In Passing, Simply Fantastic

A poem should be 
A medium, let’s say 
A vehicle 

To spirit us away 
To another world 
Without us knowing it, 

Just like a hearse. 

Survival of the Fittest

Some call it poetic justice— 
How fitting it is indeed that 

The most vocal of creatures remain 
Dumbstruck by the babbling of beasts. 

Testimony: Raymond's Early Years

The logging town’s main drag was once 
Planks supported on stilts above the mud- 
Flats where amongst the taverns and cat- 
Houses, drunks could be seen falling 
Through rotting boards or over the railings, 
While the upright citizenry kept voting 
In sheriffs who stood for whores galore 
And the inalienable rights of winos delirious
To bite off the heads of snakes at a nickel
A score offered by thrill-seeking urchins 
Who kept thirsting for more. 

Tell Us Your Life Story in about Fifteen Words

Bankruptcy— 

Whenever the sun came out, 
They’d tell me to save it 

For a rainy day. 

The Pursuit of Happiness

Precious 

Silver lines each separate cloud— 
All the same, everybody wants 

To be over the moon. 

Evensongs

The loudspeakers keep 
The message of the liturgy 
Resounding throughout 
The village and even if 
They should want, it is hard 
For those outside the church 
To ignore. Such urgency! 

But there’s more— 

If the wind should blow
Just right towards where 
You’re going about your work, 
With no effort at all you can 
Still hear the crystal-clear voice 
Of a lone shepherdess calling 
Her wayward flock home. 

Spiritual Cripple's Warped American Dream

Sometimes I dream I never left 
My poor miserable homeland, 
That I never went to the new world 
Where dollars were said to be 
Plentiful as leaves falling 
From trees and all you had 
To do was keep stooped over so 
You could pick them up with ease, 
And where now I dream 
I wake up rich and not deformed 
Beyond my wildest dreams. 

Color Blindness of Homeric Proportions

Talking their heads off on the beach 
Till they’re blue in the face, they do not see 

How the wine-dark sea is laughing at them. 


NB: http://clarkesworldmagazine.com/hoffman_01_13/

To My Precocious Granddaughter, All of Twenty Months

The only soul who speaks English to you, I wonder 
How much of it will stick in your little head— 

Precious, I hope it doesn’t end up Greek once 
You happen to read my poems after I’m dead. 

Rubberstamped

Come to think of it, 
I like my poems so much 
I don’t even have to read them. 

Brave New World, 1948

Maiden voyage making my way 
To the new world, so naïve 
At four I didn’t know what 
To make of an ice cream when 
It was handed to me on deck 
By the first black man I’d ever seen. 

Standing frozen there next to mom, 
I held on to it and her and watched 
It melting as I mustered the courage 
To move to the railing and throw it away— 
I still don’t know what flavor it was 
I was casting away. 

Poetries in Motion

From a distance I can see 

(The two brothers close 
To one another, the older 
One striding briskly, the younger 
Backwards, trying hard 
To keep pace, both 
Mouths animated, moving in 
What may or may not be) 

Unison. 

Throwback

I thought once I returned 
To the motherland, I’d remember 
Things I’d long forgotten— 

How silly to think one could 
Go back and fetch memories 
As if they were sticks 

To be retrieved and you 
A mere puppy playing 
At being a man. 

Carpe Diem (On a Sunny Spring Day)

From where I sit, here’s how 
It’s done, mate— 

Two cold-blooded conjugated 
Saurians getting their rocks off right 

Here and now on a hard bed 
Of warm slate. 

Belated World Poetry Day Poem

The first day of spring demands 
A poem second to none, Maestro— 

So let the music begin, 
And may the best song last 

Till one better comes along. 

Avian Flash Fiction

This is where I tell you how 
My whole life flew past me 

As I reeled 

Off one hundred stories 
In one fell swoop. 

Do You Read Me, Pinhead?

Don’t be surprised,
Dude— 

Up from the gutter right 
Up your alley 

After you, the king 
Pin's waiting

His turn to bowl 
Your world over— 

Where are you? 

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Poets Coming Clean with their Craft

I thought if I washed out my mouth with lots 
Of soap and water, my speech 
Would henceforth spume forth 
A fountainhead 

Of pure verse shining 
And smelling like a million bucks— 
But all that came up reeked 
Of a foul, wishy-washy tongue all 

Fucked up and too utterly bankrupt 
To strive towards any semblance of upkeep. 


Moderator’s comment: Huuk certainly knows his way around the poetic blogosphere— who would have thought he’d latch on to a catchy phrase from Conrad DiDiodato’s comment on a post over at ursprache and work it into a telling commentary on the modern poet’s coming to terms with his/her language predicament—whatever that may be.

NB:

In the event the ursprache link is broken, here’s Conrad’s comment on a Seferis quote (“Unimaginable how much patience is needed to see the simplest things. How much patience I need to write a single verse.”):

Borrowing phraseology from C.S.Lewis, I'd say you can start by wanting to write good verse (for which much patience is required) and in the end you may get Poetry; however, beginning with the "soap and water" of much contemporary poetry will get you nothing at all. Of that you can be certain

Crafty

how cute          can you get you

ask                  yourself  begging

the ugly

question          you refuse

point-blank      to answer.

Encomium

So down-to-earth 
The plodding, the bearing 
So very on the nose, poised

On the edge with a stiff 
Upper lip, this was a poet who knew 
Exactly where he was going. 

Meant Not for the Birds

not 

believing 
what 
is 

in 
the 
air 

on 
the 
coast, 

incredulous 
gulls 

flock 
in 

to 
see 

inland 
sea 

of 
garbage, 

make 
sure 

they 
bring 
back 
plenty 

mementos 
for 
scrap 

book 
of 
unbelievable 
day 

trip 
there.

Great Expectations from the Dark Night

I’ve been lying low on this hillock waiting for the sun 
To descend behind the floating blue 
Black mountains every evening for ages 
And have yet to let anybody down— 

As sure as my name is Legion, any minute 
Now the needlelike cypresses reaching 
For the heavens will begin 
Sinking into the landscape again. 

Tin Ear

Wake up— 

The music the rain 
Makes as it falls 
On the tin 

Roof’s music you’d have 
To be snoring standing up 
Under it not to hear. 

Ciphers

In the city square where strangers come and go, 
No one sees they’re being watched, stranger 
Still, none save me will ever know. 

Like a Caged Canary in a Coal Mine

You who sing life’s short but meaningful— 
Keep digging there so long as 

The air’s fresh and plentiful. 

Trust to Revolutionary Verses Then

Mind you always explosively intense yes hitting
No false note comrades enlightened enough 

To blow the hoi polloi’s brains out, 
Make true believers of them

To the very end. 

Earth Science Field Notes

                         promontory

sun lounging

lizard stands rock

still above blue green

deep

                        

                         fissure

where upswept pink

cyclamen petals quiver

                         

                        between rocks

slit filled with pine needles