The Dull Edge of Summer   Wednesday, May 13, 2015

More old  photos, with a Photobucket color edit that, at least to my eyes, gives a greater depth and, in some pictures, almost a 3D effect to the pictures. The photos in the post are from at least three states, Texas, New Mexico and Colorado, with maybe some Arizona and Nevada thrown in that I don't recognize. All told, selected from four or five years of drive-arounds.

My anthology for the week is another huge volume of poems, Language for a New Century, subtitled "Contemporary Poetry From the Middle East,  Asia and Beyond." This is part  of  a series by W. W. Norton. This one in the series published in 2008.

Then there's the regular stuff, me and a couple others from my library.

the balance of nature can be restored

Tenzin Tsundue
Exile House

let's go shoot a big fat capitalist

John Updike
My Mother at Her Desk


Patrick Rosal
About the White Boys Who Drove By a Second Time to Throw  a Bucket of Water on Me

Three lessons

8 seconds

Prageeta Sharma
A Brazen State

red planet rebirth
meanwhile in the Hydra Constellation
brotherhood of the  forever spreading stars

Shang Qin
Flying Garbage

it was a  time

Tanyra Ryuichi
A Thin  Line   

poem on a napkin
the dreams of Mary Quemada
the cruelty of cats at play
warning  label

from Diary of Beirut Under Siege,1982    

such magnificent sunsets

Al-Munsif  Al-Wahaybi 
In the Arab House

what God don't like

Wayne Scheer  
The Other Shoe

a whisper of wind

Viswanatha Satyanarayana  
Song of Krishna (5) 

the rules of silence

Sylva Gaboudikian
What I Notice

as Mother's Day approaches     



It is painful to find a reason to be so deeply disgusted with your own  kind.

the balance of nature can be restored

a  picture on Facebook

a  baby elephant
lying on the body of its mother murdered
for the sport of it...

     there being something 
     in small souls
     that revels in the death
     of the larger
     and better

baby elephant,
mourning the death  of its mother
as I mourn the deadly
arrogance of my

how to write a poem about that
when I have no words
to describe the depth of my sadness...

to describe the sunburst ferocity of my anger...

to describe my disgust, the revulsion,
the twisting  in the pit of my

it is time to declare that one murder
deserves another...

kill the killers, not just the killer
of elephants, so intelligent, deeply emotional
about the fate of their own kind  that they mourn
as we mourn, but as well the killers for sport of all such
magnificent animals,giraffes, rhinoceros, stately lion,the whole continuum
of their moral betters in the wild...

kill the killers, hunt them down and kill them, mount
their heads on walls or hunt clubs, remind
those who also might find fun in murder, that, as they hunt,
so also can they be hunted...

the balance of nature can be restored...


From the section of the anthology titled "In the Grasp of Childhood Fields," this poem is by Tenzin Tsundue, poet, writer and Tibetan activist. Coming from a family of Tibetan exiles living in India, he has published three collections of poetry.

Exile House

Our tiled roof dripped
and the four walls threatened to fall apart
but we were to go home soon,

we grew papayas
in front of the house
chilies in the garden
and changmas for our fences,
then pumpkins rolled down from the cowshed thatch
calves trotted out of the manger,

grass  on the roof,
beans sprouted and
climbed down the vines,
money plants crept in through the windows,
our house seems to have grown roots.

The fences have grown into a jungle
now how can I tell my children
where we came from

The next  poem is on the same subject as the first one, though written ten years or more earlier. A big difference between the two is that this older one, written with ten fewer years of pictures of dead animals and self-satisfied "hunters" with big guns, is much more tongue-in-cheek, an attempt to make the point with a little more humor. Now, these days, I'm beyond any semblance of humor on this subject.

It is included in my first book,  Seven Beats a Second,  still available on Amazon in both new and  used versions. Which reminds me of my mixed feelings when I see a copy of my book in a used book store, pleased that someone bought the book and, presumable, read it; disappointed that after reading it they didn't want to save it in  their attic for their  grandchildren.

let's go  shoot a big fat  capitalist

the flack for the Safari Club
  defends the sporting ways
of his wealthy employers

    look, he begins
with a nod that says
         listen up!!

             you tree

          there are
      and thousands
of elephants in Africa
       shooting a few
is no threat to the species

        in fact, he adds

     shooting elephants
   is good for elephants

thins the herd, you know

     reduces overgrazing

insures sufficient resources
     for those that remain

  we love these elephants
                you see

and only do what  we must
    for the good of the herd

           I  say, of course

all  for the good of the herd

 First from my library this week, this poem is by John Updike, from his book, Endpoint, and Other Poems, published in 2009 by Alfred A. Knopf. This was Updike's final book, written through the last seven years of his life and put together in final form only weeks before he died, done with knowledge that his end was fast approaching.

My Mother at Her Desk

My mother knew non-publication's shame,
obscurity's abyss where blind hands flog
typewriter keys in hopes of raising up
the combination that will sell.
Instead, brow envelopes return, bent double
in letter slots to flop on the foyer floor,
or else abandoned flat within the rim
of the rural mailbox, as insect whirr.

She studied How To, diagrammed Great Plots
some correspondence course assigned, read Mann,
Flaubert, and Faulkner, looking of the clue,
the "open sesame" to fling he cave door back
and flood with the shadows in her heart
to turn them golden, worth their weight in cash.

Mine was to  be the magic gift instead,
propelled  to  confidence by mother-love
and polished for New York markets by
New England's wintry flair for education.
But hers was he purer ambition, hatched
of country childhood in the silences
of crops  accruing, her sole companions birds
whose songs and names she taught herself to know.

Her gray head cocked, she'd say, "The Chickadee
feels lonely!" Bent above a book, she'd lift
her still-young face and say, "Such ugly words!"
as if each stood alone. No, no, I thought,
context is all. But I was male and made
to make a mark, while Mother typed birdsong.


This, a sight it seems I see more and more often on the streets.


standing on a street corner,
pitiful look,
cardboard sign
in hand, and at his side
a  scruffy-looking dog on a frayed
rope lash...

traveling  companions...
friends in the dark and lonely night...



Next, from the section of the anthology titled "Parsed into Colors," this next poem is by Filipino-America poet   Patrick Rosal. Born in 1969, he is the author of four poetry collections. His most  recent collection,  Boneshepherd (2011) was named a small press highlight by the National Book Critics Circle and a notable book by the Academy of American Poets.

About the White Boys Who Drove By a Second Time to  Throw a Bucket of  Water on Me

                           "...there shall never be a rest
                  till the last moon droop and the last tide fail...               
                                               - Arthur Symons

The first time they merely spat on me and drove off
            I stood there awhile staring down the road
after them as if I were looking for myself
                I even shouted my own name
But when they cruised past again
           to toss a full bucket of water
     (and who knows else) on me
                  I charged - sopping wet - after their car

and though they were quickly gone I kept
             running Maybe it was hot that August afternoon
       but I ran the whole length of Main Street pas
                    the five and dime where I stole bubble gum
cards and Spaldeens past the bus depot and
              Bo's Den and the projects where Derek and them
     scared the shit out of that girl I pumped
                  the thin pistons of my legs all the way home

Let's get real: It's been twenty-five years
              and I haven't stopped chasing them
      through each side street in Metuchen
                  each pickup b-ball game every
swanky mid-town bar I looked for them
            in every white voice that slurred and cursed me
     within earshot in every pink and pretty
                     body whose lights I wanted to punch out

- and did - I looked for them - to be honest -
          in every set of thin lips I schemed to kiss
     and this is how my impossible fury
                rose like stone in water I ran
all seven miles home that day and I've been
            running every since arriving finally
       here and goddammit I'm gonna set things straight

The moment they drove by laughing
      at a slant-eyed yellowback gook
                   they must have seen a boy
who would never become a man We could say
             they were dead wrong. But instead let's say
       this: Their fathers gave them rage
                    as my father gave me mine

and from that summer day we managed
            every acrid thing
      that belonged to us It was a meal
                  constantly replenished - a rich
bitterness we've learned to live on for so long
              we forget how - like brothers -
we put the first bite in one another's mouths


This is another old piece that I used in Seven Beats a Second. It was intended to be part of the Corpus Christi series I never  finished. I don't think it was ever published anywhere else.


the bay is flat
        so still
underwater currents
can be seen on the surface
         like smoky streaks
         on an antique mirror,
         so still, like time
and the earth's rotation
have stopped and the sun
has stopped overhead, its
burning light sharp and clear
         while offshore
         a small fish leaps
         and slaps the water
         with a crack
that starts a small wave
pushing out in a circle
from the small jumping fish,
         the only motion
spreading across the bay
         to the gulf
small leaping fish pushing
against the Gulf of Mexico
and the Atlantic beyond,
          small leaping fish
          making ripples
in universal waters
          an anti-tide,
          a nibble-surge
against the moon's orbit
and the rightness of all


Next from my library, from Kabir, Ecstatic Poems, Versions by Robert Bly.

The legacy of Kabir, mystic poet and saint of India, is carried on by Kabir Panth (Path of  Kabir), a religious community of approximately nine and a half million who view him as the founder of their religion.


I laugh when I hear that the fish in the water is

You don't grasp the fact that what is most a life of all
     is inside your own house;
and so you walk from one holy city to the next with a
     confused look~

Kabir will tell you the truth; go wherever you like, to
     Calcutta or Tibet;
if you can't find where your soul is hidden,
for you the world will never be real.


I don't know what sort of God we have been
     talking about.

The caller calls in a loud voice to the Holy One at
Why? Surely the Hold One is not deaf.
He hears the delicate anklets that ring on the feet of
     an insect as it walks.

Go over and over your beads, paint weird designs on
     your forehead,
wear your hair matted, long, and ostentatious,
but when deep inside your there is a loaded gun, how
     can you have God?


I have been thinking of the difference
     between water
and the waves on it. Rising,
water's still water, falling back,
it is water, will you give me a hint
how to tell them apart?

There is a Secret One inside us;
the planets in all the galaxies
pass through his hands like beads.

That is a string of beads one should look at with
     luminous eyes.


I ended last week's post with a poem about how the city held it's breath as it's basketball heroes, the Spurs, faced another high-stakes game in their quest for their sixth NBA championship (and second in a row). They did not make it, losing to the Los Angeles Clippers in the seventh game of a seven game series, another magnificent game as usually happens when two great teams meet in any sport. It was a sad ending, but, the consolation, there's always next year.

8 seconds

it is a sad and gloomy day
but there,
across the high peaks of the
continental divide,
for those who live on the edge
of the great  ocean,
it is a day bright, flush with
deserved victory...

here of there,
win or lose, among those who mourn a season-ending
loss, or  those
who dance in the bright morning of a hard fought
who cannot but love a game
where victory or crushing  defeat
in a seven-game  series
is decided in the last 8 seconds
of the seventh and last

it is basketball,
any other game that grown men

a game where 8 seconds
determines the outcome of an 82-game season

From the next section of the anthology, "Slips and Atmospherics," this poem is by Indian-American poet, Prageeta Sharma. Born in Massachusetts in 1969 shortly after her parents emigrated from India, Sharma earned her MFA in Poetry at Brown University in 1995 and an MA in media studies from The New School in 2002.

She is the author of three collections of poetry and is currently Assistant Professor and Director of the Creative Writing program at the University of Montana.

A Brazen State

If I remember that there was a course of action
like a town with blueprints for the carnival,
then I can bludgeon the dream with an autocrat's
swiftness and catalog all the experiences like sentences.
There was the one with a bald spot and the one getting one.
There was one with only a fawn for a friend and one
with a rifle. There was one with just a penny and twelve
zeros with fanaticism for nothing special.
Which was edited came true, what was omitted was
lucky to  be erased. There lay the town; the state's little anarchy
in trouble with a hazy aqua for a light - a duress unbound in the
    children's play.
I forgot that it meant we were all brazen and strong willed and hearty
and did not fight indiscriminately for terror or the experts.

Next from Seven Beats a Second, poems from my science/science fiction period. I think they both were published in very small local eZine which name, I cannot remember.

The first poem are my thoughts upon landing of the first  Mars lander. The second from a piece in the Times about the collapse of galaxies spotted by one of the large telescopes, and the third a reflection on that moment when, from the high Chisos Basin, I look up at all the stars in the bright and open West Texas sky and realize that all of that all that I can see is only a tiny, tiny part of the all that is and for a moment I begin to get a feel for the possibilities of what all that could be in that all that is.

red planet rebirth

oxidized remains of cathedrals  and commerce
brought to dust by the savage rub of time

red dust so fine it spreads like a cloud
across the plains and hills all around

virgin bride again

ready for life again after millennia
alone in the cold, black crypt of space

meanwhile, in the Hydra Constellation

a storm of stars
passes soundless through the void,
crossing unimaginable distances
to meet, to crash in a flash
of exploding suns and primordial fire
stretching across  a billion years,
a furnace unlike any
since the first great eruption
that came from less than nothing
to blast a cosmos into being

and around these speeding suns,
orbiters like our own earth home,
and on some of them, creatures
like ourselves, products of an evolutionary
trail from muck to self-discovered glory,
inventions of their own histories, periods dark
and light, times of cruelty,death  and genius flowering
people like we are people, struggling  through life
seeking grace, forgiveness, the salvation of love,
seeking honorable life and honorable end...

that end comes for them now, across the void
in a storm of stars colliding, an end ablaze
with the light of creation deconstructing

brotherhood of the forever spreading stars

a million billion
You's and Me's
in never ending 
varieties of
size and shape
and unimagined
scattered in places
we can never be,
places so far,
so strange,
so contrary
to all we know
that only minds
vanity free
and welcoming
impenetrable mysteries
can ever chance
to see the possibilities
of all our fellow
You's and Me's


The next poem is from the "Earth of Drowned Gods" section of the anthology. The poet,   Shang Qin was born in 1930 in southern China and has lived in Taiwan since  1948. At  the age of 15 he was press-ganged by local troops and locked in a barn where he found a trove of books, his first exposure to the "new  literature."

Flying Garbage

                            Written on Earth Day, 1998

A gust rises.

First, a piece of  old newspaper overturned, yesterday's news, today's
history,  sent to the other side of the street to be trampled on once again,
then a  plastic bag with pink stripes, almost transparent, floating up to
the sky, brushing the high-rise of Taiwan Electricity Company along the
way, people following its stumble  with their eyes; now it heads south
along Xindian Spring, breaking up a flock of pigeons before it enters the
mountainous region of Five Streams,,  causing a falcon to take flight and
survey in alert while avoiding in haste the clamors and sights of humans,
animals, cockroaches in the bag.
The garbage bag continues its journey toward White Cock Hill,
vermilion  clouds write giant  characters in the western sky.

Translated from Chinese by Michelle Yeh


Another  poem-a-day morning with the well of of poetic inspiration shallow, a memory poem, suitably embellished, of course, is always a workable option.

it was a time

a stone-cutter bar
on the hard-edged side of  town
where the quarry workers
drank their  Saturday nights
into Sunday morning...

the crowd was loud and raucous
and the bands, electric hillbilly, pushed
back, loud and rough and often obscene
their signature

we  were a couple of guys
in our twenties, studying Russian
at the university during the day,
drinking like Russians
at night, a poor fit for this  crowd where fights
marked the passage of each hour
like the old grandfather clock at the end
of  the hall,exploding  curses, flying beer bottles,
blood on the floor, but we came for the music
and the beer and minded our own business
and were for the most  part agreeable
with everyone wherever we went
and the more rough and ready recognized 
us as non-threatening and not worth the trouble
of  random aggression, leaving us alone to
drink through the punches thrown around us
as we stomped our feet to the beet
of the musical melee flooding from the stage
like a high tide rising from rough seas...

until 2 a.m. and the place closed
and we, insufficiently drunken  to call  it  a night,
moved on to an  after-hours place
in the black part of town where we,
white clouds against an all-black sky,
could  finish the night with the best soul-man
in all of  West Texas and Falstaff was
the only beer sold there for reasons
we never questioned...

 finally, as the sun broke  through
the night's dark cover, the night ended
with a sobering bowl of hangover preventative,
three alarm firehouse-chili
and an hour  or two with the Sunday

it was a  time, for sure, not  just Saturday  night,
but every night until our Airman Second Class paycheck
ran out and we had to settle for cafeteria food and an
early evening at the university library
before settling in for the restless sleep of a dormitory

it was a time,
for sure... 

Now, back to the anthology from the section titled "Buffaloes Under Dark Water."

The poet is Tanyra Ryuichi. He was born in Tokyo in 1923 and died in 1998. In addition to his poetry, he was an essayist and translator of English novels and poetry. Early in his life, he worked for Tokyo Gas for one  day before quitting to continue his studies and follow his interest in literature. He was drafted into the Imperial Japanese  Navy and, though many of his friends died in the war, he never himself saw combat, suffering, instead, what we might call today "survivor's guilt" for the rest of his life.

A Thin Line

You are always alone
There is something like a bitter light
in the pupils of your eyes that  have never shown tears
I  like it

             To your blind image
             this world is a desolate hunting place
             You are the winter hunter
              who constantly chases down one heart

You do not believe in words
There is  a deep longing for fear
in your footsteps that have murdered all the hearts

             On the thin line tat you walk
             the smell of blood is even on the top of the snow
             No matter how far we  separate
             I can tell

You pull  the trigger
I die  inside a word

Translated from Japanese by Samuel Grolmes and Yumiko  Tsumura


Here are several short pieces, again from Seven  Beats a Second.

poem on a napkin

Starbucks brown
and flimsy
with little space
for things profound,
a small memorial
to  the moment
our eyes met
and the future
was foretold

the dreams of Mary Quemada

her  long hair blowing
like a dark tide  gathering
across her satin pillow,
she dreams of times  past
and places she loved
long gone

while I,
yearn to dream with her

the cruelty of cats at play

her black smile
cut like a dagger through the dark
           slicing cleanly to the heart

"I have something to tell you,"
           she whispers

An ex-smoker for nearly 20 years now, my public service poem.

warning label

cigarette  smoke
makes you smell like a bar in the morning

the stale stink of a butt-littered floor
         and spilled beer
and piss from the overflowed  urinal in the john

all overlaid by a reek of desperation

the desperation of a limp cocks lost in lust-dreaming
            losers lost in their own lies
redemption-dreams  fading as the sun rises

to the squalor of crud-crusted eyes
and a lingering vomit-bile breath


Next from the "Apostrophe in the Scripture" section of  this week's anthology, a poem by Syrian poet and Nobel favorite  Adonis (Ali Ahmed Said Esber). Born in 1930, Adonis is an essayist and translator as well as poet with more than twenty volumes of poetry in Arabic as well as several books translated from  French.

Imprisoned in  Syria in 1950 for his beliefs, he resettled in Lebanon and France from where he has been nominated for the Nobel Prize every year since 1988. He is considered by many to be the greatest living poet of the Arab world.

from Diary of Beirut Under Siege, 1982

the time of my life tells me:
"You do not belong here."
I answer frankly.
Granted. I don't belong.
I try my best to  understand you,
but I am lost
like a shadow in a forest
of  skulls.

I'm standing now .
This wall is notching but a fence.
Distance  shrivels; a window fades
Daylight is but a thread
I snip to stitch my way to darkness,
breath by breath.

Everything I ever said  of life and death
repeats itself in the silence
of the stone that pillows my head.

the door of my house  is sealed.
Darkness blankets me.
the moon offers me
its paltry alms of light.
I choke with gratitude,
but I cannot speak.

Murder has transformed Beirut.
Rock is really bone.
Smoke is but the breath of human beings.


a woman in love's been killed,
a boy kidnapped,
a policeman crushed against a wall.

People were found in sacks:
a head only in one sack,
a tongueless and headless corpse
in another,
in a third what once was a body,
the rest, nameless.

When trees bend they say good-bye.
When flowers bloom, blaze and close,
           they say good-bye.
Young bodies that vanish in chaos say good-bye.
Papers that thirst for ink say good-bye.
the alphabets and poets say good-bye.
Finally the poem says good-bye.

Translated from Arabic by Samuel Hazo


Beautiful sunsets, so why do I concentrate on the less exciting sunrise.

In the world of poetry, there are poems and there are word-piles. This is more word-pile than  poetry, but, as a poem-a-day poet, word- piles sometime save the day. 

such magnificent sunsets

such magnificent sunsets
here, I wonder
why it is I write so often
of the start of the day
and not its fiery close...

it is about my preference more for beginnings
than  for ends...

in the morning
as the sun rises over the city,
casting the towers downtown in the light
of  a rebirth of  hope and purpose, turning the brightest green
all the tree-filled neighborhoods between there
and my  perch high in Inspiration Hills, especially on mornings when clouds
cover the high land and an unclouded downtown
shines as if under a spotlight, all rising straight below me
as I drive from home to the corner near downtown
where I will spend  most of  the day, to my table on the corner
of Broadway and Pearl...

by comparison
are about the end of the day, a warning of the end
of all things, a foreshadowing of the end of me,
red and orange hellfire blazing on the horizon, the beauty
of darkness  calling, fireworks before the dreadful black,  the heritage
of us all...

all of our life encompassed in the fires of beginning
and endings,  the birth and death  parameters of our lives
live through every day as we rise and fall
with the sun...

I prefer the morning promise of re-birth,  short
as are the times of its reign...


Now, from the "This House, My Bones" section of the  anthology, a poem by Tunisian poet Al-Munsif Al-Wahaybi. Born in 1920, the poet studied Islamic philosophy and literature at the University of Tunis and has taught in both Tunis and Libya.

Can't find a photo of the poet so here's a photo of the anthology in case you're browsing in a used book store and run across it.

 In the Arab House

The deep blue of the earth
tempted me,  and I came.
It was an Arab house
dedicated by wind to eloquent silence.
I wished good night to the grasses of the garden,
then went away.

A woman awaits me
She has fixed a spear at the threshold of the tent,
completed her beauty rituals,lain down
on the sands and slept.
As I move toward in the dream,
the star of the guest will see me
and follow my steps

"Sir, oh Sir,
you who stealthily came to me in the dream,
spread out in my body -
the morning star has entered our tent
and alighted in the mirror of frothing days."

Translated from Arabic by Selma Khadra Jayyusi and Naomi Shihab Nye


A world of change since I included this in Seven Beats a Second in 2005. But the "preacher fella" - he ain't changed at all, except he's probably  thinking  of running for president as a Republican. Oh, wait, he is running for president as a Republican

what God don't like

I was  seeing this preacher fella on TV the other day
and he was saying that God don't  like men fucking men...

I don't know how in the world he would know that,
except maybe he was talking to God
and just straight out asked him, like, hey, God,
what do you think about this men fucking men thing

I'd be afraid to do that, but maybe it's OK for preachers,
especially this particular preacher fella
since it seems like he's  pretty close to God and
like he must talk to him about all sorts of things
because he's all the time on TV
talking about what God likes and don't like
(mostly about what he don't like, from what I've seen),
not just about fucking, but about all sorts of things
God don't like, you know, treehuggers  and feminazies
and Democrats and evolutionists and poor people
and those wussy-pussy perverts who think
we ought not be killing raghead foreigners
without some kind of pretty good reason...

but mostly what I get from listening to the TV fella
is that mainly what God most often don't like
are people who aren't exactly like  that same TV fella...

so I'm thinking maybe I ought to study that fella real good
and try real hard to be as much like he is as I can

then maybe God won't don't like me too


Time for a break from this week's anthology with this short two-part piece by my House of 30 housemate, Wayne Sheer. The two  parts were written on consecutive days for the House.

The Other Shoe


Elderly couple holding hands
in cardiac imaging waiting room.

They look healthy enough
considering their age.

But they wait
for the other shoe  to drop.

Others waiting, oxygen tube
firmly in nose,

Only slightly older
than the hand holders.

I squeeze her hand a little tighter
as we wait. 


The elderly couple,
still holding hands,

walk out of the doctor's office,
a bounce to their step.

She looks like
she's about to dance,

maybe break into song;
he's trying,

probably too hard,
to remain calm.

Although the signs  reads:
"No cellphones beyond this point,"

she taps a text
to their son.

"The other shoe
hasn't fallen."

They laugh,
still holding hands.


From the reaction of  some early readers, I  offer the caution that sometimes a cigar is  just a cigar. That applies to  rose bushes as  well.

a whisper of wind

a whisper of wind...

red  roses  beneath
a twin-trunked oak,
stirring slightly...

in an otherwise
dead morning,storms
they say, but nothing moves now
but red roses amid a frozen-still riot
of green...

and traffic
on the interstate,pushing
against the stasis of a
heavy hanging day...

a dead-quiet morning
awaiting stormy

red roses
stirring amid  the green


Back to the anthology with a poem from the section, "Bowl of Air and Shivers." The poet is Viswanatha Satyanarayana, a Telugu writer, he was born in 1895 and died in 1976. His works  include poetry, novels, dramas, short stories and speeches covering a huge range of subjects from analysis of history, philosophy, religion, sociology, psychology, linguistics, political science and  beyond to aesthetics and spiritualism.

Song of Krishna (5)

You come while I'm taking my bath.
You come when my sari  gets  wet, and I change into a dry one.
When, unnoticed, my sari falls from my shoulder - you are there.
Almost as if you  had planned it.
As if you  knew all such slippery moments.
You sit right in front of me.

Some kids are like this from the start, in the womb.
You're a true jewel among them, the eye of the peacock's feather.
Really, you're spoiled. No one disciplines you.
Everyone loves you and no one speaks to you harshly.
Any time they begin to get mad,
you do something or other and they laugh,
and everything is lost in that laughter.
For years and years, your mother longed to have
a tiny boy in her womb, and you came, so now
she  lets you do just  as you please.

What's a game for the cat is death for the mouse.
We can't even talk about these things.
We can't face them unless we give up all shame.
Sometimes I tell myself firmly,: he's only a child,
why get so stirred up? But that's how women are made.
I can't help myself. If you, young man
are the one to take away my shame,
I will take you for my  God.

When a woman is getting dressed, you should leave.
If  you happen to catch a glimpse, you  should
bite your tongue,  go away, and come back after a while.
You should ask if you can come in.
That's the proper way. It's not as if
this is your own house and I'm your wife.
Even my husband doesn't come in when I'm dressing.

Along with being so brash, you're also angry.
Don't be.
Never mind what  I said.
Come, Krishna,  eyes dark
as the lotus

Translated from Telugu by Velcheru Narayana Rao.

Here's a last  poem  from Seven Beats a Second. It occurs to  me  as I look through the book that a lot of the poems are not  poems I would write today. In a few instances its because I'm a better writer now than I was then, but,  in too many cases, it's because I've lost the freshness  and openness of those  days. It's something I think about as I find myself so often dissatisfied with what I'm doing now.

Perhaps I've put myself in a box. Like this poem. I  wish I could figure out where it came from so I could go there  again.

the rules of silence

cold and silent as a winter  night,
a glance, sharp
like the crack of breaking ice

           sorry I'm late, I say

           shh, she says,
           I'm listening

           to  what? I ask
           I don't hear anything

           I wouldn't think you would
           she says, I  wouldn't think so

and she turns her face
to the table, to the cold perfection
of the little squares she draws,
little squares, stacked atop
little squares, pages and pages
of little squares on little squares

I think of the warm summer night,
the summer sounds of children,
laughing, plaing in the deepening dark,
laughing, playing in the summer night

             shhh, she says, I'm listening

and I listen with her


Last from the anthology and its last section, "The Quivering World," this poem by Sylva Gaboudikian, an Armenian poet and political activist. Born in 1919, she died  in 2006. Though  a member of the Communist Party, she was a strong advocate of Armenian nationalism. Her first  collection of poetry was published in mid-1940s. By the 1950s she had established herself as a significant literary figure in Soviet Armenia. Writing in both Armenia and Russian, she frequently addressed political and other sensitive issues during the late Soviet-era.

What  I Notice

You ignite
it, hold it
as if to
about us
you want
me to know.
You exhale
that would
burn me,
out of
just to
You don't
but put it
to forget
and fail
to finish.

only part
of each

Translated from Armenian by Diana Der-Hovanessian.


This poem written last Saturday, the day before Mother's Day, a fitting close to this week's post, I think.

as Mother's Day Approaches

as Mother's Day approaches
I think about a poem for my mother,
passed on now for fifteen

and it's always hard, so much easier
writing  about my father, so large and dominant,
he, the sun, she the moon
and thus it might seem
a lesser light...

but consider the moon
always circling, always there
but sometimes seen and sometimes not,
shifting phases and faces
through the course of a month
but never changing...

a constant
sometimes invisible in its constancy,
a reflector,
not a creator of light, easy sometimes
to misjudge its place and its

consider the tides...

As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and to me.

As always, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad)

New Days & New Ways

Places and Spaces

Always to the Light

Goes Around Comes Around

Pushing Clouds Against the Wind

And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio

Seven Beats a Second

Short Stories

Sonyador - The Dreamer

at 10:42 AM Blogger judysnwnotes said...

Allen -- another fine set, and each in its own way, spoke about life, about locating meaning.

Nice to see Wayne's "Other Shoe" poems, and really, all of yours a treasure to read again here.
- judy

at 11:56 AM Anonymous Anonymous said...

liked yr poems on capitalism but thot they lacked the needed focus my group has- besides i know know you are merely an existentialist libertaian (i think)

following unlikely to b published in that john ashbery is the penultimoate ny poet- it's a rigged game

recent letter to ny sent to NY Times sunday book review:
Your 5/10 interview with the poet, John Ashbery makes me wish for a researched piece on who reads his arcane, incomprehensible poetry and who buys it (besides libraries). Maybe a Clive James or William Logan could give us an enlightened review, but I have always found Ashbery’s work to be a bit of the “emperor has no clothes”. He is definitely a critic’s poet. Or for post graduates or writing seminars?
I believe I know that he is trying to “make it new”, poet Ezra Pound’s famous advice-and we can appreciate the novelty of strange juxtapositions , but after a while, I pine for meaning, in a meaningful sense.

at 11:59 AM Anonymous Anonymous said...

allen's book
that i found at
the thrift store
along w
Belva Plain?

all books $2.99

Once I found a
1st edition
Charles Simic
at the assisted
Living place

and i don't even like him;
but it seemed somewhat nice.
i bot the itz cuz
i like him,
ornery as he is

at 12:39 PM Blogger Here and Now said...

I buy all my poetry books (about 300 or so now) at used or half-priced book stores. they are too expensive new. they are the only print books I buy - everything else is ebooks for my kindle


at 12:47 PM Anonymous Anonymous said...

what is name of dammed up creek- water looks SO inviting

liked the rock like a bear in the water- where? what name?

title shld b at beginning- i e 2.99

opening photo- such dryness- where? dryness of mars?

at 12:52 PM Anonymous Anonymous said...

i collect: poetry signed specific to me- have very complete Jack Gilbert collection (2 letters to me)- Rachmaninoff 1st edition scores- Eliot Porter photos (i have all his books)- 60's radical stuff- especially connected to our actions- books related to my favorite painter Wifredo Lam (many catalogues)- one painting by him- autographs fr c;assical pianists

also clooct the Itz guy's books i find at thrift stores and yard sales

at 1:27 PM Blogger Here and Now said...

photos in this post are from drive-arounds in Texas, New Mexico, Colorado and possibly Arizona and Nevada.

the dammed up creek is in the hills above San Antonio. although we are in a usually dry area, there are many creeks in the hills that run full of water during wetter times of the year. some, like the one behind my house, are spring fed and have water all the time. some are named, some are not. my favorite a little northwest of san antonio is named "woman hollaring creek"

the rock in the little stream is in Colorado

Post a Comment

May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
May 2009
June 2009
July 2009
August 2009
September 2009
October 2009
November 2009
December 2009
January 2010
February 2010
March 2010
April 2010
May 2010
June 2010
July 2010
August 2010
September 2010
October 2010
November 2010
December 2010
January 2011
February 2011
March 2011
April 2011
May 2011
June 2011
July 2011
August 2011
September 2011
October 2011
November 2011
December 2011
January 2012
February 2012
March 2012
April 2012
May 2012
June 2012
July 2012
August 2012
September 2012
October 2012
November 2012
December 2012
January 2013
February 2013
March 2013
April 2013
May 2013
June 2013
July 2013
August 2013
September 2013
October 2013
November 2013
December 2013
January 2014
February 2014
March 2014
April 2014
May 2014
June 2014
July 2014
August 2014
September 2014
October 2014
November 2014
December 2014
January 2015
February 2015
March 2015
April 2015
May 2015
June 2015
July 2015
August 2015
September 2015
October 2015
November 2015
December 2015
January 2016
February 2016
March 2016
April 2016
May 2016
June 2016
July 2016
August 2016
September 2016
October 2016
November 2016
December 2016
January 2017
February 2017
March 2017
April 2017
May 2017
June 2017
July 2017
August 2017
September 2017
October 2017
November 2017
December 2017
January 2018
February 2018
March 2018
April 2018
May 2018
June 2018
July 2018
August 2018
September 2018
October 2018
November 2018
December 2018
January 2019
February 2019
March 2019
April 2019
May 2019
June 2019
July 2019
August 2019
September 2019
October 2019
November 2019
December 2019
January 2020
February 2020
March 2020
April 2020
May 2020
June 2020
July 2020
August 2020
September 2020
Loch Raven Review
Mindfire Renewed
Holy Groove Records
Poems Niederngasse
Michaela Gabriel's In.Visible.Ink
The Blogging Poet
Wild Poetry Forum
Blueline Poetry Forum
The Writer's Block Poetry Forum
The Word Distillery Poetry Forum
Gary Blankenship
The Hiss Quarterly
Thunder In Winter, Snow In Summer
Lawrence Trujillo Artsite
Arlene Ang
The Comstock Review
Thane Zander
Pitching Pennies
The Rain In My Purse
Dave Ruslander
S. Thomas Summers
Clif Keller's Music
Vienna's Gallery
Shawn Nacona Stroud
Beau Blue
Downside up
Dan Cuddy
Christine Kiefer
David Anthony
Layman Lyric
Scott Acheson
Christopher George
James Lineberger
Joanna M. Weston
Desert Moon Review
Octopus Beak Inc.
Wrong Planet...Right Universe
Poetry and Poets in Rags
Teresa White
Camroc Press Review
The Angry Poet