Insatiated

Give all of yourself and you say 

You’ve not given enough, give less 

And you still want more. 

For Better or Worse, Lads

What are they after, our souls, traveling 

on rotten brine-soaked timbers 

from harbor to harbor? 

—George Seferis, from “Mythistorema” 

So when 

We finally found out where 

We were going, we thought 

We’d better take one 

Last good look back at what 

We were leaving and that’s when 

We shoved off for good. 

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Pegasus and Company

If—as you say, my dear Wallace— 

There was indeed a time when

Both steed and rider were noble, how come 

It's only the rider who's now 

A transmogrified ass? 

Moderator’s comment: The reader (and/or perhaps, writer) is kindly instructed to sashay over to Cinquor's PDF Corral where our Noble Rider Huuk probably picked up his misguided, asinine idea of trying to harness the sound of words. I tell you if Stevens were alive, he’d be kicking some bad ass and picking up the insurance benefits to boot!

Paladin, The Dark Writer

Even after so much travail (over 10,000 km under his saddle and still going strong), the question remains unanswered: Has he the write, will he prevail? Perhaps he will but alas, alas my dark knight, to what avail? 

(Hint: Make his quest easier. Send in your answers to his giveaway poetry contest before the 31st of December 2011 deadline—without fail. Who knows? You may be getting his card ……..eh, that should be book……in the mail!)

Eros Unrequited

Though your name does sound like arrows, 

I daresay the conceit must end here— 

As a shaft of light tearing apart 

The heart of this dark sparrow. 

Moot Advent of Winter

Waiting to see which leaf will answer 

Its calling, asking ourselves when 

A chill gust settles 

The question once 

And for all and not 

Just for you and me. 

Oracle

The truth, mortal? 

I will tell you this much—the rest 

You’ll have to make up 

As you go. 

Presenting Vazambam's Name Day Celebration Poetry Giveaway Contest!

It’s a time of gifts and as there is no Saint Nick over here in charge of distributing them (we have our own Saint Basil who does this job quite nicely on January 1^st) and since yours truly is named after him, I’ve decided to spread some cheer in the midst of all this dire talk of impending Hellenic bankruptcy. Here’s the deal (please don’t beware of Greeks bearing gifts)—I’m going to give away two autographed copies of my first book Sentences (only 300 copies were published) to the first two people who can answer the following question:

What was my first girlfriend’s name?

Hint (but not much of one): It’s not of Greek origin.

All entrants can enter only one name and they cannot enter more than once; if by the end of the contest (12.00 midnight December 31^st, Greek time) there are no winners (or only one), the names of the remaining participants will be put into a Mexican straw hat (idea courtesy of William Michaelian) and on the evening of January 1^st, 2012, the soberest guest at my name day party will be asked to draw the first two (or one) names out of the hat. A photograph commemorating the occasion will be taken and duly published on my blog together with the names of the lucky, soon-to-be well-heeled winners, as a signed copy of Sentences is now selling online at over $35 (just think of all the things you could buy for that very special person if it were 1950 and you were six years old).

Please send your guesses to vzambam3@otenet.gr together with your snail mail addresses—good luck (unless you’re psychic or have a pint-sized sphinx in your pocket, you’re going to need it)!

UPDATE: 12/23/11. Hey, guess what--I don't expect anyone to guess the right answer--all you have to do is send in any crazy name to enter. So let's send in those entries!

Haiku Wednesday

My thanks to the indefatigable Don Wentworth for publishing one of my favorites, together with a fine one by Roberta Beary. 

Offering

At last, the long-awaited cleansing downpour, 

Tomorrow, a promise of more—even now 

As I write this, I can see the ancient silver- 

Green trees with their branches extended. 

Crow's Foot

edge 

         of the meadow, the small 

tracks 

                there, 

a stream 

                beginning 

to branch. 


(Opening poem from Sentences, 1976)

Finally, A Clear-cut Definition

Beauty?  

I ain’t stumped but

Don’t tell this old logger

It’s in the eyes

Of the beholder—

I can’t see

No forest or no trees.

Drunk Again

What can a poor lush do 

When pouring out his heart 

To the wine-dark sea 

But hold—steady as she goes— 

His foul breath in. 

Stroke of Genius

When the myopic philosophy prof asked her

What she thought she was doing 

Wasting her time 

Doodling during a pop quiz, I bet 

He never thought she’d shoot back 

With a bull’s eye can’t you see 

I’m thinking. 

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Biting the Bullet

Punk firebrand intellect with prophetic 

Corpus pregnant with bravado before firing 

Your virgin salvo into that illustrious 

But now defenseless body 

Of ancestors think twice 

And never after 

Drawing a blank. 

Moderator’s comments: Not having heard from Huuk for ages (so to speak), I thought he’d finally shot his wad. Just goes to show you shouldn’t count geezers out—not even after you think they’ve wheezed their pathetic last. 

Reflections, 1969/2011

When this photograph was taken 

Years ago, I did not know what 

The old woman was thinking— 

She was sitting before the low 

Wooden door of her house, 

Walking stick in hand, 

Eyes lowered, looking at the ground— 

I still don’t know what she was thinking. 

Save the Child

Between Two Bitter Moments

Between two bitter moments there’s no time even to breathe
between your face and your face
the tender form of a child takes shape and disappears.

—George Seferis, from Sketches for a Summer

Ray Of Glimmer At The Bottom

With the first black inkling 

Of writhing tentacles, remain

 

At your stations, blotting 

The thought out.

Back to the War

When she left at dawn, no one saw 

The black-clad bereaved old woman 

Carrying a knife, a loaf of bread,

And a small straw mat 

On which they found her babbling 

At dusk on a scarred, bare knoll

Overlooking the pockmarked, 

Snow-covered landscape, the still

Uncut bread by her side.

 

 

Narcissist Not Reflecting Deeply Enough

Writing poems, you should never see yourself 

As a "poet" writing poems— 

The poem is not a pond 

Full of frogs croaking, 

It is an ocean. 

Elderly Immigrant

I don’t remember much

About my youth 

In the old country— 

I was too young to bother 

About memories. 

Now, I tell myself,

I’ll soon know better. 

Moonstruck and Pure As the Driven Snow to Boot

What’s that you say poet waxing poetic 

Your writing’s crystal clear? 

But how clear is that now tell me oh 

Too late I fear I’m drifting off 

Will it help clear things up a bit 

If I stick this shovel in your ear? 

Right As Rain till Kingdom Come and Still No Sign of Wear and Tear

Isn’t it terrible about metaphors? 

Folks have been trying 

To pin them down for ages 

And they’re still tearing about, 

Catching clichés in red weather. 

Definitely Not Lemmings #41

A warm December welcome to Leigh Tuplin. Leigh’s blog combines poetry with photographs—well worth taking a look at. Thank you, Leigh.

At a Loss for Words

–for Eleni, again 

With all my words found wanting 

My love, my muse, what must I do 

To find the one just right for you— 

Wear it on my sleeve? 

All That Glitter Is Not Gold (The Great Pretender)

Poet who fancies 

He has the Midas touch, 

Easy on that gilded dressing— 

You want your head stuffed 

And spinning, grinning on 

A silver platter? 

Beyond the Wildest Stretch of the Imagination

Imagine—once and for all— 

Standing at the sea’s edge, thinking 

Of the poet who said there will always be more to it 

Under the surface once you reach it, 

Will you be able to leave it at that? 

In Lieu of "Three Red Pigeons"

XXIV 

Here end the works of the sea, the works of love. 

Those who will some day live here where we end— 

should the blood happen to blacken in their memory and overflow— 

let them not forget us, the weak souls among the asphodels, 

let them turn towards Erebus the heads of the victims: 

We who had nothing will teach them peace. 

—George Seferis, from Mythistorema (My translation) 

(Music by Ilias Andriopoulos, sung by the late, great Nikos Xylouris)

Mythistorema

Though no past shall ever be 

Perfect, we thought we knew 

Enough about it to keep us hopeful, 

Unraveling its myriad rules, ever mindful 

Of how we were told not 

To look upon ourselves 

As exceptions, lest the sovereign sun melt 

Our golden rule. 

That’s a Tough One: The Muse Strikes Again

Where do poems come from? 

I’m not sure, 

But now that I think of it, 

Your question reminds me 

Of the time when I first asked 

Mom where babies come from 

And she said they just popped out 

Of women’s kneecaps. 

Myrtle Vinca Minor under Cross-examination

Sure, you keep repeating 

You’re not trans-gender, 

But what’s that coy chick doing hiding 

In your shrubbery 

Feeding on your seeds? 

Surreal Sleepwalker

Out of deep sleep

And rising ever so

 

Slowly and completely

Mesmerized, I see what must be 

A green cheese moon adrift and waxing

 

The blue ocean floor at my feet. 

 

 

 

 

Logorrhea

You run off at the mouth
Whenever you say whatever
You say is what you have
To say and nothing’s going stop you.

Okay, logo-masochist, have it your way but
What’re you going to say when you’re sinking
In deep shit and nobody’s going to stop you?

Ornithologists' Organic Breakfast

—for Ans and Peter 

gingerly nibbling, small feathered 

friend preening on 

a 

thin 

seedy 

stalk 

of 

sweet 

smelling 

wild 

fennel— 

early birds, 

feast your eyes

for what we have 

here is a natural, 

a real honest-to-goodness 

con 

nois 

sir. 

Last of the Adobe Kings

 

On my way, I pass by

The remnants of another day—

His weathered visage

On the knoll—I see 

He sees me not,

Nor does he look away.