once played piano
along my hip
my waist, my breast
long slim fingers
playing me
playing; Ra whom I
am always losing
for it’s the nature of us
in between other things.
I watch you write
small scrawl
fingers lean, strong
you are Ra
fifteen years younger
questioning truths
too shy, golden sweet
growing convictions,
steeling my breath.
Wanting you
to play me.
Stan, eternal at thirty-two
We of a generation
have lost track of days
Eyes lit
with laughter
and the trilling
of our tears
tells you we are
ten years younger;
our passion, fifteen
years younger
than the years
would mislead you.
But look close
and you may see
little lines along the wrist
across the heel
about the eyes
a bit of weight
here, there
children born
children lost
children dreamt
death, desire, defeat
disease, regret
I can only say,
though we have lived
we have learned
and choose
to own the years
that they may not own us.
The Shell
twirl
spin
arms out
face to sun
a hippie,
lalalala-love
a girl
drop-dead-dizzy
bright-eyed
little voice trilling
the Shell
half buried in sand
forgot
on it’s side;
I squat smooth
hunched
knees touching shoulders
head bent
poke
with a stick,
dead-ant, dead-ant
squish-squish
stand
tip it
with a toe
tiny ant home,
How did I ever
fit in you?
Cowgirls cain't never hide from Electric Demons laughin’ fire
Armor rent
lance broken, old six gun smokin'
burnin' scars in one hand.
Electric Demons laughin' fire.
The Cowgirl takes a bow
retreats from the field
of play
and drags down the lane
her heart heavy behind
like a sack-a kittens
ready for the river;
boots-a kickin’
as she spurs her sweetness
too slow ahead,
and thinks
It's as good-a time as any
for a nap in the shade.
transient
I sold books today,
my desk last week
to buy gas (if that)
hopefully paint
so I can
rent my place
to go to another
ghetto – youth
instead of hookers
but cheaper, North
away from my city born.
books!
of others
a life
once –
consumed like
beer
chips
salsa
reruns
things
bought easily
shed, all
before books,
before
I came alive
found my own
scratch-scratch
that the pen makes.
July in the ghetto
In the ghetto
guns
are poppin' off
drunk
on meat and sauce
happy
we make
our own
fire in the sky
in the ghetto
in the ghetto
with my degree
and grad school
application.
Ra, his way to Honoria's bed is found
Ra, his way
to Honoria's bed
is found.
And Honoria
lay
legs akimbo along his length
exhausted
as the morning slinks
between closed curtains;
no sleep or little
too many hands at work
brushing soft
against her glory wet
as she herself
tugs and moans
and the hours grey.
Oh these two that touch
desire deep
laugh and smile,
one would think…
yet Love,
sparks not profound.
Still,
amidst their search, Ra
his way
to Honoria's bed
is found.
March 24, 2009 - Tuesday
the nature of us
....................
the nature of us?
that we are drawn
perpetually
each to the other.
for why?
and what if
you are not
the between thing
but the next
good rush?
would you cry off
or come
again?
and again?
.. ..
12:40 AM
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March 17, 2009 - Tuesday
seven years
....................
remember how I cried that year?
whenever
wherever
you came to mind.
.. ..
it was spring and the rains came
warm and soft, the land, my land
bloomed greens; bright
the world
to eyes gray.
.. ..
that October, if ever I thought
one could return, I thought
you had the tenacity, the will.
.. ..
but you didn’t
I killed you.
you are dead.
.. ..
seven years, one would think
but no
and
are you watching?
are you watching me learn to love?
.. ..
March 11, 2009 - Wednesday
on being a ballerina
melancholia
the piano
a sadness that spoke
to my soul.
but when my ankles
weren’t strong enough for point
mother pulled me from the class.
I, the never
prodigious:
ballet
piano
violin,
cello
flute
guitar.
but words
in books
I owned
thoughts
she could never pull me from.
March 3, 2009 - Tuesday
hands
Ra once played piano
along my hip
my waist, my breast
long slim fingers
playing me
playing; Ra whom I
am always losing
for it’s the nature of us
in between other things.
I watch you write
small scrawl
fingers lean, strong
you are Ra
fifteen years younger
questioning
growing convictions
steeling my breath.
March 1, 2009
dreamscape
....................
In fevered dreams:
two kittens
a cat birthing more
– she
the very unfeline –
a house a maze
a town de los muerte
electric green lush
an old woman dead-blind
zombie gray
doing laundry
turning to
claw her.
.. ..
Sweat trickling
around the breast
along the side
to soak in flannel
in fevered dreams
visions allude.
*Though my life totem is the baby white buffalo (hope & perseverance), other totems come on occasion; the baby white snake (continual change) and now the kitten (cat totem). My totems seem to come as the children of their species, playful and alive, miracles at the beginning of the infinite cycle. And if buildings are habits, faceless people aspects of ourselves, and birth the concept of new ideas and creativity...I have much to think on.
February 25, 2009 - Wednesday
The Shell
twirl
spin
arms out
face to sun
like a hippie,
lalalala-love
like a girl
drop-dead-dizzy
bright-eyed
little voice trilling
The Shell
half buried in sand
forgot
on it’s side;
I squat smooth
hunched
knees touching shoulders
head bent
poke
with a stick,
dead-ant, dead-ant
squish-squish
stand
tip it
with a toe
tiny ant home
“How did I ever
fit in you?”
