Poems on Nature, Love, and other Inspiring Frustrations

[apples of gold]

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[PrinceMyshkin]

Tuning


I was walking and
you were heavy on my mind again …
the sullen cape
that’s become my outdoor evening apparel

When I neared home
into the clearing past the trees
I had to stop to catch my breath
The immense crimson sun had punched itself
through the closing lid of dusk
and burned its adage center stage
into the diorama
red sky at night – sailor’s delight …

There’s no sextant to guide this voyage through you
Only an indistinct image of myself
remains embedded in the lens
But for a moment there was clarity
and I redeemed my thoughts

Time gathers the diversity of creation
the vestiges of searching eyes and mouths
the impalpable tokens of mystery,
brings them towards the sphere,
fuses the whole into one great diapason
and slips it absent-mindedly
into the descending mantle
of another tidy diurnal

In the morning
there will be courses to chart on a placid sea
and the birds will bless us again with language

And I doubt the acquired proofs of shared reality
will string together any missing phonemes
or add to the cadence of the day
a full octave more
than this present understanding

Or that the gentle swaying of the birdhouse
on this breezeless night
means that a sparrow has
somehow
fit itself
through the impossibly tiny opening of its shelter

It’s that a portion of the mystery remains aloof
and begins its nightly ritual
of sweeping me into its rising luff

while the world sleeps
and dreams of you



A. Regan © Broken Rhythm

I was impressed with the one before this - but moved by this one, much my preferred experience of poems. But I wish this had ended with

Or that the gentle swaying of the birdhouse
on this breezeless night
means that a sparrow has
somehow
fit itself
through the impossibly tiny opening of its shelter

rather than what came after it which seemed merely chatty by contrast with the awed observation of the above lines.

[apples of gold]

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[PrinceMyshkin]

Thank you for reading my poems Prince. And I appreciate your critique. My poems somehow never quite feel finished and are subject to endless revisions. I'll keep your suggestion in mind when and if I get it ready for publication.

A poem is never finished
until the poet herself
has been entombed
and even then
she will feel the worried fingers
scratching at hr coffin lid.

[apples of gold]

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[PrinceMyshkin]

That is so darned good, it felt like a torrent of syllables pouring over the rapids so quickly that I worried you might not be able to keep them all together. At times it's like a tongue twister, at times a parody of cyber-speak, a flood, a tsunami!

Thank you.

[apples of gold]

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[apples of gold]

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[PrinceMyshkin]

Strings


Consider the lines of perception
drawn up to the height
and drawn out to the breadth
of the imagination

Continue the lines down
to the depth of the knowing
and the feeling of all that is you

The form of this geometric
the expanse of your being
the apogee
focused in one small point

Now consider the same for me

Two vast and brilliant dimensions
so much potential to share
immeasurable
assigned to the realm
of two small points

A. Regan © Broken Rhythm

I would love this if it ended at the above, where "the realm
of two small points" leaves me still in awe, while everything that came after it felt, to me, like tidying up, making sure that the baby was tucked well into bed.

[apples of gold]

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[PrinceMyshkin]

I would agree if I was going for poetic impact. But I'm quite interested in string theory, as you may know. The main point ... gosh those inadvertent puns can be annoying ... of the poem, was to touch on string theory.

Your comments are always appreciated Jer.

But would you take a wood-working class if you did not love wood or were fascinated by what could be done with it?

[apples of gold]

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[PrinceMyshkin]

Am I just tired or are you getting really philosophical? If you're saying that I go beyond what is necessary with words, I agree. I have trouble being succinct with both poetry and prose. That's why I like to sit on my writings and then edit them later. This particular poem has been around awhile and I'm still OK with it as it is. BTW, if you're going to quote any of my posts you should give me a half hour or so to make my edits.

You're my brother and my mentor, Jer. With your credentials in comparative literature you really should set yourself up a thread for the purposes of prose and poetry critique. I'll be one of your first customers. You're welcome to continue critiquing mine, but I don't know if there'll be enough of them to do justice to your skills.

Have a good evening and Shanti.

It wasn't the words per se but the over-all form to which they contributed. In poetry, the form has as much to say as the words contained in the form.

And thank you, Sis, for welcoming me to your family. Shalom u'vracha (Peace and a blessing)

[apples of gold]

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[PrinceMyshkin]

There’s generally a grainy appearance to things
everything that keeps me temporal,
coasting on this particulate wave
not much thought to the underlying dimension
or the overlying for that matter


is especially lovely and provocative. Thanks.

[Pendragon]

What could I possibly add that Jerry hasn't already covered? You got the talent down pat, and the images come through strong. I am more of a balance poem writer, but I refuse to allow form to rule me, I will bend and break rules, but I like the poem to balance out, either on rhyme or on structure of lines. You have not disappointed, your imagery will overcome my biasis.

Pen

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/Beautiful.gif

[apples of gold]

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[PrinceMyshkin]

Jerry who was it who said that after each poem he'd written, he felt he could never write another one?

To the best of my uncertain recollection it may have been Auden. And for what it's worth I believe the phrasing was more like he felt like a man who might never write another poem.

[ampoule]

grasshopper....absolutely delightful apples!! i love your dream.

[apples of gold]

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[firefangled]

I won’t be pinned to my shame today
by the whipping fingers of accusing elms
I have other journeys to take
Over there a man is crossing a field
the oncoming wind has leaned his back
and the seagull who flies ahead
hasn’t said where it is pulling him to
I want to assist in its burden

but the crows are gossiping
and there are memories and six new crimson
stars blooming on the hibiscus



A. Regan © Broken Rhythm


OK...now I am hooked on you! These are edgy to me, all of them (that's a good thing). More later. I am reminded of Jorie Graham and Sharon Olds. I almost cut myself coming here.

[PrinceMyshkin]

OK...now I am hooked on you! These are edgy to me, all of them (that's a good thing). More later. I am reminded of Jorie Graham and Sharon Olds. I almost cut myself coming here.

See if you can persuade her, Dude - or let's get up a petition to demand that - she post a poem of hers I read elsewhere, something involving a hat, a grey? hat...

[apples of gold]

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[firefangled]

Welcome firefangled. That’s a gracious compliment – to be mentioned in the same breath with accomplished poets. I don’t know if I could even aspire to that. Your comments are encouraging. I haven’t read many of theirs but I think that Susan Olds has in some way proved string theory with “The Sash”.

As always you have drawn another door and invited us to enter. With some of your poems, after a few readings the bristles begin to disappear and what is always left is the smooth warming of foam spreading through the layers of the skin. Thank you for them. Yours are inspirational to me in a calm, easy way. I think you were doing more than shaving when you almost cut yourself? But I'm not certain if this is what you meant by this.

You will so enjoy Jorie Graham. Her collection that won the Pulitzer is called, The Dream of the Unified Field, if that gives you a hint. I have not read the Sash, but if it is in any of her books that I have I will tonight, if not it is off to Borders this weekend. I wish I lived again in a little country town with a local bookstore where you could sit on the floor and no one cared, even if they did stare.

I cut myself on your edgy poems. They were so very sharp like the finest cutlery or a straight razor even.

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[CdnReader]

I love this one, Apples. Delightful!

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[firefangled]

Sunshine Foods is the name of the convenience store
on the corner. I didn’t know the Lebanese people
possessed a charm but they have discovered a secret
and are selling it in their fried chicken that runs out
before dinner time on Friday nights. They eat a lot of it
themselves and smile and extend credit to the working poor
for lottos, candy and cigarettes, watching hockey
on a blaring television that drowns out the sound of bombs
shredding their cousins in the distance.

A black man walks by and stops to chat about the weather.
With music in his voice and a dialect lost deep in the heart
of a dying tribe he tells me with sorrowful sincerity how nice I am.
His shoulders are lean and straight and he invites himself
onto my patio for tea. Traces of the joy of singing children
flicker in his eyes and I would let him pour
and watch his gazelle hands lift the cup
conducting with dignity the rhythm of djembe and sekere
rising up in his soul, but today he is restless and won’t linger,
as one who has traded broken chains for a pursuing plague.

Patchouli and the sound of a tinkling mantra
pass with the Indian couple who offer no bow with their namaste.
Humility speaks through the shared devotion in their eyes and
it is their son who endures the stares. I imagine the hair
loosed from his turban to be down past his waist.
On the day my daughter helped them with their groceries
they insisted she share their lunch and they sent her home with a plate.
We laughed – Oh Canada – land of maple syrup flowing,
only here would a family serve french toast with catchup.
On days when she stops to admire my garden
kama sutra peeks out from under the hem playing hide and seek
in the folds of her sari as she sways in time to tablas.
I offered her a peony and she gave me a vision of lotus and spice,
an out casted man lying beaten in the road, and thirst for
Calcutta heat with the soft gutturals of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.




A. Regan © Broken Rhythm

This is so magnificent for its sounds, but even more so the contrast of light and such terrible darkness. It is not enough though that you have woven such a tapestry of opposites, but that you did it from the same thread.

There is much more than what I have said from half a dozen readings. The starkness of description makes all three encounters surreal.

I am captivated by your style.

[apples of gold]

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[PrinceMyshkin]

In My Neighbourhood is so good that I have been fumbling for the way to say so. I could not have put it as eloquently as firefangled did, but I heartily second his remarks.

I would take my hat off to you but it doesn't appear to be anywhere around...

[firefangled]

Oh thank you firefangled! I wrote the last stanza while playing an album called One Giant Leap which is a world compilation. Several of the East Indian pieces are so spiriturally moving they brought me to tears. I think the effect must have weaved its way into the verse.

I'm sure the music had something to do with it. I am always very moved by the music from other cultures, particularly Africa and India.

However, it is your amazing attention to detail that elevates your work and adds to the emotion you elicite.

[apples of gold]

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