Two Review 2009

Just received my contributor's copies of Two Review 2009--an excellent issue which reflects the editors' mission statement: "All subject matter is considered as long as the attention to craft is high and the language is grammatically strong, syntactically unique, and illuminates in some way the human experience. Writing about the modern world, its inhabitants, and the events that shape them, from the personal day-to-day experiences of work and family life to worldwide events that effect us all, is preferred." You can see a list of the contributors and their domiciles here.

Not So Pedestrian Gadfly under Guise of Country Bumpkin

Now

Look here
You-all

Certified highfalutin'
City-bred dandies,

It's sho 'nuf

High nigh
Impossible, so

Why in tarnation youse tryin'
To outrun a horse-

Fly.

(First published in First Intensity #21, Fall 2006)

War of Attrition

Looking back
they saw

what wore them
down was not

their in-
constancy,

their constant
frictions,

but how to love,
honor and obey

a life made up
of fictions.

(First published in Kater Murr's Press, 2005)

Wrath

Unknowingly

Crushed, almost
Suffocated

By my wife's pillow,
The badly

Bruised innocent
Centipede surfaces

And retaliates

And stings her fore-
Head good. She

Springs from deep sleep, strikes back
Blindly this time sees

She finishes the job off
Good.

(First published in Poetry Salzburg Review #14, Autumn 2008)

The Weight

Forgive me

Love, for taking
You for granted,

For thinking

You were simply
A given: Above all,

Once and for all,
Thank you

For leaving me
Your presence

In all ways
Unjustly forgiving.

(First published in Poetry Salzburg Review #9, Spring 2006)

Adolescent

easily

taking a-
part

the resilient

soft
red
rubber
ball

to where

he finds
its hard

perplexing
core.


(First published in Poetry Salzburg Review #2, Winter 2001/2002)

Reprisals

"You'll find that many of your compatriots have already bought property
in the Mani; in some villages, the Germans outnumber the Greeks 3 to 1."
--1995 real estate brochure

1. 1941

Occupying forces
Emaciated forms
Yellowed sheets
Worthless paper.

2.

Back to the wall
Their faces become
Muzzled abstractions of anthems
Circumventing circular
Definitions

Of executions.

3.

Circle of martyrs'
Eyelids undying
Blank distraction
Allocating slots for headstones
Grounds a lime foundation.

4.

Quarry of white

Washed marble
Statues

Of limitation.

5. vein of ignorance

Where does time run to
When it runs out?

6.

The Germans picked up
The first men they came across
And when they had gathered
Enough to fill the ratio,
Shot them.

The ratio was thirty Greeks
For every German soldier killed
By the Underground.

7. Initial Skirmish, The Deep Mani, 1961

Barren

Black-scarved hags
Captured

By Leicas.

8. 2001

(overheard in passing)

". . .you do exaggerate, my dear. One mustn't forget
The Germans have always respected the traditional

Architecture of our country."

Site

the
white

moss-
covered
wall

spotted

with
red

poppies
and

what
we
gather
are

bullet
holes.


(First published in the anthology How The Net Is Gripped: a selection of contemporary American poetry, edited by Rupert Loydell and David Miller, Stride, UK, 1992.)

"Definitely Not Lemmings" Number Eight

My thanks to poet Allen Braden for joining Definitely Not Lemmings; you can find out more about Allen here, and also read one of his many very fine poems.

Mythos

As long as you wish
I continue,

You have to go back.

(First published in Poetry Salzburg Review #2, Winter 2001/2002)

Lustily

from the dingy
balcony

the housewife's
crisp

white under
pants

and sheets
applaud

accordingly.

(from The Intricate Evasions of As)

Alter Ego

Simplicity

.

Do you mean
What you say?

.

Of the utmost
Complicity.

(from The Intricate Evasions of As)

Crystal Clear

child like

paper snow

flakes open

eyes wonder


(from The Intricate Evasions of As)

Terminal Disease

Unworthy the ink
ejaculating

octopus spits
out black pus.


(from The Intricate Evasions of As)

Illumination

conceives the word
perceives

the world within
a mind

less deception.

(from The Intricate Evasions of As)

Poet in the Aviary

1.

No more beating round the bush, boy--
Just murder for the thrill of it,

Fire at will.

2.

Bad chicks' blood seeping under the sill--
That's more like it,

No more mockingbirds to kill.

Hot off the Press

Jolted

from still one more slow in-
tense reading

of a hard, demanding article
on Williams' Spring and All

by my wife's shrill
come here quickly,

I shoot down
the stairs thinking

something's surely up,
only to find her

waiting, arms folded, looking
coolly at me from behind

a stack of freshly ironed
still steaming laundry,

her face beaming,
good news all around.


(First published in Poetry Salzburg Review #14, Autumn 2008)

No Haven

he eyes the heavens
infinity

the earth declines


(from The Intricate Evasions of As)

Song of No Rhyme, No Reason

here,
there--

a
non

se-
quit-
ur

ci-
ca-

da
wind-
ing
up

in air.

After A Day Spent Writing

--after William Michaelian


Going out after the end
Of still another hard-working day,

To see if the world is still
There or not, is it not always

This life-giving pleasure
That takes our breath away?


NOTE: Written after reading "Quitting Time" on
William Michaelian's blog.

Metanoia

Grey slate headstone

On which to right
Every wrong,

Black or white.

Constantine Cavafy Ars Poetica

Constantine Cavafy's Ars Poetica was first discovered and "deciphered" by Michael Perides and appeared in K. P. Kavafes: Anekdota peza keimena (C.P. Cavafy: Unpublished Prose Pieces), published by G. Fexis in Athens in 1963, on the hundredth anniversary of the poet's birth.

I first became aware of this "poetics" of Cavafy through a subscription to the remarkable magazine known as The Charioteer: A Review of Modern Greek Culture, which began publishing in the early 60s and which, I think, continued up into the late 80s--an unassuming, beautiful little magazine of seminal importance to those readers who wanted to learn more about Modern Greek culture than what was then available to them--zilch.

From the Introduction to The "Poetics" of Cavafy, by A. Decavalles: "Mr. Perides was going through the poet's archives and came upon fifteen manuscript pages of varying length and age, written partly in ink, partly in pencil, with corrections, emendations, additions and deletions. All indicated that the text was meant for publication if the poet ever went back to give it its final form. He never did. . . The text was in English, a language which the poet was familiar enough from the days of his childhood so as to speak it fluently at home, with his brothers and friends, and even to use it extensively in his essays, notes, private diary and much of his correspondence. He, however, never wrote his verse in it. . . .It was Mr. Perides who gave the untitled text its quite justified title. The few pages we are in possession of give us a most revealing insight into the theoretical background, the poetics that stood behind and shaped Cavafy's poetry as we know it, its relationship to life and experience, its artistic and philosophical objectives. We regret only the fact that this essay was unfinished."

We do indeed!

Here is the link for those curious enough to read what Cavafy had to say about the Art of Poetry.

Mementos of The Morrison

Some souvenirs from my stint as the lone night desk clerk (11 pm-7 am) at The Morrison Hotel, October-May 1974-75, Skid Row, Seattle, Washington before the city was overrun by Microsoft et al., transforming what was once one of the most laid-back cities in the USA into a frenzied condo haven for yuppies and caffeine junkies hooked on Starbucks. Room 207 was the room reserved for the desk clerk--after eight hours working the night shift and dealing with what was considered the city's most difficult clientele, it was my haven when I was too tired to take the bus to a house I shared with four other people in the Madrona District. Incidentally, most of the poems which later found their way into my first book Sentences were started and finished during this hectic period of my life.

Belle of the Ball

Take it from me, sweetie
Way back then, First Street

Was chock-full of taverns,
Booze joints and cathouses,

But nothing to lick
My Whores Galore--

Two suites of tarts
One flight above

Our only candy store.

Getting to Sleepy Hollow

be headed
but not

lost in thought

(First published in clwn wr 41)

Aural

A poem in twenty-four parts, first published in an edition of 190 copies by Gil Ott's Singing Horse Press, 1984.





Στην Ελένη

.

An evocation
to live with

the light
uninvited

..

to be that
touch that

time takes
heart.

...

Even as
you bled

the light
years kept
light

years away

....

What we left
unfinished

remains mist
taken innocence

.....

aye

to
see

the
sea-

girl's
curls

......

At depth, solitude's
but a stone.

The thought of water
petrifies me.

.......

the sea
unfolds

its self

conches
nest

........

Perhaps each
image imagines

itself a
mirror

that breaks
its spell.

.........

muse

here you
can

feel light,
here

..........

sense the
wind

shores the
pines'

reticence

...........

As if the light
weren't

answer enough
just to live

by, asking it.

............

Don't breathe a word.
We were warned before

the wind cut us in two.

.............

even the waters
left speechless

on our lips
sound wishes

..............

To speak what
language

pure and simple,
seeks--no

one will hold
his peace.

...............

Mother's washing
the white

nests everywhere
cries of doves

................

aspirations

What we
hope we

care fully
prepare

praise for
the promise
kept

our silence.

.................

Leaf turning
its yellow

coat flaps
over

winter's back

..................

motive

Act, difficult
to live with

the light
day dreams

leaves intact

...................

harbinger

The message was almond blossoms,
a laying down of arms, warmth.

Morning found us under white
sheets, cool as marble.

....................

Snow dance
down

the meadow
an old

soft shoe

tracks.

.....................

White page.
You give

back what
the world

leaves, laughed
at.

......................

He said the dancers become trees
bared limbs his dreams picked clean.

.......................

a light
lit you

alight
on me

night-
fall

's now

........................

Snow. You fled
before

the rose had
fallen.

After Porchia

Chimeras arrive alone,

But have us with them
When they leave.

(from The Intricate Evasions of As)

Close Shave; Mean Tourist; Good Tip

"You think too much--clever people and grocers,
they weigh everything."
--Nikos Kazantzakis, Zorba the Greek

Socrates, my barber, once jumped ship,
Spent an eye-opening week in the States,
Now knows all about the New World
And how things work in it,

Tells me Taxes was great. Taxes? Hell, I all but blurt out
You mean Texas, you dumb Greek, but stop--

The stropping of that blunt,
Anachronous Old World tongue
Raises a new cut to things

As I settle in, he works up
A timely lather,

I sweat out his tip.


(First published in Arabesques Review, v.2, issue 4)

Bookmark, Selected Poems, William Carlos Williams

Out

of these fragile dry
still fragrant yellow-

green stems & leaves
of wild clover pressed

between

the descent
of winter

&

the locust tree
in flower,

the sense of spring.

The Origin of Species

On top of poems are written
Other poems, thus

The destruction of the world's
Perfected.



(from The Intricate Evasions of As)

Logbook Memo

ship

wrecks


memories

harbor



(from The Intricate Evasions of As)

Small-Town Bootblack vs Clunkers, Raymond, Washington, circa 1960: My Almost Inaugural Poem

Coolly

Tooling by that run-down
Shoeshine stand

In their souped-up clunkers,
Our honkies must have thought

The town's sole token Nigger
Ned couldn't tell shit from Shineola;

And that they surely had it over
Him to boot.

I guess that explains why
He was never caught hauling

Smart-ass white punks like us a hundred
Miles to his whores in the city and back

Come late every Saturday night
In that beautiful, sharp, shining, slick

Mother-fucking classic of a black
Eldorado Cadillac.


POSTSCRIPT: I was seriously considering posting this poem before President Obama's inauguration ceremony but decided against it for fear of having my blog flagged for using vulgar, offensive language. However, after reading Ron Silliman's blog which had a link to a Guardian
article about a high school "teacher" in my former home state of Washington, I had second thoughts about not posting it. Hope nobody's offended.

How I Was Cured of Hunting

spied

thrush in thicket
looking

after its wound,
a sprig

of therapeutic

o-
re-
ga-

no in its bleeding
beak.

(First published in Shearsman 62)

Ecology

Jackdaw chatters on
Tip of blighted cypress,

Biting acid tongue.

(First published in NOON: journal of the short poem, #2)

Et in Arcadia ego

Poussin--
I remember

It must have been
Way back then

One spring it was poetic
I was sprightly

Dallying a way behind
Dilapidated swayback nag when

She sent my way a waft
Of her reeking

Slow ancient hind-
Quarters from what seemed half,

Nay, a whole classic pastoral
Country mile away--

I must tell you

I was genuinely
Swept away.

(First published in First Intensity #21, Fall 2006)

Pulp

curioCity kills Bloody Marys
maraschino cherries Pop guns
gang bangs poontang rat snitches
and Edsel squeals

cathouse beldams melt hams down
dog days nightmares ride hunchbacks
warning lights stop critters peeling
rubber dead in their tracks

cornered but ornery
disembodied vulvas bare back
their teeth like

the Cheshire cat.

(First published in Maverick Magazine 6/7)

Skid Row

fool-

hardy
pigeon

taking off
down

precarious
flight

of run-down
steps,

falls
hard

upon
crumb

bum on landing.

(First published in Poetry Salzburg Review #9, Spring 2006)

Cultivating the Species

Sow

Plenty of progeny,
My son--

Weed the pigweed
From the garden

When they're young.

(First published in Arabesques Review, v.2, issue 4)

Not So Scrappy Scrap Mental Man

To foundry,
To foundry,

To found
A mine pig,

Home again,
Home again,

Mind full
Of pig iron,

Jiggety-jig.

Depression in Ft. Atkinson, Wisconsin

Remember our pale, blue
Picket fence, Dad?

We painted it,
As good as new.

You stepped on the gas
Instead of braking,

Shot the Chevy thru.

(First published in Poetry Salzburg Review #2, Winter 2001/2002)

Under Wraps

The mole stays underground,
The moon's undercover;

Everything's understood.


(from The Intricate Evasions of As)

Reading between the Lines

white shoulders
the dream

ploughs
through



(from The Intricate Evasions of As)

Personification

--for John Levy, who was there

a goat prancing?
kids

cross the stream
clearly all

this must be sure
footed

fancy dancing, you
have to look before

you leap.


(First published in Mobius, Spring & Summer, 2005)

Pan: A "Tragic" Dilemma

Another priceless, classic postcard aimed at the hoards of tourists who literally flocked to Greece in the 60s; to fully appreciate the pun in the title, the reader should be aware that Pan i.e. "billy-goat" is "tragos" in Modern Greek. One wonders what our cloven-hooved friend ended up doing after he'd finished scratching his horny head.

Untitled

seed pods bur sting

in cemeteries


(from The Intricate Evasions of As)

Blasphemous Intimations of Mortality

Was wirst du tun, Gott, wenn ich sterbe?
--Rainier Maria Rilke

1.

You fuck,

I keep telling this
Fly around my head,

Take a flying fuck,
Fuck you. But when

I die, dear God,
Who will fuck

The fly, You?

2.

spleen on the fly

Oh, yeah?

You want some fuckin'
Dead meat?

I'll give you some,
You cocky mother

Fuck her, God
I done

Swat her,
Good.

(First published in First Intensity #21, Fall 2006)

Labor of Love

You have to haul
The scattered vatic

Entrails of diplomats
Back to the eviscerated

Halls of peace,
Unravel them on

An unfolding
Crimson carpet,

Make the meaning
Whole again,

Piece by piece.

(First published in The London Magazine February-March 2003)

Recently Linked; DNL #7

My thanks to Annie Wyndham for linking my blog to hers and to Cassandra for becoming another Definitely Not Lemmings--much appreciated.

Mantra

once

she said she feared
the way

she looked at me,
she feared the way

she looked at me,
she said it rhythmically

in such a way
it went away.

(First published in Noon: Journal of the Short Poem, #3)

Sorrow Is

a lone flashing

oar down the river of no

return.



(First published in Poetry Salzburg Review #14, Autumn 2008)