Sunday, November 4, 2012

Liquidation


Another drunk with the idea 
Of substance found floating 

In a sea of intangibles. 


Friday, November 2, 2012

Olly Olly Oxen Free


Can you imagine it? 

A world away from the hunters, 
But not any old hiding place 
That was child’s play, 

And surely not 

Kicking the bucket somewhere 
Flush out in the open while in thicket 
The deer and the antelope pray. 

Thursday, November 1, 2012

Introducing the Black Hole Conspiracy


If verses both light and dark have been writ o’er 
The eons under the heavens and are now 

Countless as the stars, where oh where
On earth are the subversives 

Too numerous to mention? 

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Little "Shaver" (Paper Boy), August, 1905

(photograph by Lewis W. Hine)


Barefoot, leaning 
Back against gigantic candy- 
Striped barber pole, 

Says he’s six years old, all of 
Forty-one inches high, the paper he’s holding 
That takes up half his frame holds 

All the news you’d want to know. 

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Eonian Mode


Though the wind laments in fits 
And starts betwixt silences, 

Still its song remains one 
Long—nay—endless 

Sigh. 

Saturday, October 27, 2012

Looking Backward


Of course you know one foot goes 
Before the other but what if 

You say it led you the other way? 

Thursday, October 25, 2012

Telltale


All told 

The townsfolk sometimes tell time 
By the toll of the town clock bell; 

All save one tell one’s time’s up 
By the church bell’s telling 

Toll, toll, toll. 

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

After the Fall


Where the remains of the stock had come 
To rest, there no longer gathered a congress

Of crickets whose sole lot in life was 
To sing while stripping it  

Unceremoniously bare. 


Sunday, October 21, 2012

Loopholes


Quick, quick, tie those loose ends up— 
You don’t want them to know who 

Those dangling legs belong to. . . . . . .


Friday, October 19, 2012

Timely Disclosure


Behind the motionless foliage of the pepper tree, 
A thin, half-hidden crescent will soon reveal itself fully— 

But wait—what folly thinking I’ll begin to see 
What yesterday evening was hidden from me. 

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Poetic Vessel


Before you find yourself haplessly
Maneuvering between the two 
Black Clashing Rocks 

On the way to your next port of call, 
Stop over at one called Ithaca and stay long 
Enough to find out what it means— 

It’s either that or it’s time 
To give up the ship.

Monday, October 15, 2012

Eye Opener: Letter to Philip Larkin


Dear Mr. Larkin, 

I just finished reading your poem “This Be the Verse” 
For Mr. Throckmorton A. Thrasher’s English class, 
And as he wants us all to write you 
Our impressions of it or else, I just want to say 
I don’t remember my folks fucking me up one bit— 
Come to think of it, I don’t recall them fucking at all; 
From the looks of it, I guess yours did it 
In plain view of everybody, including you. 

Sincerely yours, 

Thomas LeVoyeur III, 
R. Clement Caning School of Interdisciplinary 
Inquisitional Studies, 13 Hard Knox Lane, 
Sully Hull, England 

Saturday, October 13, 2012

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Rash


Looking back 

In your great haste, that moonlit snail 
Trail you rashly took for inspiration, now 

Having barely scratched the surface, the soiled 
Spectacle of lunatic ants over the moon 

In your underpants, dejection.



Monday, October 8, 2012

That Last Chapter, Just Like That

“I think as I age, I’m becoming more historical.” 
—Sylvia Plath, from a 1962 interview 


Not what you might think at first but simply that 
She was beginning to read more history, 
Nothing more than that.

 . 


2012 and now looking at a photograph of her, 
Young and looking so vivacious 
Some fifty years back, it’s hard to imagine 
How that lovely head could have 
Put an end to it all—

.


(So terrible a timeworn phrase, 
To be avoided at all costs)

 . 


Yet the longer and harder you look, 
You cannot help but see 

Her eyes are trying hard 
To focus on whatever it was 

That made it all so easy.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Study


On clear days, always 
Above my PC screen, 
The small square 

Window composed of dark
Green cypress boughs before 
A backdrop of cloudless sky-blue— 

On moonless starry nights,
Introspection shining through. 

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Artiste


With greatest of ease 
Before high 

White sidewall, grey 
Brown sparrow 

Flittering on be 
Spattered pied 

Scaffolding. 



Tuesday, October 2, 2012

William Carlos Williams' Amulet

--for the children of Gaza, amongst so many others
 
Of the innocent 

image of the grand 
child who entered 
the new world naked, 

now sleeping in 
its grandmother’s frail 
arms, the good doctor 

would have made medicine 
strong enough to ward off evil 
unseeable and still have us 

keep an eye on it. 



Sunday, September 30, 2012

Poetic Movements


Congested round the edges 
Of a stagnant pond, observe 

The lyre-like fronds 
Of ferns 

Behind which croaking 
Troubadours compose 

Watery, crepuscular songs. 





Thursday, September 27, 2012

A Tom Clark Poem


Like a fleeting heart 
Beat that causes me to stop 
To catch my breath 

Wherever it was 
I was going. 

 

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Clouds on the Horizon


In this picture snapped 
Against a background of clouds 
In a green meadow, the common

Edible field mushroom has 
The appearance of a giant flying 
Saucer that has just touched 

Down and whose crew is justly nebulous 
About meeting the earthlings 
They've heard so little about 

And who are now more than likely 
Getting ready to welcome them 
With another species 

Of mushrooming giant. 


Sunday, September 23, 2012

To a Poet Friend Drowning in Bathos


Had you but one iota left 
Of the deep lightness of a Herrick 

To keep you from going under, 
You’d have no need of a derrick. 

Friday, September 21, 2012

Another One for Rita, Hunchback Dwarf Forager






No beauty sleep for her 
Who recognizes all those uncommon 
Lovely greens one needs to know, 
Sets off before the morning 
Sun can wilt them, sells them after
For a pretty penny to housewives 
Too busy trying not to look ugly 
To get up and go.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

To Oz Moses, Horticulturist


Plucked by a cryptic hand, no more 
Flower trysts for you, my friend 

Who cultivated the light openly 
Hoping it would never end. 

Monday, September 17, 2012

New Leaf


Quick, quick, the leaf, the leaf! 
How full of joy that

Whosoever has the eyes 
To weep when e’er a dying

One turns slowly over
And falls asleep. 



Saturday, September 15, 2012

Fixation (In the Manner of O'Hara)


I don’t have a cat 
But if I did, I know 

I’d want it to be 
Like Frank’s great 

Orange tawny one, Boris 
(Armed with Madness) Butts, 

The one he describes so lovingly, 
Aptly in “Cantata”— 

And if you want to know 
Why, you’ll just have to 

Part with that wild hair 
Up your ass, too.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

Smoke Screen


We all drive by 

The homeland the scene 
It looks terrible 

All these people up in smoke— 
No body screams. 



Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Misunderstood Muse


Year after year she wasted away 

Consuming notebook after notebook with what 
Husband and son imagined contagious nonsense— 

Having kept their distance, it made sense after 
She departed to chuck the lot in the fireplace. 



NB: Sadly enough, a true story which transpired in a neighboring village many years ago; only the roles of the spouses have been exchanged to make it and the title more “poetic”.

Sunday, September 9, 2012

Double Whammy


charmer, the man 
you vooded 

never knew what 
hit him where 

it hurt 
you too. 


Friday, September 7, 2012

Lynch Mobber


I remember the times they 

Spelt nothing but trouble 
And we had no time 

To stand around pretending 
We were just 

Innocent bystanders. 

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Virtual Cowboy


Whoa, there! I know 

There must be better ways 
To while away a morning than watching 

A horse grazing in a vacant lot 
Next to your house, 

But right now I feel right 
At home right here, 

Pardner. 

Monday, September 3, 2012

Metamorphosis of a Blythe Spirit


No skylark, summer found him one morning 
In an olive grove, waiting for the cicadas 
To begin their song from limb to limb; 

One evening at the end of autumn, 
Nailed to a twisted trunk, 
They found the shell of him. 

Friday, August 31, 2012

Poet's Bugaboo


Jiminy Cricket! 

Sometimes I’m afraid 
I’m past all grace when 

I feel so smug I expect 
My next feat to come swaggering 

On all six legs out from under the tongue 
Of an army surplus boot and spit 

Flush in my face. 


Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Speak Not Double Talk of Death


I fear all that can be said 
Has been said before, also 

That nothing has been said before— 
This nothing is what terrifies me 

More than any gibberish said before. 


Monday, August 27, 2012

Great Blue Heron on the Wing

—after reading Robinson Jeffers’ “Autumn Evening” 


Slow wit, if you think this 
Bird ungainly, don’t — 
Imagine how 

Ridiculous you look, trying 
To take off after
Second thoughts again. 



Saturday, August 25, 2012

Nightshade


Dearies, 

I want nothing to do with light- 
Hearted blank verse or rhyming 

Structures like ear, hear, near— 
I want nothing but tendrils 

Untouched by bittersweet 
Nothings clinging 

To bier after bier after bier. 


Thursday, August 23, 2012

Building for the Future: One Less Vacant Lot


At this point, I don’t know 

What is more edifying—looking 
At photos of the World Trade Center 
Before and after 9/11 or reading 
Eliot’s Wasteland for the nth time— 

Any way you look at it, 
It looks like we’re long past 
The point of no return 
On our investment. 


Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Fired


Any debts incurred shall be paid in full 
When the sack in question leaves

The coal factory on its last legs 
And empties the proceeds 

Into the blackened hearth. 


Sunday, August 19, 2012

Rendezvous Point



Two unearthly bodies, the full 
Moon rising, the sun 
Setting, meeting 

The cypresses 

Standing fast over 
An unmoving sea 
Of marble crosses. 

Friday, August 17, 2012

Anti-Cartesian


You think you are 
An exception to the rule— 

Methinks how 

Can this be when all sense of measure’s lost, 
You exceptional fool?

 


Thursday, August 16, 2012

All So Obviously Lovely, Also Not Too


Lovely to think that 

What I think lovely 
You think too but 

Also lovely to think 
You think not too. 




Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Sunday, August 12, 2012

Reminiscences of Robert Lax : Excerpts from John Levy's book We Don’t Kill Snakes Where We Come From: Two Years in a Greek Village


David Miller, poet and astute critic of Robert Lax’s work, first suggested I get in touch with him in one of his letters from England—it must have been in the early 1980s but Eleni and I never got around to visiting Bob until the summer of ’94. We spent about a week on Patmos, staying in a hotel near the port that Bob had graciously booked in advance. 


Before that visit, my longtime friend and poet, John Levy (together with his fiancée and now wife, Leslie Buchanan) had already met Bob twice—first in Athens in the fall of 1984 and later on in Patmos the following summer; the two meetings are described in John’s wonderful book, We Don’t Kill Snakes Where We Come From: Two Years in a Greek Village. Here are the excerpts: 



September 23, [1984]

Drove to Athens to meet the poet Robert Lax, who lives on Patmos but was in Athens for a few days. We met in our hotel lobby. About 70, Bob ia a tall, thin man with a big, wonderfully long face, deep-set blue eyes, and greyish-white, short hair. His full, rounded goatee gives even more length to his face. It is difficult to think of him without thinking of him smiling. He said he knew a good cheap place for lunch, if we didn’t mind a walk. It was about 40 blocks away, and Bob seemed like he could walk all day with the same lively step. He came to Greece in 1963. He said when he got here he wrote pieces he’d always wanted to write while living in New York. But then he looked around, saw how the Greeks were living, and began writing about them. He said Patmos is like Delphi: “At both places, the tourists move through like smoke.” 

During lunch we talked about Thomas Merton (whom Bob had known since college), painters, religion, Lao Tzu, Greece, Paris, Bob’s favorite writers (Rabalais, Joyce, and Beckett), and jazz. He told of being introduced to a jazz musician by a friend who said, “This is Bob. He lives on an island.” “I carry my island with me,” the musician replied. Bob said he loves that idea. “Bob is a poet,” Bob’s friend added. “Oh, that’s a great line,” the musician said. “I use it sometimes too. People want me to do something, and I tell them Don’t bother me, I’m a poet.” 

Bob walked back with us to our hotel, and we arranged to meet at his hotel later. Outside his small hotel that evening, we saw him sitting inside on the narrow, white marble lobby steps, knees together, head bowed, looking like a shy boy. The evening darkened as we walked to another restaurant which, like the place where we’d eaten lunch, was cheap, distant, and had no tourists besides us in it. As we walked we talked about traveling. He asked if we’d been to Zagreb. I wasn’t even sure where it was. He said it’s the darkest place he has ever been. “At night, it’s like night coming to night.” 

July [1985]  

Visit with Robert Lax on Patmos 

In the morning Bob, Leslie and I walked to a small beach to go swimming. Damianos, a fisherman, joined us, a solidly built, handsome man, about 55, with graying hair and a weathered face, he (like Bob) is gentle and modest. He doesn’t talk much and smiles easily, warmly. 

Two young couples sat near us, and Damianos knew from their accents they were from Athens. Damianos remarked to Bob he dislikes Athenians who visit Patmos and prefers foreigners. Bob explained Athenians treat Patmians in the hotels and restaurants like servants and regard all Patmians as yokels. 

Bob told a story about traveling with a friend. They would bark at each other and have long conversations of barks. Bob barked a few times for me, happy, energetic, friendly barks. On train rides, when the trains passed through tunnels, Bob and his friend would bark loudly to each other. Once they were in a compartment with only one other person, a Japanese man, and when they went through the tunnel, Bob and his friend barked. As they left the tunnel, the Japanese man said, “You know very well how to bark.” 

Later, when he and his friend were back in the U.S. and living in different cities, his friend would call Bob long distance and they’d bark for a few minutes and then hang up. 

One morning Leslie, Bob, and I walked to the little pier where Damianos keeps his small fishing boat. Damianos had invited us on a day trip to an isolated beach. We passed an island, a jutting, rocky hill with a small chapel. Bob said Damianos visits the little chapels on barren islands and cleans them once a year. Everyone else has forgotten about them. 

On one stretch of beach on Patmos, Bob pointed to a house and said it had belonged to “Captain Tromeros” (Captain Terrible”), a notorious German officer who lived there during the German occupation. 

Bob told us Captain Tromeros had come to Patmos with a 19-year-old Greek boy from another island who was his lover and who also spied for him. The captain shot and killed people in the street, sometimes because he didn’t like the way they looked and sometimes because he had been told they were working against the Germans. He had many informers reporting to him. 

One day some islanders went to his house. He knew they had come to murder him but had no opportunity to get help. The islanders, the captain, and the boy drank all afternoon. In the evening, when the captain was drunk, the islanders tied up both him and the boy and put them on a boat. Then an islander shot them. Some of the islanders were upset because the boy had pleaded for his life, saying he had been taken by force from his island and had then been forced to act as an informer. Bob says the islanders still argue whether the boy should have been shot. 

Once Bob had taken a boat to another island. He had a snack near the pier. He looked up and saw the boat about to leave. He began to walk towards it. He said he felt like running, but it was as if a hand on his forehead restrained him. 

When he got there, some sailors reached out and helped him aboard. The passengers and crew cheered and gathered around him. He felt happy and everyone was congratulating him, saying they’d seen a lot of people run and miss the boat, but he’d walked and made it! 

He realized later that if the captain saw someone run towards the boat as it began to leave, he would take it as a challenge and pull away fast. 

NB: For those who might be wondering why I have nothing to say about our visit to Lax, the notepads I took with me and in which I wrote down my impressions have unfortunately long since been mislaid and my failing memories of the visit make for an unreliable guide; besides, I think John’s entries are far more informative  than anything I could have written about that singular poet and generous human being; however, Eleni and I do have one memento of our visit with Bob—his wonderful little book, Rooster—inscribed by him and including one of his drawings as part of the dedication; I don’t think this gift will ever be mislaid. 

I have also written a few poems about this remarkable man, one of which is at the end of this post.

 





AURORA
i.m. Robert Lax (1915-2000)


mystical

morning
donning

mystical
light,

mystical

ritual
unfolding

calling

mystic
mythical

flight.



Friday, August 10, 2012

Inspiration


Though its exact trajectory remains 
Difficult to pin down, we do know 

Before the poem could enter spirited, full 
Blown onto the paper, it had to leave 

A curious black and white flowering 
Pattern at its exit point. 


Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Carpe Diem, Dude


At his leisure going nowhere fast, 
Strung-out grasshopper 
Trips along hot flagstone path 

Out of grass, cool headed 
Glass lizard sees future reality 
Sandwich fleeing jumps at chance 

Crunch! 

Non-glass mandible closes fast, 
Hauls dumbass hophead munchies 
Back to grass.




Monday, August 6, 2012

The Great White Latter-Day Candidate Settles the Autochthonous American Question Once and for All


My fellow squaw—I mean 
Straw—men no more squawking 

Forked tongues, no more 
Corporate reservations full 

Of bitter rotting liver heroes, let’s drink 
To sweet Manifest Destiny Snake Oil the only 

Way to go! 



Friday, August 3, 2012

Sacrificial Spit


“Hear that smell!” he spat out 
As if transfixed, 

A phrase that sent our animal senses 
Reeling while he slowly turned 

That heavenly paschal lamb basted 
Ever so gently with oregano and oil— 

Such an orgy of taste, sight and smell! 
But mum was the word when it came to 

That smoldering pit of hell. 





Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Bullet Points Delineating Thick-Headed Meme Brained Civilized Man


Generation




Upon generation 



Of grey 



Matter winding up thin 



Pliable sheet covering 



Acculturated 



Stiff 


Monday, July 30, 2012

Tailor-made Moonless Night


Waiting 

To take measure of the dazzling 
Fabric of the universe, 

I wait out 

Beyond the needles of the pines 
For the pinholes to appear; 

Many questions on my mind but 
Only one of any substance— 

How many light years will it take 
For this threadbare body 

To pierce the heavens 
At the appointed hour 

And disappear? 


Sunday, July 29, 2012

Blown Away


The heat wave was so 
Stupefying the cicadas 

Exploded taking off 
Our heads the last I heard 

They were high- 
Tailing it, frazzled 

By dodging sparrows 
Pine to pine. 



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