Out to Lunch

And offline until Sunday while I escape to the shores of the Ionian in the company of George Seferis (actually his spirit as revealed through his books, but you knew that).

Coming Up In The World

Where once there was 

An outhouse 

With swatches of news 

Paper nailed to bare brick 

Wall next to a hole, 

Now indoors 

A fine vitreous fixture 

And a roll 

Of soft ass-wipe unwound, 

Touching cool 

Marble floor. 

Achieving Brilliance

Some have to work hard at it, 

Others hardly at all, so 

Before he steps back 

And takes one last hard look 

At what he’s left behind, 

This ragamuffin of a boot- 

Black buffing the shine of the gentleman 

Has to spit on his shoes and snap 

The rag like his life depends on it 

One more time. 

John the Baptist aka The Saint Oregano Man

Gather your oregano while you may after his name day (June 24th) and as long as it has ripened fully and you collect it very early in the morning before the first rays of the sun have touched it. This” slight” detail is essential because only in this way does the oregano acquire magical powers. 

This explains why I got up at 5 o’clock this morning and rode my trusty ancient Yamaha 125cc Enduro motorcycle to our olive grove about 9 km due west of Meligalas and spent the next two hours gathering this holy mountain of oregano, which will be cured in the shade, mind you, (or else it will turn black and spoil) before being sprinkled generously on a variety of salads and meat/fish/poultry dishes, as the Greeks have always used it as a food preservative, and it is probably in this role that the pessimistic phrase “Put some oregano on him” is employed metaphorically when someone’s plans start to go from bad to worse. 

NB: It may sound far-fetched to some but included in oregano's magical powers is its ability to heal wounds; believe me—as The Saint Oregano Man is my witness—this claim is definitely not for the birds. Nor is this poem.

Ambivalence

When night creatures start
To stir in your sleep, their eyes too

Close for comfort.

Descendants of Daedalus

With all due respect, sun 

Please no deviations— 

Just keep waxing pretty

As she goes, I know 

It's a maze but here we are

Doing downright nicely by you

Just as you are. 

Deception Pass

A poem trying to be 

So clear and rarefied, 

Even a fumbler could see 

Right through it. 

Dedicated to the One I Love

Narciss, it’s beyond 

Your comprehension— 

No poem is more beautiful 

Than the one being 

Read by the light 

Of your eyes. 

Greek-American Gambler Wins Precious Bride Hands Down

Dad may have returned flat 

Broke to Greece in 1936 

But he was still 

An ace at bluffing: 

Whenever he finished 

Dancing at village fairs, 

He’d dig into his pockets 

And throw a handful 

Of pennies into the air. 

Everybody thought 

He was flush with cash, 

Mom’s poor parents, too. 

Birdbrain

Thank God, I’m a teetotaler— 

All this twitter’s enough 

To drive one to think. 

Not for the Birds

Magpie, be silent and listen— 

How many times 

Have you not heard this one? 

Doubt before Dawn

Whether it’s rime or thistledown 

Along this roadway, we’ll know 

As soon as the sun shows us 

Its face and the fog lifts— 

Let us rise to the occasion 

And be on our way. 

Assayer

Appraising his folly 

His universe to see, 

He wonders why 

His sight’s been affected— 

Two black holes his eyes, 

Don’t you see? 

Taken to the Cleaners

Incredulous, love— 

I can’t believe how

You took the shirt off 

My back or why 

I’m still waiting for you

To give it back, incredibly

Laundered, immaculate, white. 

NB: Please read this poem by Aditya Bahl

Commodity's Future's Latest Release, "Crawl, Multiply and Prosper"

Okay, all you earthy worms, let’s hit it— 

With a one and a two and a three 

Cornucopia! 

In every nook and cranny 

Of our fertile little acre— 

No need to blow your horn to see— 

Bushels of rotten apples falling, 

The likes of you and me. 

Cult Following

I can’t help myself— 

That thing’s after me 

So bad I want 

To watch it 

Kill me again. 

Dead Souls

Know this: If the wind that blows through 

The cypresses at night won’t let you sleep, 

There’s still hope for you. 

Erosion of Memory: Shall We Gather at the River?

Could this filthy thread of a rivulet be the river where 

Full-bodied village women gathered each spring 

To wash their hand-loomed rugs

Or is it just another corporate 

Fabrication run loose? 

The Ultimate Writing Workshop Poem

“. . .and suddenly everything became clear to him.” 

Ok, let’s stand back a bit and look 

At this fragment of a sentence 

From a distance—it comes to us 

From a story by Chekhov; 

Raymond Carver mentions it 

In one of his essays on writing 

But does not tell us its name 

Or what it is about; it could be 

About anything, that much is clear— 

So what say we leave it at that, 

Fast forward instead and imagine 

This sentence as your epitaph. 

Remembrance

re the mourning doves 

throwing their voices 

from somewhere close 

behind me Lorine’s 

memorable you- 

ah-you calling 

your absence obliquely. 

Anonymous Papyrus Fragment, Ancient Messene, Date Unknown but Later Than You Think

Fields we had

[        ]

[        ]

[perforated]

[ now?]

[        ]

[        ]

[        ]

[shredded wheat]

Ely[sian?] with honey

[        ]

[        ]

[        ]

[        ]

Bees combing long

[        ] [flaxen?]       

Hair [       ]

[         ]

[         ]

[         ]

[down?]

To your knees      

[the rest wholly eaten away by moths]

Hammock

I don’t know 

If it’s the night 

Wind that sways 

Me or the pines— 

Either way, 

I don’t care. 

Squeeze Play at the Bottom of the Ninth

Oh Doc if only 

I had the strength to show 

The uniformly moved 

There’s not enough power left 

In these sinews 

To delight them, 

Would they settle 

For my laying down 

A perfect bunt? 

Wild Cyclamen Mode

Heads up though 

Seeing such impossible 

Flowers spring up everywhere 

May not always tend 

To elate one 

Let alone 

Make one feel as they say 

In the pink but oh 

Such mixed blessings 

Should they not 

Then give one pause 

To think? 

The Nympho Muse's Classic Ruse

So you think the trick’s in 

Playing it straight 

And narrow, eh? 

Well, come again, Mr. 

Prim and proper one shot— 

That wild Parian would 

Shaft me widely from every angle 

And with a twisted, wicked slant.

VAZAMBAM EXCLUSIVE: DUTCH TOURIST DISCOVERS NEW ENTRANCE TO HADES!

In lieu of my usual poetic fare, I want to promote this exclusive once-in-a-lifetime photo taken only yesterday on one of the side streets of Meligalas only a few feet from the town’s main thoroughfare. With one foot on a ladder (which the local authorities presumably used as a warning marker) and with the promise of hitherto unimagined heights of elation awaiting him, we can see the tourist in question proudly showing off his discovery; unfortunately, before he could return with the proper spelunking gear, he found the entrance hermetically sealed by these same authorities who perhaps suddenly became wary of the adverse odoriferous publicity that would run rampant were the area to be overrun by tourists flocking to see a tributary of the effluent Styx flowing mellifluously under their feet. 

By the way, I think it highly poetic and fitting that this intrepid discoverer should hail from one of Europe’s Low Countries.

Ionian

white 

pebbles

in

the

sun

the

sea

run

ning

all

the

blue

in

the

world

and

then

some

Frame of Reference

Lay your burden down, brother— 

I’m sure you’ve heard this one before 

And I don’t want to sound irreverent 

Or flippant but isn’t it a bit incongruous? 

I mean, we’ve been lugging 

Our frames around for ages 

And we still don’t know where 

The big picture is. 

Metaphysical Iris

Sense! 

You keep after me saying it’s merely 

A matter of sense but in what sense 

Shall you stalk me in my absence? 

Final Electrifying Performance before the Polls

The firebrand 

Sturm und Drang poet turned 

Pol knew he had them 

Eating out of his hands when 

Their brows were singed 

By a tumultuous clap 

Of thunder. 

Nuff Said

He wanted to snuff 

Death out 

Of his nostrils. 

Old Timers' Resurrection

Easter is the time 

We are reminded of 

Christ’s incredible feat— 

Believe it or not, it happens 

Every year without fail 

And we rejoice once more 

And wonder if we’ll live 

To remember it 

Next year. 

Field

Of composition: 

The red wind- 

Swept wind 

Flowers encircling 

A lone 

Wild fig tree tossing 

In the center 

Of an undulating 

Green. 

Busker Klee Shayd Tudéth’s “Skid Row Pedestrian Spiel”

(Key of lachrymose acrimony) 

Someday I’m gonna get that
Tin-eared Tin Pan Alley plugger
Who done this to me and make him pay—
One way or another, bet your bottom dollar
He’ll get what’s coming, come what may.

While we’re waiting, mister
You sure do look familiar, so don’t give me
That idiomatic song and dance
‘bout times being hard—You 
Can’t spare a dime? Like hell!
I hear platters are a dime a dozen
On Easy Street. And me?
I ain’t eaten in a week.

On the Style of a Certain "Decadent" Alexandrian

(after E.M. Forster’s famous description of C.P. Cavafy) 

Don’t look away, philistine—he looks 

To be bending 

His frame of reference slightly 

Aslant to the world’s 

Universal decadence. 

Quest

lost 

pilgrim 

finds

himself 

on 

godforsaken 

path

he 

calls 

progress 

Distance

—for Tom Clark 

I must tell you how

Under a clear afternoon sky, 

I sat under an umbrella 

Reading a friend’s book 

Of poems that had traveled 

Halfway round the world 

To end up here— 

In the evening, no umbrella, 

No moon in sight, no need to tell you 

How close the stars were that night. 

Bashô, There’s a Frog in My Throat

Dying to hear one 

Another’s croaking— 

Let’s jump in. 

Malady of the Squint-eyed Kid

Whatever has come over me?

My thinking’s cloudy, I cannot see—

On second thoughts, no use to think,

No use to see

Whatever it is,

It must be me. 

One More Transient Thought for the Day

When the watchdog you keep mindfully

On a leash keeps on barking 

In the dead of night, be on the lookout 

For strays out looking 

 

For somewhere to bed down,

And not just for the night. 

Startled by the Unimaginable

To understand how sunstruck 

Swallows resemble angels 

Of the morning, 

One only has to imagine two 

Of them flying through two 

Different windows, hovering 

Together over a double 

Bed before darting out, each 

Through a different window— 

See how easy that was? 

Conrad DiDiodato's Bridget Bird and Other Poems

 

Recently arrived:  All the way from Canada—with lots of wonderful poems tucked under her wings—a sprightly little creature named Bridget! If prospective readers want some idea of the cargo she’s carrying, all they have to do is read what Katherine L. Gordon says about it on the book’s back cover and then wing themselves to the nearest bookstore and--I'll give them six seconds to sing--buy it! 

Aporia

When I’m beside myself, 

The last thing I want 

 

To think about is why 

That person beside me looks lonely. 

 

 

Wind Chimes

recounting 

Cid’s windbell 

tattle— 

telling 

nothing 

nothing 

but still telling