Here and Now: May 2013

photo by Dora Itz (1985-1986)

Mostly standard stuff this week. New poems from me, as usual; poems from my anthology for the week, Twentieth-Century Latin American Poetry. a very large bilingual collection of poems published in 1996 by the University of Texas Press; and poems from my library, as well as from a couple of my poet-friends.

Plus the photos - old poems "from the files" - stuff I like because I like it and stuff I like because it has special meaning to me. Those last were mostly taken by others and I expect will be easy to recognize.

And my old poem. This week, having referred to my first and second ebook in the previous two issues, this week I pull the poem from my third ebook, Always to the Light.

Here are the particulars and the peculiars of what' up this week from here:

geezer charm

Julio Herrera y Reissig

The Return

scattered in the wide night sky

Michael Van Walleghen

Sneaky

it may all end well after all

oh, Shostakovitch

Owald de Andrade

Portuguese Mistake

Frontier

Hierofant

stringbean

Deborah Digges

My Phantom Escort, the Milkweed

Christmas Rain

a good day promise

Nicanor Parra

Piano Solo

I Move the Meeting Be Adjourned

Roller Coaster

red balloon

Alex Stolis

from What makes the dawn come up like thunder

coddling eggs

Octavio Paz

Here

Certainty

Village

peas in our time

Joanna M. Weston

Connections

Passport Control

The Other

The Phone

a deep dunk in a shallow pool

Pablo Antonio Cuadra

The Birth of the Sun

cash crop

James Laughlin

Motet: Ave Verum Corpus

The New Young Doctor

The Daze of Love

Some People Think

The Voyeur

Passport Size Will Do

At the Post Office

For the Finders Within

an accretion of cat

Alfonsina Storni

Ancestral Burden

The White Claw

who knew

Jose Felipe Herrera

Monday: nothing

Monday: I am

Monday: (PRI jet)

a counter-intuitive proposal

Gabriel Mistral

Close to me

as the cookie crumbles

Gregory Corso

Notes After Blacking Out

a natural right

Here's my first new poem for this week.

geezer-charm

I'm usually able

in most situations

to turn on my geezer-charm

at stores and restaurants and make friends

with all around, little jokes told

that allow us to share a chuckle, a friendly

smile, an open face and attitude...

but my breakfast restaurant

has a new cashier,

a young woman, who does not appear

to have a personality, or, maybe

she saves her personality for other places

or other people than me, or maybe she just

doesn't sleep well and is in no mood

for charm and chuckles

when she gets to work in the morning, or

maybe she's an alien, a recent arrival

from parts way the hell and gone

who hasn't had an opportunity

to completely absorb the intricacies

of geezer interaction, or maybe she's a robot

programmed by a CPA, or maybe

a geezer-stalking zombie, setting me up

for a quick grab at my brain some morning

as I'm leaving, left by her lack of discernible

personality to disregard her existence

and thus easy prey...

lots of possibilities that may be hidden

behind her blank facade that leave me,

despite my best effort at geezer-charm,

feeling old and alone and facing a cold,

cold world...

funny, if they installed

an automated teller, all metal and plastic

it wouldn't bother

me, but

this automaton in human for, this

flesh and blood replicant,

makes me think

of good movies of bad days,

makes me fear,

most of all, that my geezer-charm is failing.

a sign of the end coming

since it's really all I've got left

going for me

The first poet this week from Twentieth-Century Latin American Poetry, is Julio Herrera y Reissig. Born in 1875, Reissig, who died in 1910, was from Uruguay.

His poem was translated by Andrew Rosing.

The Return

Earth offers its greetings, with a paternal kiss...

A mule grazes m the meager vegetation,

and in the late winter sun the mountain displays

her snowy apron,like a village matron.

A kindly sky, a gentle zephyr...

As shepherd-girl rests under a pine in the hollow

and in thick rows, with gradual steps, the cattle

come, obeying the priestly music of the horn.

Carrying wood to cook the evening meal,

the shepherd,who has been absent from his home

only all day, walks slowly toward the farm.

His family hurries to see him, and welcome...

even the dog, who wags his lively tail,

inscribing fast circles of joy in the air.

As promised above, here's my first poem this week from my third ebook, Always to the Light.

scattered in the wide night sky

scattered

in the wide night sky

are pinpoints of light

bringing star-heat

to worlds like our own

biological stews

pining the universal spark

on some

and on others

life at its most simple

is cradled,

protected from the cosmic

storms,

and on a relative few

creatures who strive

and dream

like you and

know this

like some people

know God, such knowledge

a product of longing

in the lonely bright

for a companion

worthy

of our own best nature

My first poem this week, this by Michael Van Walleghen. The poem is from his book Blue Tango, published by University of Illinois Press in 1989.

Sneaky

Someone doesn't like cats -

he thinks they're "sneaky"

so cats start disappearing

all over the neighborhood.

Even our own cat disappears

and then, some weeks later

her mutilated body turns up

in an abandoned farmhouse -

because that's what she gets.

Someone doesn't like cats

so he stabs their eyes out

and cuts them to pieces.

Maniacs behind every tree.

Maniacs, child molesters...

But Emily, my five-year-old

has different notions entirely.

She thinks her cat's in Florida

on vacation - because it's winter

and "hat's where the birds go."

It's winter, it's after supper

and a small moon, a cat's eye

follows us down our dark street

all the way to the liquor store -

then dimly, dimly back again...

Nevertheless, because she's eaten

so many raw carrots lately

my daughter informs me

she can see in the dark now

like the animals - whereupon

she leaps unerringly, catlike

over an ice-filled gutter -

at which, even the trees

seem stirred, clattering

their sudden applause

all round us for a moment -

then falling still as trees

near a house without windows

in the middle of winter.

I wrote this at the beginning of last week - a not-so-good week that ended well.

it may all end well after all

fella jobbing

down the sidewalk - I can see him

through the coffeehouse

windows -

skinny guy, bare-chested,

orange shorts, and

dark hair, kind of poofy hair,

bouncing with every jog - running

in South Texas in the summertime - you see it

all the time, more evidence,

if such is needed,

of how our mental health resources

are so under-sourced

and insufficient

to meet the obvious need

for professional intervention

to assist those who in run in summer

in South Texas,

for crying out loud...

---

which reminds me,

for no particular reason

except that I don't yet have

the required feeling

of resolution regarding this poem,

of the knuckle-dragger

I saw crossing he parking lot

at my supermarket this

morning when I stopped for money

and a banana and by calling him a

"knuckle-dragger"

I didn't mean to be disparaging, but that's

what he looked like, heavy set, sloping shoulders,

arms limp at his sides, knuckles

almost literally

dragging

the asphalt - poof possibly of the new theory

among the geneticists regarding

the inter-breeding of Neanderthal and modern man

(or woman) in the bygone days when they

shared a little patch of the planet

in Europe , and, in fact, the continuing presence

of Neanderthal DNA in our modern

biological make-up...

or he might have just been,

in his baby clothes, an escapee

from the nearby zoo - I'm not saying one way or the other

but I did hide my banana behind my back

when we passed

---

and then there was the young (well, she was at one time)

woman I saw out on the sidewalk

when I drove up, red dress, 27-inch heels,

and the droopy, besmeared look of a working girl

putting a cap on another night shift

on the corner of AnyWayYouWant &

vine...

but maybe it was just a helluva a party - to which

I'm pretty sure I'm glad to be not

invited

---

and then there's the very tall, very skinny,

antique shop fell from right

down the street, sticking his little

"going out of business" signs

at the corner...

I'm watching the outcome

of his closing with plans of my own

to win the lottery this week if not next

so that I can buy his building

and open an art gallery

for young artists who haven't achieved

the recognition they deserve

(a lot like me in my own estimable

estimate)

a bad outcome for poor mr. tall, skinny

antique purveyor,

but a good resolution for me

as I become the Warren Buffet

of art and poetry

but...

---

enough of that - resolution be damned...

it's been an awful week, and so far this morning

it doesn't seem to be over yet

though still I maintain my faith

in the inevitability

of positive endings to all life's

travails, thinking

of tonight,

everybody goes home

and we're left alone with our tickets

to the symphony

Shostakovitch featured, a dash of Mozart

and several other musical

worthies...

it all may end well

after all

And speaking of the symphony, here's a next-day follow-up to that poem. The music for the evening was the Mozart Concerto N. 22 in E-flat Major for Piano and Orchestra and the Shostakovitch was Symphony No.8 in C-Minor, Op. 65.

oh, Shostakovitch

The Majestic,

grand old 1930s vintage

movie theater in the middle of the bustle

of early-evening downtown,

vast blue ceiling

high above us, with lights

that twinkle like stars in the night sky,

the theater a Cecile B. DeMille epic

inside if he had made

theaters

instead of the movies

that filled the seats,

steps to the mezzanine

and balconies so steep, suggesting

need for an Everest-qualified Sherpa

on the way up and maybe a rope

rappelling down at the end of each

performance,

and god-awful, tiny seats made for butts smaller

than ours, barely room

for a child's knee between rows and how

those little boys must have loved

the statue of a nude in goddess-mode high

over the stage, looking down, guarding

the art of make-believer from critics

and for those whose depression-smothered

spirit pined fora wizard to revive

their hearts and souls...

---

the grand old theater,

home of the symphony now,

and Broadway

roadshows, and comedians, and

songsters, still reviving

hearts and souls

and

last night

Mozart and Shostakovitch...

and Mozart, let's face it, is a bit over-exposed

these days, selling everything from cars

to hair gel, Eine kleine nachtmusik accompanying

your classical suppository purchases,

plus, of course, everything

Mozart ever wrote includes extensions and extrapolations

and variations on every other thing he ever wrote

so that everything is easily mistaken

for something else so that if he ever

rose from the grave to spite Salieri and wrote a new serenade

many would claim they head it before, I know that piece

they might say, but I can't remember what it's

called...

but, Shostakovitch, oh my, Shostakovitch,

less often heard, not so familiar,

but who better than a Russian

composing in Russia in the winter

of 1943 to sell you on a dream, then

shred it, mocking the dream he sold you, making

a nightmare of all the promises, who but a

Russian swimming in the blood of millions of his countrymen,

so many dead, almost as many killed by his won government

as by the invading Nazis, who but such a Russian

could so roil your guts and rend your heart...

such power and agony, such rage and beauty

as has ever been heard in

one piece of music...

oh, Shostakovitch, we listen to your and feel the power, and the rage,

within you and the agony of beauty lost - such pain to midwife

such wondrous music,

oh, Shostakovitch...

The next poet from this week's anthology is Oswald de Andrade. A Brazilian poet, Andrade was born in 1890 and died in 1954.

His poems were translated by Flavia Vidal.

Portuguese Mistake

When the Portuguese arrived

It was raining like crazy

He dressed the Indian in clothes

What a shame?

If only it had been a sunny day

The Indian would have undressed

The Portuguese.

Frontier

I ant to study philosophy in Paris

That can't happen

Only if your godfather Antnes pays your way

But life is good anyhow

Godfather Antunes went bankrupt

Life is good

Godfather Antunes diet

Mute old church-bell,

you slow your rhythm in a panic

and speed up your ringing

in a rebellion

The seed spouts with no announcement

The man in the mask will fill your table with joys

That's not going to happen

But life is good anyhow

Poet, you were born destined for liberty;

what a waste to meet the Shepherds' Christmas star.

Hierofant

It's impossible to live

with these people

or with anyone at all

Suspicion surrounds you like an escutcheon

Dye the scarab

red

and paint the dawn's directions

Sighing multitudes will come from far away

to attend the plangent calf

Here's poem number two from Always to the Light.

stringbean

string

bean

looking fella

in a cowboy

hat

and shit

kicker boots

sitting

across

from me

drinking

from a quart

carton

of 2% milk

reading some

kind of

technical looking

book with

graphs

and shit

and one hand

looking

paralyzed fingers

tight

against his palm

like Bob Dole

'cept this

fella

isn't holding

a pen

in his clinched

fingers

like Bob Dole

always

did

good ol'

guy

that Bob

Dole

might'a been

a fine presi

dent

if he hadn't

been a Republican

and 143 years

old

probably

wouldn't

a'been fucking

around with no

chubby

interns any

way

what is it

with politicians

and their dicks

anyway

like just another

one this

week

screwing around

love me

love

love me

they're all

saying

all the time

waving their

dicks

around

starting wars

screwing

women either

too young

or too

married

for any man

with good

sense

to mess with

I mean

put your dicks

back

in your pants

and

grow up

for christ's

sake

you're supposed

to be

running the country

fool

not running

around

on your dearly

beloved

who ought to be

whopping

you

across the head

three or

four

times a day

till

you get it on

straight

fool

Next from my library, I have two short poems by Deborah Digges, from her book Rough Music. The book was published in 1996 by Alfred A Knopf.

My Phantom Escort, the Milkweed

My phantom escort, the milkweed,

blown across the asphalt -

that hopeless, but of itself undaunted -

said there was some way, some possibility

in loving your against history,

who ushered me doorway by doorway

inside my skin inside another hotel room.

There we were nothing blessed with

and without honor, liars

as we came. No one we'd want to know

might understand all too well

how afterward we weren't changed,

even dressed, and on the street again, original.

We'd ride a few blocks together in a taxi.

Christmas Rain

Here is the tree

whose topmost branches will not again green.

This evening the crows gather

merely to watch a sparrow

with a bit of Christmas rain in its beak fly

into the hard pine.

Now over the backyards

of the rich, sparrow attacks crow -

chases it down toward its own miserable death,

the nest, of course, abandoned.

Now the crows fly as one,

perhaps toward the ocean trees.

Well, it's justice this year to live without hope.

Nothing made of fear alone can last

like nothing made exclusively of happiness.

photo by Nina Itz (1977-78)

Thursday, looks like a really good day coming.

a good day promise

missing

this morning,

the harsh cough

of crows,

like drunks hacking up

last night's cigarettes, instead

the silky coo of

doves

spreading butter on the rising sun,

and the moon too,

bright and round, and a cool breeze

blowing down the wide length

of the creek and its small pastures

on either side...

and it's like maybe

the earth

has slowed down

for today

so that I might catch

up...

a good day promise,

early

My next poet from the Twentieth Century Latin American Poets anthology is Nicanor Parra. A Chilean poet, Parra was born in 1914 and was still living when the anthology was published.

Piano Solo

Since man's life is nothing but a bit of action at a distance,

A bit of foam shining inside a glass;

Since trees are nothing but moving trees;

Nothing but chairs and tables in perpetual motion;

Since we ourselves are nothing but beings

( As the godhead is nothing but God);

Now that we do not speak solely to be heard

But so that others my speak

And the echo precede the voice that produces it;

Since we do not even have the consolation of chaos

In the garden that yawns and fills with air,

A puzzle that we must solve before our death

So that we may nonchalantly resuscitate later on

When we gave led woman to excess;

Since there is also a heaven in hell,

Permit me to propose a few things:

I wish to make noise wit my feet

I want my soul to find its proper body.

(Translated by William Carlos Williams)

I Move the Meeting Be Adjourned

Ladies and gentlemen

I have only one question:

Are we children of the Sun or the Earth?

I see no reason

To continue shooting this picture!

I move the meeting be adjourned.

(Translated by Allen Ginsberg)

Roller Coaster

For half a century

Poetry was the paradise

Of the solemn fool.

Until I came

And built my roller coaster.

Go up, if you feel like it.

I'm not responsible if you come down

Bleeding from your mouth and nose.

(Translated by Miller Williams)

Here's one from my ebook pulled directly from a supermarket parking lot.

red balloon

little boy

in a shopping cart

says to his mother

as she pushes

he's

still my dad, right?

so I still love him,

right?

my mind

is a-crush

with sad stories

none sadder,

than this,

I think,

and I imagine pain

radiating

from this cart,

across time,

across generations,

the world's pain

that is a red balloon

filling a little more,

the world's pain

an angry balloon

near to bursting

Next, I have several selections from a chapbook in progress by my friend Alex Stolis. These poems are from the first part of what will be three parts in the chapbook, to be titled, What makes the dawn come up like thunder.

Regular readers of "Here and Now" will recognize Alex from the many times his work has appeared he. In addition to being a very good poet, he is very prolific, putting out chapbooks like Ronald McDonald puts out hamburgers.

(Jeez, did I just compare Alex to McDonald's? This comparison works only if you imagine my reference to be to McDonald's new gourmet burger division.)

from What makes the dawn come up like thunder

from Kansas (Part I)

If we walk far enough, says Dorothy,

we shall sometime come to someplace

- L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

A Landscape in Plain View

It is between the blink of an eye

and Apollo; a winged messenger-god

her veil lifted

by a cold-blooded moon.

There is a palette, voices long and golden

a scarecrow missing a leg

arms akimbo.

What's that bird? What's that wing?

She dreams of straight lines, houses

storefront glass and a murder

of crows dipping in

and out of view.

She's in plain sight, the good witch

of the world pouring in rain;

there's the wind, there's

that wind: north/south/east/west.

I've never told anyone she said

to everyone; Auntie M. Uncle H,

a tin-horned ranch handed

Mr. Bones, cowardly bent.

We have flat-lands and we have fields and we have

fleeting thoughts; Mott the Hoople's Sweet Jane. How ice feels smooth

even with jagged edges. They way yellow turns to ochre turns to orange.

How dandelions can grow in cracks of sidewalks. The sound of a pop-top

ring on a can of beer; faux wood paneling and shag carpet. James Joyce

and Ulysses. How we've everything we need to twist and turn ourselves

around and down and into the very hole we crawled out of.

Dorothy's last time at the Scarecrow Bar & Grill with Tin Man

First time she noticed: faded black and white tiles, how the smell of beer

& whiskey stuck to the floor. Unfiltered cigarettes balanced on the edge

of ashtray-weapons. The whir & click as vinyl dropped, a short stuttered

needle-groove the CCR's Suzie Q. She has a Plan A, B and C, her own

Plan 9. She'll cut her hair all the East Coast fuck-the-yokels sexy/edgy/cool.

It doesn't matter where she's been or ever who she's going to be next.

She knows the taste of poor. It's heavy and think. It's unsalted, slightly

bitter, it's sweat and tears and dirt and fire. She gets the scissors, closes

her eyes, triesto imagine bright leaves and ripe fruit on the ground.

Dorothy buys a new pair of shoes

She wants to get to someplace. It doesn't matter where

or what color the sky. She's tired of half-finished thoughts

and the feeling she belong to whatever emptiness comes

along. Right now, she lives with the jagged sound of tees

banging against wind. The rough, even rows of corn stalks

and the smell of kerosene. The hand-me-down back stories

jealously guarded and passed on and on and on. She wants

some time to get somewhere, anywhere; anywhere thunder

rolls and coughs. Anywhere that glistens and shines.

photographer unknown (1964)

Here's a little story of breakfast with a friend last week.

coddling eggs

I am having breakfast

later this week

with a friend at an Italian Restaurant

that promises entrees like "coddled eggs"

and I don't know about that

at all, being

too much like my father

who wasn't in favor of coddling anything,

children, dogs, eggs, whatever -

shouldn't be coddling those eggs,

he'd say,

if a damn egg can't stand up on its own two feet

what damn good is it?

we'll probably have coddled bacon

and coddled toast and coddled

coffee and then every damn thing

in the restaurant will have to be coddled

and the poor damn customers

will be so busy coddling their eggs

and their toast and their bacon and their coffee

they won't have time to enjoy

any bit of their breakfast

---

but I enjoy having breakfast

with my friend

so I guess I'll go and coddle

right along with everyone else,

though I probably will ask if they

have any less-wussy, un-coddled eggs

that can take care of themselves

and not require any tender coddling

from me...

I'm just not sure

I'm up to coddling at seven-thirty in the

morning - the responsibility

may just be too much

for me

Next from the anthology, I have three short poems by probably the best known Mexican poet, Octavio Paz. Born in 1914, Paz died in 1998. All three of the poems were translated by Charles Tomlinson.

Here

My steps along this street

resound

in another street

in which

I hear my steps

passing along this street

in which

Only the mist is real

Certainty

If it is real in the white

light from this lamp, real

the writing hand, are they

real, the eyes looking at what I write?

From one word to the other

what I say vanishes.

I know that I am alive

between two parentheses.

Village

The stones are time

The wind

Centuries of wind

The trees are time

The people are stone

The wind

turns upon itself and sinks

Into the stone day

There is no water here for all the luster of its eyes.

I decry the world's decline - from Always to the Light.

peas in our time

dinner

last night

at Grissinis'

Italian

penne pasta

with some kind

of orangish sauce

tiny pieces of ham

mushrooms

peas

the peas

did it for me

since peas are

my second favorite

vegetable -

peas and corn

being my first favorite

someone mentioned

it was strange, my

liking peas so much,

since no on was

eating

peas

anymore

that's hardly

a surprise to me

since the world slips

further

into decline

with every passing day

Like Alex Stolis, regular "Here and Now" readers will recognize my next poet, my friend Joanna M. Weston, who has appeared here many times.

Joanna describes herself as married and minder of two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen houses. Her books include her middle-reader, Those Blue Shoes, published by Clarity House Press; and a book of poetry, A Summer Father. She also has an ebook, The Willow Tree Girl, at her blog, www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com.

Connections

the whisper of keys

on business letters

disgorged by the printer

signed sealed mailed

adding to the flood

of paper white ink-scribbles

and the secretary files

nails letters in grey boxes

for future security

under flickering bulbs

knowing her boss dreams

through open windows

expecting the advent

of further memos

from connections made

at cocktail parties

to which his assistant

is never invited.

Passport Control

I droop

against the concrete wall

others slump

between waist-high dividers

lean on posts

faces drudged

under neon light

nudge luggage forward

line beside line

winding through

murmurs press

on exhaustion

while officialese urges

the scuff of feet

The Other

long after moonrise

a voice

burned me

into wakefulness

was it you?

did you conjure my name

into yourself

call me

from your reality?

did you dream me

in the grey of dawn

catch my hand

wrench me

howling

into morning

alone?

The Phone

incoming calls

swirl down the line

and break the rock

of my refusal to pickup

so I miss the sales-person

survey or politician

interruptions that transform

my communication skills

into "no dammit"

Sometimes, I really have a yen to write something deep and worthwhile.

But it makes my brain hurt.

a deep dunk in a shallow pool

deep think,

that's what I need

a philosophical

exegesis of the text

of daily life

that is all around me, that

which I am subject to

and that which is subject to me

I used to do that sort of thing

swim up the river

of intellectual

exploration

but now I'm more like the child

splashing in puddles

along the way

to tinker toy

park

leaving me to fear

sometimes

that I have forgotten

how to think

beyond the cliches

that wrap themselves

like thought-choking vines

around

daily

life, all the obscurities

of little think,

the irrelevancies

that preoccupy

the culture

I fear to drown in...

I wouldn't mind

being

a smart-ass if it meant

I could be more than just an

everyday

ass -

like I thought

when I started that this was going to be

a funny poem,

a smart-ass critique

of modern life

but it seems even that

is beyond my

reach...

Here is a poem from this week's anthology by Pablo Antonio Cuadra. Born in Nicaragua in 1912, the poet was still alive when the anthology was published.

The poem was translated by Thomas Merton.

The Birth of the Sun

I have invented new worlds. I have dreamed

Nights built out of ineffable substances.

I have made burning stars, subtle lights

Next to half-closed eyes.

Yet never

Can I recover that first day when our fathers

Emerged, with their tribes, from the humid jungle

And looked to the East. They listened to the roar

Of the jaguar, the song of the birds; and they saw

Rise up a man with a burning face,

Whose looks, full of light, dried up the marshes,

A tall, burning youth whose face was aflame:

Whose face lit up the whole world!

photo by Bob Anderson (1966)

I think I remember a fairly wet summer, but it seems so long ago. Seems instead that we've been in Stage I (or worse) for about as long as I can remember.

It encourages one to write a lot of drought poems. This one is from the ebook, Always to the Light.

cash crop

I see a row

of townhouses

across the street,

smothered in green,

spring-looks exploding

all over after just three days

of rain - even the desert that is

my yard I refuse to water through

the drought is showing little green sprigs

poking through the dust - but it won't

last, three days is three days and

there's a whole dry spring and

summer ahead, so while the

folks across the way will

suck water from the

falling aquifer, my

yard will return

to it's natural

semi-arid

state

and I will make

a virtue of it,

xeroscape-

ing they

might

call

but

I know

surrender

to the inevitable

is what it is

like who

needs

trees

grow

rocks

here better than

anything else,

surely

it must

be a

ma-

jor

cash

crop judg

ing by the

quarries all around

I'm putting a new crop

in myself, as soon

as the rain

stops

they

don't grow

I'll apply for a

subs-

idy

Here are two short poems by James Laughlin, from his book, The Secret Room, a New Direction book published in 1997.

I had my doubts about this book when I bought it, mainly because the cover suggest a dry and formal book. Turned out after I got into it, that I love the book. Laughlin, an old man in this books, is delightful, seeing himself and the world with a clear eye and good humor, a man unreservedly human.

Motet: Ave Verum Corpus

My mother could not wait to go

To Jesus. Her poor, sad life

(Though she was money-rich)

Was made for that, to go to

Waiting Jesus.

Jesus loved her that she knew,

There was no doubt about it.

Up there above, somewhere among

The twinkling stars, there was

A place of no tears where

He was waiting for her, blood-

Stained in palms and side, he

Was waiting.

The New Young Doctor

at the clinic is fresh

out of medical school

and hospital internship.

He's up to date on all

the new cures he reads

about in the journals.

Some of the old fogies

here in the village

won't go to him, but

I think he's great. At

my last check-up he

told me I'd probably

live to be a hundred

because I have such a

strong pulse in my feet.

The Daze of Love

Comes sometimes
the blaze of light
when an asteroid
passes us too near.

There is also
the softer radiance
when we are separated
and sink into sleep
thinking of each other.

Some People Think

that poetry should be a-
dorned or complicated    I'm

not so sure    I think I'll
take the simple statement

in plain speech compress-
ed to brevity    I think that

will do all I want to do

The Voyeur

Pull up your skirt
just an inch or two

above your knees
sit quietly where

I may watch you
from across the

room    I am old and
impotent but such

small pleasures can
still give me delight

Passport Size Will Do

I beg you send me your picture
For my album of imaginary conquests
You will be in excellent company
I am not (even in my imagination)
Promiscuous and invite only the best

At the Post Office

It makes his day when
by happy chance he en-

counters her on his morn-
ing visit to the post office

it's as if a rose had
opened to greet him.

For the Finders Within

I cannot name them nor
tell from whence they

come    I cannot summon
them nor make them lin-

ger    they come when they
wish (and are least ex-
pected) and in a moment
they are gone leaving

their burst of words
which become my song.

We had a temporary addition to our parade. Wasn't sure when I wrote this whether it was going to stay temporary or become permanent. Apparently it was temporary since, after a week and a half of following us every morning, she hasn't been back in several days.

an accretion of cat

our regular tri-

species, can't-we-all-

just-get-along Clearview Circle parade

grew by one this

morning

our normal marching crew,

(being me, sometimes referred to as "Master,"

but not always, and Bella, the golden-haired

doofus-dog, and Mama, the charcoal gray

shadow-dancer cat)

following our normal marching

order, Bella on a leash, followed by me and

Mama, sometimes behind, sometimes waiting ahead

if Bella's sniffing and peeing routine

causes a longer delay in the march than

a self-possessed cat is prone

to accept,

and this morning, someone new,

another cat, a juvenile kitten, solid white

but for her black tail ad black spot

on her side ad a black

half-mask around her right eye,

walking with great purpose

behind Mama...

Bella

welcomes the newcomer

with appropriate

butt-sniffing, but Mama is not pleased,

saying, with fierce hiss and arcing

back, "this is my dog," she says

"keep your kitten nose away from my dog"

now Mama, who loves Bella,

tolerates me only as long as I feed her,

while the no-name newcomer

is a cuddly, natural-born

lap cat who rolled over for a tummy scratch

the first minute we met

leaving me with a question

and a dilemma

will the newcomer be back to walk with us

tomorrow, or will she continue her

journey on to whoever

scratches

her tummy next

and if she does come back,

will Mama be content to share her dog

and her space on the front porch

(separate food bowls, of course) and,

I'm thinking even now,

what would be a good name for such a pretty cat...

but best I not get ahead of myself

in case we're just ships passing in the night,

just another one-night stand...

(Snow Puff, that might be a good name for a white cat, or maybe.,..)

Born in 1892 of Italian parents in Switzerland, Alfonsina Storni came to Argentina with her family when she was three years old. Trained and licensed in the field of rural education, she supported herself as a teacher and free-lance journalist from the age of eighteen. At twenty, she moved to Buenos Aires, where she spent the rest of her life. She died in 1938.

I have two short poems of hers from the anthology. Twentieth-Century Latin American Poets. The poems were translated by Andrew Rosing

Ancestral Burden

Once you told me my father never wept;

Once you told me his father never wept;

The men of my line have never wept;

They were made of steel.

As you were saying this you cried a tear

That dropped into my mouth...I have never

drunk more off poison than I did

from that little cup

Vulnerable woman, poor and comprehending woman,

When I tasted it I knew the pain of centuries.

Oh, my soul cannot endure

All of its burden.

The White Claw

In this splendor of white sky

I sink my eyes, and sinking them I weep.

The sky is covered with golden tears;

the clean sky.

And ah, it seems that a white claw

must swoop down and carry me

through the curving sky;

the white claw.

This is my last poem this week from my ebook, Always to the Light.

who knew

I know

what this poem means

and so do you

but it would be

so great

if we could get together

some rainy afternoon

in a coffeehouse

on a tree-lined boulevard

in a quiet neighborhood

and talk

and

talk

until you understood

what I wrote

and I knew what

you read

From my library, I have three short poems by Juan Felipe Herrera, from his book Giraffe on Fire.

The book, published in 2001 by The University of Arizona Press, is not a good book to use here in "Here and Now" because everything in it is either too long or too entwined in the context of everything else that it's hard to extract anything short enough to use here.

But I did pull three short poems, the first three in a series titled "Bull and Octopus (Adios, querido PRI)." These three poems can, at least, give the flavor of Herrera's extravagant and sometimes mystical style.

Monday nothing

nothing only nothing and fists - full of veins

shawls in ambush delirious over your mask

your lie you (Yes) you Minotaur-boy tell us

of your towers Amerindian (only) you tell of us of this little

blind-eye dog battle that you leave us and now in this

lake of our own violet shadows you want

us to receive your guild your ribbon and dinner jacket

for a toast in a glass

on a plate architecturally yours yours

Amerinothing of your great lobster hands like this

you want us

Monday: I am

I am

bullet-riddled inside Shinnybone Martinez the one with

overhauled rage Chiclets Boy (pocket bloated

now, stretching) Yes

just like the gum stuff old man mandible sputum -

Cabeza de vaca Head of a woman weeping a desert of hands

bullet riddled and one thousand (5) thousand mothers of a dead boy, a girl

Lily flame (her name is Senorita Solitary Ash;

his name is Fir Without a Hungry Altar Without a Leaf) - fast flame,

tiny dagger, little wrist doll in the thick coffee barracks

crazy in the shrapnel sky shred

Monday (PRI jet)

(PRI jet) This is the string - this is the noose

this is the brown slashed head, the lost knot, the holy twine,

twisted head, headless - the dream _____________

the new dram of man-handkerchief artificial ice

iodine tank Christmas: suppliant supplicant suppliant

positions (he says)

In the mass graves in the building with shoes and bandages and sweets,

coconut and carpets on sale and pumpkin seeds and confetti

in the stone rubble volcanic ash

Here's a poem I wrote several weeks ago and somehow lost track of. Not written in response to anything going on in Oklahoma, I don't know that it's all that counter-intuitive at all, thinking of all the cliche's like "when the going gets tough, the tough get going," etc.

And it is certainly true that none of us know what we are capable of until our best is called on to act.

a counter-intuitive proposal

thinking about this

after reading another's poem...

it seems that the only true

freedom

is the freedom one has

to run and hide when disaster

threatens;

the confusion of options

set aside

for the requirements

of survival

the superficiality

of material things

set aside,

the past set aside,

the future

open to freedom's improvisations

---

the hardest lessons

it seems

might

produce the easiest answers

to fly if you can,

to walk, to run, with a satisfied

spirit

if you can't

to find a new home;

to find a new

life;

to find the center

that has eluded

you in the routine

of life on the periphery

to go like Kirk and Spock

and Bones and all

the rest

where you have not gone

before

Last from the anthology I have poet Lucila Godoy-Alcayagal, who wrote and published under the pen name Gabriela Mistral. She was a Chilean educator, diplomat, feminist and poet who was born in Chile, lived in Brazil and, for the last years of her life, in the United States where she lived with her long-time companion and translator, Doris Dana, while representing Chile at the United Nations.

Born in 1889, she won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1945, and died in 1957.

Close to Me

Little fleece of my flesh

that I wove in my womb,

little shivering fleece,

sleep close to me!

the partridge sleeps in the clover

hearing its heart beat.

My breathing will not wake you.

Sleep close to me!

Little trembling blade of grass

astonished to be alive,

don't leave my breast.

Sleep close to me!

I who have lost everything

am now afraid to sleep.

Don't slip away from my arms.

Sleep close to me!

Here's an old poem, the last this week from my ebook, Always to the Light.

as the cookie crumbles

having a chocolate-chip cookie

with my latte this morning,

leaving me

aquiver with excitement

at such a foray

into the world of

wild and crazy guyhood

it's a sign,

these palpitations

of my normally serene

and laid-back heart, that

I'm on a tear for sure,

set to become the

adventurer

of my youth when

bottle of Lone Star

for breakfast

followed by pancakes,

three eggs, sausage,

and a gallon of coffee

was the start of many a day

(I knew it was breakfast

because the sun hurt my eyes)

I'm ready

this getting old and cranky crap

has run its course

it's time to fight back

against the deprecations

of excessive birthdaying, smoke

inhalation

from all those candles

a major source of deterioration

of elders respiratory

functions

.....

the cookie's finished,

every last crumb,

and, though dizzy now from the

big chocolate chunks,

I'm still up to the fight

but I'm going home first

to take a nap

after that...

those mattress tags

better beware

cause I'm on a

crazy

desperado

law-busting

tear

Last from my library this week, I have a poem by Gregory Corso, from his book of new and selected poems, Mindfield, published in 1989 by Thunder's Mouth Press. Corso, born in 1930 in New York City in `1930, moved to the West Coast in 1955, where, as youngest of the Beat Generation writers, he became an important voice in the Beat Movement

Corso died in 2001

Notes After Blacking Out

Lady of the legless world I have

refused to go beyond self-disappearance

I'm in the thin man's bed knowing my legs

kept me to a cold fresh air

Useless and not useless this meaning

All is answerable I need not know the answer

Poetry is seeking the answer

Joy is knowing there is an answer

Death is knowing the answer

(That faint low in the belly of Enlightenment

in the dead spouting their answers)

Queen of cripples the young no longer

seem so necessary

The old are secretive about their Know

they are constant additions to this beg

unauthorized lie

Yet Truth's author itself is nothingness

And though I make it vital that nothingness

itself will collapse

There is nothing

Nothing ever was

Nothing is a house never bought

Nothing comes after this wildbright Joke

Nothing sits on nothing in a nothing of many nothings

a nothing king

Last for the week, then nap time.

a natural right

over the past six months or so

I have come, ever so cautiously, to the

realization

that persons of different ages

are allowed different

habits

that, for a person approaching

his 70th birthday,

afternoon

naps

are a natural right

that would have been enshrined

as such

in the constitution

had that eloquent statement of the rights

accrued to us by our divine father

who art in Philadelphia

not been written by young,

hale and hearty guys, children, almost

in their thirties and forties...

and that when such a person

in his seventieth year exercises

that natural right

it does not mean he is entrapped

in a decadent life of

swilling rot-gut tequila

in a border-town district

where red is the color of most illumination

perhaps even eating the worm

at sunrise

not a

all

though some of us may have some such

decadence

in our personal history,

such is a young man's obsession

having nothing to do with

the elder nap tradition, that would have been

enshrined

etc.

but for the callow youth of our founders

in fact in my most decadent

days I hardly slept at all,

which suggests the anti-decadent nature

of a good afternoon

nap

---

and there's a lot more to be said

for the nurturing nature of an afternoon nap,

and I may get into the further

of it...

but first,

I really need a nap

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