Scene before Twilight

pan across small

sea of cramped white

marble monuments

cut to wispy

old woman

bearing candle

black scarf

black sweater

black skirt

brown cane

opening rusty

wrought iron gate

Nest Building: A Poem

Upon landing, the mourning dove

Will pick up then drop

A twig several times before finding

Just the one it’s looking for,

And sometimes I suppose

It gets lucky

And comes upon the right one

On the very first try—but I’ve yet to see it.

If and when I do, you can be sure I’ll try

To write a poem about it.

A Bouquet You Can Eat

 "Fountain"

what stalking

the wild asparagus finally brings us to

a gustatorial spring.

The Shell Game

The lowly snail takes only his house with him

And has everything he needs;

The lord of the land takes everything else

And finds he has nothing

He needs.

Aubade

Aye to this

Thin waning crescent

In early morning sky,

Gone by

The morrow, which gleaming

Sickle is to glean

Which mourned-for eye?

Cuatro Poemas en Prosa (Four Prose Poems)

Once again my thanks to poet and translator Mario Domínguez Parra for translating and helping place four of my prose poems (Sentences, 1976) in the literary supplement El Perseguidor of the newspaper Diario de Avisos, Santa Cruz de Tenerife, Canary Islands.

Need to the Nth Power

Love,

I have to tell you something—

It is so overpowering

Nothing dares

Come through.

"Friends, You Drank Some Darkness"

"Revelation"

Dear friends

Who are in need,

Do not be so

Easily carried away

By the promising

Lyre of darkness—

Though the sun

May not always come out

When you need it,

When it does,

It always does

What is needed.

NB: Tomas Tranströmer’s poem “Elegy”—from which Bly got the title for his translations of Swedish poetry (Martinson, Ekelöf, and Tranströmer)—is as follows:

ELEGY

I open the first door.

It is a large sunlit room.

A heavy car passes outside

and makes the china quiver.

I open door number two.

Friends! You drank some darkness

and became visible.

Door number three. A narrow hotel room.

View on an alley.

One lamppost shines on the asphalt.

Experience, its beautiful slag.

Placebo

Treat yourself if you must,

Even indulging yourself

To surfeit but remember

This bitter pill—

Poetry cures nothing.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Poetry and the Mother Lode

Like any prospector hot on prosperity’s trail,

I claim my fair share of digging for nuggets—

But you know what?

No fool ever struck it rich by pretending

He was looking for gold.

Moderator’s comments: I can dig this, but what about all those poor fools who never pretended a spade was not a spade? 

The Toad in the Word Garden

Wherein we are transported 26 years back in time to read a review of some books of poetry and in the process come upon Miss Marianne Moore weeding out the image of a toad—together with a host of other likewise lively conceits—as welcome additions to her magical word garden, but I’m with Pinsky and a slew of other poets and critics who think Miss Moore should have left the toad in the poem. But then again, perhaps she was afraid of coming down with warts.

Stumped, Like You

You say you can’t

See the forest for the trees?

It’s clear-cut

As old growth timber,

You dumbass fool—

All them blockheads done

Fucked up the view.

Memorial Service Mantra

Towards the end and at the appointed hour, the priest chants

Methodically and we repeat it mechanically

May the remembrance

Of the dearly 
Departed live forever—

As if we needed any reminding to remind us

Just how dearly departed forever becomes.

Gotta Match?

Issued in 1992, an 18 x 25 cm set of eighteen matchboxes illustrating the fables of Ivan Krylov bought at the Kopanaki open-air market some years back from Pontic Greek immigrants from the former USSR. Yours truly being a pushover for fairy tales and fables, how could I not buy this exquisite little item once I saw it among all the other paraphernalia this family had brought with them to Greece?

 
Fables included are The Broom, The Cat and the Cook, The Cock and the Pearl, The Cuckoo and the Cock, The Dragonfly and the Ant, The Eagle and the Mole, The Elephant and the Pug, The Fox and the Grapes, The Industrious Bear, The Lion and the Fox, The Mirror and the Monkey, The Monkey and the Spectacles, The Quartet, The Raven and the Fox, The Swan, the Pike and the Crayfish, The Swine under the Oak, The Two Dogs, The Wolf and the Stork.
 
 
 

Inscape

Large windows

To let the light in,

No small wonder

We have to see. 

The Usual Suspects

“Those who will some day live here where we end—

should the blood happen to darken in their memory and overflow—”

—George Seferis, from Mythistorema

Only a passing

Glance in the dark

But we can tell

They are backing

Into the picture again

Before something else develops.

March 19, 2011: The Day the Laptop etc. Went Away

Due to unforseen circumstances (in this case, a burglary at our house), my posts will be restricted until I can get a replacement for my stolen laptop. That might be easier than recovering all the data I had on it since I was stupid enough not to have backed up everything onto my external hard drive.

Paradise, As in Green Cheese

—after Huuklyeand Cinquor

Poets weaned on bucolic should return

Every spring to old familiar meadows where

Transmogrified into sheep, they munch

On sweet, heavenly grass and dream

Of idyllic shepherds suckling their teats

Week after week. 

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Drooling over the Prospects

You who wish your every word

To be on everybody’s lips,

The next time you feel

Your creative juices over

Flowing, use a spittoon.

Moderator’s comments: I see what Cinquor’s aiming at, but when was the last time anybody saw—or more to the point—used a cuspidor?

Huuklyeand Cinquor as Well-Bred Epicurean Cynic

My sire and my lady exquisite connoisseurs

Of proper cast and breeding,

I was breast-fed first on caviar and wine,

Then led to believe the world was my oyster—

So where’s my pearl, you swine?

Moderator’s comments: Talk about biting the hand that feeds you—not even a titbit of gratitude and respect.

The Doors

Picture taken about 20 years ago, a few kilometers past the town of Zacharo on the Ionian coast on the way north to Patras. Sadly, this construct is no longer standing; whoever put it together using old doors is probably no longer standing either.

Thanks to Bob Arnold and his Earth Builder's post for the reminder.

Blooming Conflagration of the Senses

Mauve the hills on fire with heather—

You can almost hear the smell.

Apotheosis Made to Measure

“And sometimes for great poetry, an infinitely small vocabulary is what you want. Perhaps that would be the ideal, except for the fact that it’s pretty hard to write a poem that way.”—Jack Spicer, from Vancouver Lecture 1

Ideal it would be indeed,

And infinitely hard and great yes,

But imagine

How easier that way would be

If only our words were

As modest as our measure.

The Trial

Believe me, I’ve tried

To be as honest

As I believed

A poet should be—

Forgive me.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Putting Your Money Where Your Mouth Is

Enough, I say—

Only a fool would think seriously

Of writing poems

Day in and day out

And then

Go on and do it.

Moderator’s comments: Don’t look at me, Huuklyeand—I think I’ve paid my wages; now all I have to do is sit back and wait for an eternity to see if my investment pays off.

Have Poems, Will Travel

 
Depending on your time frame, this could be either 1) an announcement for an upcoming poetry reading, or more plausibly 2) a souvenir from my one and only poetry reading  32 years ago when I returned to the Pacific Northwest for three months during the summer of 1979. John Levy was living in Seattle at that time and was instrumental in setting up the reading. I think there must have been about thirty people in attendance.

The flier announcing the event is from the cover of my first book, Sentences, and most of the poems I read that night were from that collection, though I did read some translations I had done of Seferis' Mythistorema.

If anybody out there wants to pay my travel expenses, I'd be more than willing to return to the US for my second poetry reading! I'd even be willing to dispense with the honorarium. If interested, please submit your proposal within the next 32 years. 

 

 

Urban Indian Legend

No place

on any white

man’s map—

red

abstract

rib

like

tracks

treading

a

cross an end

less pale

concrete

tract.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Levity in Poetry

Levity does have a place in poetry—

It has to be somewhere 

Between having your head stuck 

In the ground and your feet 

Ascending in air.

Moderator’s comments: I felt so giddy while reading this poem that at first I thought Cinquor had written “feat” instead of “feet”—but then again, I’ve always been a sucker for puns—like John Donne—or should that be “did?”

Stillborn

that

we

could

be

whatever

we

wish

what

a

wish

that

could

be

Charles Baudelaire , The Exterminator

My latest offering over at Weekly Hubris shows how you can dispose of work written by pestiferous, pretentious pseudo-artistic poseurs by employing Monsieur Fleurs du Mal as a hit man. While you’re on the premises, check out what the other columnists have to offer!

You Can Lead a Horse to Water. . . .

In my wildest dreams, Pegasus has me

Riding high in the saddle—

(Never a care)

*

When I wake from my nightmare,

I find myself bronco busted—

(Flailing the air)

Huuklyeand Cinquor Telling Us in Fifteen Words or Less Why Poetry is Still Alive

Poetry hasn’t died yet because

Everyone who's anyone's still wondering why

It’s alive.

Moderator’s comments: If this is poetry, no wonder everyone’s wondering.

Crepuscle

Inviolate

In the underbrush, a bed

Of crimson mushrooms;

In the clearing, a quilt

Of blue anemones;

Tucked away in the study,

A burnished copper

Penny for your thoughts.

Chthonian

No more walls,

No more fight,

No more shadow

Boxing against light,

How deft we were all

At darting left and right.

Frozen Stiff—I Kid You Not!

This has to be far and away my favorite photograph of the “kids” back when they were really kids—somewhere round the summer of ’89 or ’90—checking out the temperature of the water in the Lousios River in Arcadia just a few steps away from the ruins of Ancient Gortys and a stone’s throw away from the monastery of St. John the Forerunner (Prodromou). Judging from the looks on their faces, I think they were expecting much warmer water than the ice pack that greeted them! They should have consulted that seasoned traveler par excellence, Pausanias, who said its waters were “the coldest in the world.” 

All of which reminds me of a poem I once wrote about some other kind of kids here.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on MacLeish's Ars Poetica aka The Conundrum Continuum

Yes, yes, I know

We’ve all been told ad infinitum

That a poem should be, not show—

But the last time I sat down

To write one was a minute ago—

So tell me, know-it-all,

Where’d it go?

Seizing the Day on 7th Street

—after a photograph by Kevin McCollister

On the wall of what
Looks like a prison,

There is a timely message

Titled One at a Time—

A spiel from something called

The Christ Centered Three-step

Life Recovery Program,

Beckoning passers-by

To seize this once-

In-a-lifetime opportunity

For redemption—

All are welcome, it says invitingly

At the end, a scant three steps from

Even those condemned to stay

A lifetime away.

Weather Permitting, Visibility is Never Zero

—for Bob Arnold

It’s comforting

And nice to see

The moon that is

As big as our house—

As our friend says—

Is the same size

As the one he writes about

Five thousand miles away.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Bestiality in Poets

Beware of gimp-footed idyllic gambols

That reek of Arcadia—a shepherd’s

Reputation is only as unsullied

As his sheep.

Moderator’s comments: Well, Cinquor, I know this is going to be in bad taste, and some animal lover doggedly plowing in the blogosphere’s lower forty looking for beastly remarks about our four-footed friends might get upset and flag me for promoting cruelty to animals, but I can’t resist this delicious, Orwellian-reeking rejoinder, to wit—“Two legs baaaaad, four legs good?”

Definitely Not Lemmings #34

I’m back after a twenty-four-hour Internet blackout of Upper Messenias which kept me “in the dark” but now I see Andreas Andersson has jumped on board and I thank him for that. Andreas has two blogs—both worth investigating—here and here, do you hear?

Black As Only Loneliness Can Be

Mid-February

In our flowering solitary

Almond, one lone starling—

You don't know how black

Loneliness can be.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Where Ian Fleming Got the Name “Pussy Galore”

After reading  Mr. Zambaras’ latest Weekly Hubris column, I did some more investigation on the small, west coast town of Raymond, Washington, where Mr. Zambaras says he spent his formative years. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that even Ian Fleming was cognizant of the town’s raucous, raunchy, sinful past, primarily because (as knowledgeable sources are quick to point out), he was a great fan of Stuart Holbrook, and as such, is reputed to have read Holbrook’s classic, The Far Corner: A Personal View of the Pacific Northwest, New York: The Macmillan Company, 1952. Of course Fleming’s knowledge of the existence of that house of ill-repute par excellence in Raymond called “Whores Galore” explains where he got the inspiration to name his villainess and is a strong counter-argument against the one put forward by Wikipedia.

Moderator's comments: Jesus, the next thing Cinquor will try to prove is that Eric Burdon spent the night in "Whores Galore" waiting for the sun to rise! Mercy!

"The Cistern": Seferis and Coulentianos

 

Here in the earth a cistern has taken root

den of secret water that gathers there.

Its roof, resounding steps. The stars

don’t blend with its heart. Each day

grows, opens and shuts, doesn’t touch it.

The world above opens like a fan

and plays with the wind’s breath

in a rhythm that expires at sunset

flaps its wings hopelessly and throbs

at the whistling of a destined suffering.

On the curve of a dome of pitiless night

cares tread, joys move by

with fate’s quick rattle

faces light up, shine a moment

and die out in an ebony darkness.

Faces that go! In rows, the eyes

roll in a gutter of bitterness

and the signs of the great day 
take them up and bring them closer

to the black earth that asks no ransom.

George Seferis, poem one of the sequence “The Cistern”, translation by  E. Keeley and P. Sherrard.

Published in 1932, “The Cistern” marked Seferis’ abandonment of a rhymed, lyrical mode in favor of a more natural and freer one that is characteristic of all his later poems; the Greek sculptor Kostas Coulentianos (1918-1995) did some drawings for this poem which were first exhibited in Paris in 1950; in 1975 the Greek publishing firm “Themelio” issued a folio containing the drawings as well as the poem in Seferis’ own handwriting—exquisite—the poem seems to be chiseled onto the paper.

Of course I don't remember where/when I found this treasure but at least I know how much I paid for it because it’s penciled in on the last page: 300 drachmas then or approximately .80 euro now or about $1.08 as long as the US treasury lasts.

William Michaelian, eat your heart out!

The Form vs Content Thesis One Last Time

What shapes us remains

As much a form

Of communion

As a communion

Of forms

Every time.

Definitely Not Lemmings #33

A warm welcome to Zaina Anwar, whose poetry and painting can be viewed on her blog Indigenous Dialogues. Thanks for coming aboard the DNL Express, Zaina!

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Poets Burning for Recognition

A forest

Of white ashes smoldering

After an inferno.

Moderator’s comments: A case of A Burnt-Out Case hot on the heels of “You can’t see the forest for the trees?” How original, Cinquor! You must be glowing with satisfaction whereas my ashen face is turning green with envy.

Departures

Photograph taken in winter about twenty years ago with my ancient Miranda. A five-minute drive uphill and due west from my village of Remmatia, Chrisova, or Chrisotopos ("Golden Place")--its modern name--is a collection of approximately 20 houses, half of which have been abandoned by their owners who have departed for Athens and other more metaphorical worlds, as has this old woman lugging who knows what into the waiting fog. 

The small, black dirigible getting ready to crash into the bare mulberry tree is a memento left behind by the somewhat careless photographer who developed the picture and who has also taken off for a more perfect world.

Flash in the Pan

The poet’s promising

Day-to-day idiom was now clearly within sight,

But before he could bat an eyelash,

He saw it clubbed to death by vengeful creatures

More adept at flying by night.

Tree House

“Houses, you know, grow stubborn easily, when you strip them bare.”

—George Seferis, from “Thrush”

Not your usual idea

Of a child’s elevated playhouse
Full of youthful abandon,

But this

Abandoned, low-lying roofless

Shell of decaying stone walls

Inhabited by stubborn runaway

Brambles and wild olive trees

Rooted firmly to the earth.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on The Poentabulator

Moderator’s comments: I don’t know how or why our boy Cinquor jumped onto the poetry bandwagon to begin with, but the guy who sent me this video swears that Cinquor is the distinguished looking gentleman in the white coat making his video debut waxing poetically some forty years ago about a nebulous sounding contraption known as the Entabulator. If this is indeed true, and I see no reason to doubt it, as my informer is not a poet and thus incapable of imagining such a thing happening, we can now clearly see why Cinquor’s overriding poetic concern—adopted by so many vapid rapid versifiers over the past half-century—has been and will always be “It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it.” Mesmerizing, to say the least.