Water Music   Sunday, July 26, 2015





My photos this week all water-themed except for the last which is a sign by the Corpus Christi Art Museum  on the Museum Reach portion of the Riverwalk and therefore water-themed once removed. Still, sticking to "my Texas" orientation of  the past several weeks, all photos, once again, will come from the central and southern part of the  state. The Big Bend got left out this time, not much water to take  pictures of.

I added three new books  to my library last week,  one is an anthology that I'll pull from this week. The  book is Preoccupied Austin, an  Anthology Celebrating the Austin  International Poetry Festival, published in 2012 by Infinity Publishing. The book was published to commemorate the 20th anniversary of the festival.

The other two books are collections by Andres Montoya and Adrienne Rich.


Me
back  on South Alamo

Marc Carver/Dr. Charles A  Stone
Occupy San Antonio

Me
I'm just not going to write a poem today

Adrienne Rich
Implosions

Me
brain fog

Glynn Monroe Irby
Two Stones and a Mystery

Paul Richmond
When the Light Turned Red

Me
flying a kite with Katie

Andres Montoya
contemplations from concrete: nine movements

Me
what we do until we can think about sex again   
          
Bob Mud
Austin IS Weird

Me
having surpassed  my 21st birthday

Catherine MacDonald
This is a Small God Whose Face I Saw

Me
the role of squirrels in heaven  

Philip  Larkin
Dublinesque

Me
an alternate dimension

Adrienne Rich
Two Songs

Me
I  want a donut

Pat Mora
Borders

Me
just being a good  friend

Me
I used to write sexy poems     












The day starts in confusion, relocation.













back on South Alamo

back  on South Alamo
in a dark  corner at Madhatter's Cafe
across the street from my former coffeehouse refuge
for several  years, then Casa Chiapas, now a lawyer's office,
oh my, how good things fall
to a lesser state
in this world of unwelcome consequences...

evicted from my current coffeehouse home base
by water leaks and plumbers,  butt-crackers anonymous
regulars, just as I am not a regular here...

change...

but a return as much as possible to familiar
territories, disappointment, of course, and the new
and unwelcomed unfamiliarity of changing circumstance
like seeing a current picture of a girlfriend from 50 years before
and memories crash to the ground like pelicans
with anvils in their pouched beak - those nights
in the back of her dad's Studebaker Golden Eagle never to be remembered
the same again, the soft and pliant flesh  of memory replaced, only
the sharp,cramped corners of the small backseat remaining...

like Casa Chiapas, the later afternoons on the porch writing
while life in this very old neighborhood went its slow, sun-falling
way,the sounds of downtown murmuring, and the smell of the river
as it passed just a block away

lost...

instead, I'm reminded by the lawyer I need to call to write up a will
which, even at my age, we haven't done, reminded
on this misplaced day that as change comes always around me,
it  will come to me as well, as someday
I will change from my current fleshy state to a memory
in the minds of a few until they also depart
their fleshy state, then, the both of us, always incomplete
and at best approximate
until even that too
is gone...

change, I am reminded by this cracked-mirror day,
it will get  us
all








This is the first piece from the Austin anthology. Two names are listed where one expects to see an author credit. I guess the presumption is that the poem is a collaborative work. I like the poem enough to  ignore my disdain for the ridiculous idea of a collaborative poem. The two names listed are Marc Carver and Dr. Charles A.Stone.

It is from a section of the book concerning poetry festival elsewhere in the state. I was previously  familiar with North St Mary's, a small entertainment  district with a  number of clubs, including a punk venue where  a ska band I particularly liked played at least once a month for a couple of years. That was more than 15 years ago, so I'm guessing the place mentioned in  the poem is a new addition to the area.









Occupy San Antonio

The poet clad in plaid kilt
above his velvet ladies'  boots
was lost in a fog  of  protest
as he stumbled with his coterie
into Eduardo's club where
others had  chased the ghosts
of North Saint Mary's Street

The heat of Spanish slang
which burned in the sultry night
was quenched by faggot  verse
dripping  from the fingers
of other poets taking turns
at the open mic early on

Such was the essence of
last Monday night's adventure:
black, brown, white - a potpourri
of poet wannabes scattered
on three worn couches
being cool, sounding cool
smoking Kools, smoking hot

Turn down the music,
Eduard, let the poets  be heard
above the barrio beat
and suburban patois.

Let poetry become jazz!










 This is an old poem, but not so old, just January of this year.










I'm  just not going to write a poem today

it is mid-morning
and I  have not written my poem
and I feel such an outlaw - Jesse James
and Billy the Kid and Rimbaud
all rolled in one rooting, shooting, tooting,
rule-defying, schoolmarm terrifying poet-bandit, rider
of the free verse plain, hiding out in metaphor gulch,
waiting to ride hell-for-leather,  raiding all those little-box poets
in little-box towns and little-box  banks brimming with obsolete literary allusions, not to mention
illusions, fortresses of all the pusillanimously perverse guardians of poetry's  black  soul of
tired
convention...

a rebel, a revolutionary, an avant-garde, radical, get-your-face-out-of-my-face box-buster
is what I want  to be today...

in fact -

to all those critics who proclaim this is poetry and this is not, here is a poem and here not,
to those who
define
here a true ocean of a poet sailing on-the seas of high art
and there just a purveyor of pernicious prose
to those who make all those rules that I'm bound to break,
here's what I have to say....

plllbbbbitt

instead,
I'm going  to give them  a day off and not write a poem
today at all

```

and I don't care comb your hair









The second book I added to  my library last week is The Fact of a Doorframe - Poems Selected and New 1950-1984, by Adrienne Rich. The book was published in 1984 by W. W. Norton.

Rich was a poet, essayist and feminist. She was born in 1929 and died in 2012. Considered by many to be the most widely read and influential poet of the last half of the twentieth century, she is credited with bringing the oppression of women and lesbians to popular  discussion. I have a couple of  her books in my library but this was a new addition.









Implosions

The world's
not wanton
only wild and wavering

I  wanted to chose words that even you
wold have to be changed  by

Take the word
of my pulse,loving and ordinary
Send out your signals, hoist
your dark scribbled flags
but take
my hand

All wars are useless to the dead

My hands are knotted in the rope
and I cannot  sound the bell

My hands are frozen to  the switch
and I cannot throw it

The foot is in the  wheel

When it's finished and we're lying
in a stubble of blistered flowers
eyes gaping, mouths staring
dusted with crushed arterial blues

I'll have done nothing
even for you?

1968












The weather's been great, sunny, not too hot, with a very nice cool breeze, a very nice cool breeze that picks up all the little allergy bugs and shoved them up  my nose.












brain fog

brain fog
from allergy pills

the day,
rain
running
on dark glass

life
outside
a Dali painting
floating in streaks
on the window
top  to
bottom

water
colors
in
impressionistic waves;
reality
warped by
dirty looks and
summer
sun

beautiful...








Next I have short poems by two  poets from the Austin anthology.






The first of the two is Glynn Monroe Irby, a native of  Brazoria County a bit west of Galveston. He has a BA degree in history from the University of Texas - Austin with subsequent graduate studies in architecture  at the University of Houston.












Two Stones and a Mystery

When our two stones were struck
along their natural fracture lines,
their chalky outer crust suddenly gave way,
revealing a pair of polished ruby hearts.

Like  that night when the polish
of our relationship was  redeemed
on an isolated road when an angel  lifted you
from the fire just before the car exploded.








The second poet is Paul Richmond, a resident of Massachusetts, he writes poetry and scripts for performance pieces.











When the Light Turned Red

He talked about the revolution
In Brazil
How the rich watched if from their penthouses
From up on the hill
With cameras that zoomed down into the action
The rich were upset
For the sound was not working
All they could do was watch silent screams
He watched the tanks roar through the streets
He laughed
As he watched the tanks
Approach intersections
Where they stopped
When the light turned red









This poem is from  2003 or 2004. I  included it in my first book, Seven Beats a Second, published in  2005. It is my only print book, with art on every page by Vincent Martinez, and new and used copies were still available at Amazon the last time I looked.








flying a kite with Katie

swirls
and dives
and swoops
and loops the loop,
a blue and white kite
against a blue and white sky

Katie
beside me,
brown on brown,
with white teeth
flashing with laughter
at the glory of the day

she holds the string
pulls as the kite begins to stall,
lets loose when a gust of summer wind
lifts the kite and  takes it toward the clouds

and I hold her,
not so tight, she says,
this is hard to do,  she says,
back off so I can concentrate, she says

and I back away
as a great flurry of wind comes,
billows her  dress against  her back and legs
and she seems to fly like the kite away from me








The last book I added to my library last week is The Iceworker Sings and other poems by Andres Montoya. The book was published in 1999 by Bilingual Press/Editorial Bilingue of Tempe Arizona, publishers of a number of books in my library by Hispanic poets.

Montoya graduated from California State University and  from the University of Oregon with an MFA degree. Born in 1968, he succumbed to leukemia in 1999 before production of this book was complete.

The biennial Andres Montoya Poetry Prize is awarded by the Institute for Latino Studies at the University of Notre Dame.








contemplations from concrete: nine movements 

#1 scar

 I was born from from concrete
and sea salt. my hands
are tree  bark and my mouth
spews the stench of the sewer.
you are so beautiful
i am afraid to speak about it.  
how will you love asphalt
                 cracks and dust
smiling up at you?

 #2 fear

i don't know anything of love.
i know about the bus schedule,
how poems are written on the backs
of seats like a law accusing me
of my own pathetic  limp.

i know how to stare a man in the eyes
just to say, "i'm ready for you, punk!"

or how death looks
lying on the street
under a white white sheet

i tried to love once
but ended up  punching
everybody.

what can you
do for me? see?
even my questions come out wrong.

your breath is too sweet;
             go away.

#3 voice

"come
lie with me

the gunshots
will still be there
after you have learned
the lesson of my kiss

rest with me
here on the floor

i am singing to you

isn't it more beautiful
tan the thrown rod
of a chevy
stumbling lost
through the neighborhood

come
let me
pronounce
your name"

#4 tell me

you know me
too well.
the map
of my scars
you have already
charted.

tell me your name

so i can
whisper it,

weeping,

with my eyes
closed.

#5 voice II

"come 
be born
from my heart 
exploding
from the split
skin of my side 

my forehead
is a garden
calling 
your lips

my hands want
to  weep on you

can you hear
the whisper
through my feet
over the whelping
of your neighbor's 
dog    the whisper
through my feet
as i walk the cracked
cement path
to your door

can you 
hear 
the whisper
through 
my 
feet
calling, 
'lover! lover!'

            between us
these are the only wounds"

#6 education

i am learning
           the braille

                     of your breath
           your word

your voice
                    leaping
            up from the page
                    into my mouth

#7 rest

i sit in my room
the light is blind
and the shades
asleep. i am quiet.
this is hard for me.
i always want to talk.

you are across the room
whispering. your breath
is wet and warm against
            my face

#8 revelation

the patient ocean
of your eyes
pounds open
my heart's
cold door

bringing
fire.

#9 prayer

you are hot.
i can barely
breathe.
you smell
good.













It really was a very, very nice morning.













I love college radio

"Eleanor Rigby"
symphonic version,
preceded by Aaron  Copland's
"Appalachian Spring"
and followed by Chopin's "Nocturnes"
and Debussy's  "La Mer" and "Clair de Lune"

that's the way I started my day
here on the corner of  Broadway and Pearl...

I  love college radio and I expect I'm going
to love this day,
another
in a long line of an old man's midweek
capriccio











Next from the Austin anthology, this is a poem by  Robert Wynne of Burleson, Texas, a poet and former co-editor of the  poetry journal Cider Press Review.

I have a picture of the costume store he refers to in the poem. You have to see it's facade to appreciate its quirky, crowded artistry.











Convergence on South Congress
                after Robert Arroyo, Jr.

In one window is a white Elvis jumpsuit
and in another, a 1920's flapper outfit
beaded, bedazzled and accessorized

with a blue and silver boa.  I've never
wanted to wear a 2-foot wide hat
but I find myself gazing at it now

as if it were the one thing I need
to complement my ironic Sesame Street t-shirt.
Lucy in Disguise with Diamonds offers

"Vintage & Outrageous Clothing & Accessories"
and the mural spanning the width of the store
provides some sense of he variety within:

Jason Voohees, hockey mask and all,
Johnny Depp in full pirate regalia, the white rabbit
from Alice in Wonderland. Not to mention

Betty Boop, Willie Nelson, Frieda Kahlo,
Frank Zappa,Jim Hendrix, and the Virgin Mary.
Far on the left, Tim Curry's made up as Frank

from Rocky Horror, and I think back
to high school weekends with my fellow outcasts,
doing chorus line work in 3-inch pumps

and learning how to use a garter belt
before ever  kissing a girl. Oh, how my mother
must have wondered what would become of me

as she sewed gold lame shorts and constructed
a black lace corset with wire hangers as stays.
The world is much simpler

when you don't have to worry what others will think.
Even now, I'm strangely drawn
to the huge, bright zebra on the roof,

done-up  in full fruit-Carmen Miranda glory.
the sleeves of the striped mammal's dress
remind me of plastic Fisher Price rings

I used to stack  color on color
like teaching a rainbow to climb.
How  else could it get tot the sky?











 This is from  2009.












what we do until we can think about sex again

I was working
away
on my poem
of the day
when
she walked
in about five-
four, long, dark
hair, long, long
hair hanging
almost to the
beginning  curve
of her butt -
and a very nice
butt it is i notice
as she passes -
tight white dress,
short,about mid-
thigh, and did  I
mention
tight
so tight
i can see
indentations
of the freckles
on her rear,
yes, the very same
rear end, the
very same
slightly above
which
hangs her dark
straight hair

I know
it is a moment
in her life
when every man
she passes
has to stop
and breath
deep, lost
temporarily in the
momentary
fantasies that
male nature
produces
at even the
slightest
provocation,
the natural
horniness
of the human
male firing
on all eight
cylinders, the
secret of our
rise from the
brutishness
from which
we came, the
lingering imp
of that brute
that hides behind
all our best
intentions
and will not
leave us
until the day
we die

I don't think
women
get  this about
us, rational
beings that
they are, they
view life
as an entirety,
sex a part
of  that whole
thing called
life  and living -
while
men see life
as what
you do to
kill time
until you can
think about sex
again...

like me
this morning -
I could have
written a poem
deep in meaning
and purpose,
in fact I really
meant to do
just that
but
one young woman
in a tight dress
with a well-shaped
rear twitching
when she walked
and long hair
and legs
up to, well
you know where
walks past me
and I end up with
this







I lived in Austin in the mid-sixties and early seventies, back in the days of the redneck hippy cowboys when it was just learning to be weird and wasn't yet self-conscious about it. Then, working for the state for 30 years, I visited the city often, usually every couple of months (and more often than that in the latter part of my career), and since then I still visit because it's only 80 miles and my son lives there. The parts of the city I knew in the sixties are still a lot like they were when I lived there, just a lot more crowded, with the city spreading out over  the hills in every direction and its  population growing in the interim from about a quarter million to nearly a million.

My son was in a band that played regular gigs on 6th street and and around town and since they were a good band and I liked them I would go up to hear them often. Living in  the city in the old days when the action was elsewhere and the downtown was dead and shuttered after 9 p.m. and 6th street  was mainly a place to get either stabbed  or a venereal disease, it always seems strange to me be in today's Austin on a crowded sidewalk downtown at three a.m. on a weekday morning, lots of people walking, having a good time.

I had the same experience in San Antonio several years back, walking back to my car at 2:30  in the morning after going to a gig in at a bar in the middle of  downtown by that ska band I mentioned earlier and stepping into crowds of people not nearly as  ready for bed as I was. It is another universe from the San Antonio I knew years ago.

This poem from the anthology is by Bob Mud. Although his biography is not included in the book, I was able to find him on the web and discover that he's from Australia and apparently calls himself mud because he does some kind of art with mud. That's all I know - it was an incomplete  cite.






Austin IS Weird

It is weird the way Austin is wired
it has an internet of its own which is wireless.
Synapses are firing all over the place,
thoughts are lit up as if by little fairies
with wands of words sparking consciousness
between uncountable poets at open mics
every night of the week
and homeless appear between cracks in the walls
of civilization as if emerging from Harrypotterville
with magical talents honed from lives shattered
by the determination to be free.
Professional musicians jam with amateurs
and the mix has an effervescence
lacking in carbonated pop culture.
the festival continues after the festivals.
You never need to watch TV for news
because the activated online poets' brains
spell out the missing links that you won't find
in Time magazine, Americas candy wrap
for the pill of conventional news.
Poetry leaks like Wiki Leaks but it's no all
so serious as to bother homeland security.
There's a seat  on the bus
for everyone with nothing to hide,
front, back or side.
It's beyond racial tension,
doesn't matter if you're on a pension,
all you need is comprehension,  compassion,
open mind, open heart, open mic
and to be in Austin
















Another morning, another  hot apple pie pocket.














having surpassed my 21st birthday

having surpassed
my 21st birthday in days of yore
and being an emancipated white adult male
I claim the right to decide for myself such questions as
should I get a hot apple pie pocket from Whataburger or
should I travel yet another block down the street
to the supermarket for a
carrot or possibly
a celery stick
or even a
broccoli
bloom...

it already having  been decided that I will stop at Whataburger
for a Justaburger (small meat, bun, no pickles - she hates pickles) for Bella
and it being a well-known fact, attested to by all reputable
automotive experts including Click and Clack, that every time you start
your car you use a quantity of gas equivalent to five miles highway
driving, it seems fugal and gas-wise not to stop again and start again
at the supermarket for a carrot or a celery stick or a broccoli bloom,
and clearly the lesser part of folly to avoid such wastefulness and get a
hot apple pie pocket at Whataburger instead...

and so, while Bella eats her Justaburger, I similarly enjoy my hot apple
pie pocket secure in the knowledge of my virtue and the part I  played this
bright morning in protecting our great Mother from the evils
of unnecessary gasoline consumption...

it was nothing - just the kind
of nature-protecting tree-hugger that I am...

in fact,
feeling so good about it am I now
I just might do  it again
tomorrow, maybe an  apple pie and a lemon pie
as well, multiplying the value of my stewardship of
our mutual  earthly home,
no  applause necessary, though
a small donation to  my  apple pie pocket stewardship fund
would be recognized and greatly
appreciated...








I  decided to give up on the Preoccupied Austin anthology because I could not  find  enough poems that I liked enough to endure the labor of transcribing them. Probably my fault, impatient, should have looked more diligently. But why such diligence when I have a lot of other very good poetry books in my library, including this one, Rousing  the Machinery,  by Catherine MacDonald. It was published in 2012 by the University of Arkansas Press and was the winner that year of the Miller Williams Arkansas  Poetry Prize.

MacDonald is from Virginia  and holds a BA in history and an MFA in Creative Writing (poetry), both from the Virginia Commonwealth University where she has taught since 2008.








This is a Small God Whose Face I Saw

Handcuffed,  maybe seventeen, she shuffles
into the emergency room's winking fluorescence.
Pregnancy has swelled her,  ankles to cheeks, inflated
her Juvenile Detention Center jumpsuit, gassed-fruit

orange, a shade that flatters no one.She's with a cop,
a loud woman, who leans into the nursing station
and shrugs: This girl don't know which one the daddy.
In the triage line beside me, my husband: Just don't

look. We;re each slotted a spot,  this girl  and me, thin
curtain between us. What a pair. I weep, she bleeds.
I bleed, she weeps. Knock  me out and take it away. Twin
mounds in twin beds, we're tethered to machines

that sound the depths,though I cannot fathom face,
foot, or femur in the dark harbor.  Her baby flexes
inside her, heart strong, with lungs still flat
and most  as laboratory specimens.We labor

while volunteers offer -  Ice chips? Tylenol? -
and then withdraw. I hear the cop: Getting a baby
out is like a scrap with a ghost. Just think of this like
a roller coaster ride,once it starts up,  you can't  get  off.










A celestial question to consider.











the role of squirrels in heaven

wondering
as I often do
about the effects
of squirrels in the after-
life

I  have set myself to think
ing of after-living
and how it must be, attending
to  the chores of celestial chorusing
and how the squirrels
and their bushy-tailed cousins, chipmunks,
might fare if left out in the heavenly choral
with horses and donkeys
and other such critters of the barnyard and verdant forested areas,
intellectually inferior and creatures of large piles
of poop in inconvenient places when compared to
squirrels and their bushy-tailed recording  star
cousins who  have superior survival intellect and instincts
and tiny, discreetly deposited (have you ever seen any) poop
completely unlike horse hockey and cow pie and donkey
dunk and who would never allow themselves to be choralled
with a bunch of horses and donkeys and the like no matter
how warm and cozy it might be to be among such a  congenial, if
somewhat retarded, company, horses after all are possessors
of such infectious laughter and donkeys,will what could one do
at parties if  there were no one around for tail-pinning, it's
not like a squirrel (or its bushy tailed cousin, etc.) can just go  out
on a Saturday night and get some tail,  so even the lower creatures,
as is so often demonstrated, have their uses, which takes me back
to my original question about squirrels in the afterlife
and what effect they would have on the quality of my
after-living and whether heavenly squirrels, etc. would continue
their thieving ways when ti came to birdseed, so diligently
laid our for  the heavenly sparrows and doves and cardinals
and other non-angelic wing-ed creatures every day
by the She-Who-Runs-The-Show who might or might  not
put up with the kind of squirrel nonsense those of us in non-heavenly
environs endure when it comes to trying to keep plump and happy
our non-heavenly birds who inhabit our tree-endowed back yards
and the bigger question which occurs to me
now as I writhe in confusion,
since squirrels by nature are thieving  varmints
how is it  they get to heaven in the first place,  complications
once there,  put aside for the moment, is it by faith
they are saved for the heavenly sing-along or is it by coincidence
of  their familial  relationship to the musically gifted
chipmunks for whom there is always great demand in the heavenly
musicale or is it, just by being true to their thieving nature
they have met the design and original intent of
She-Who-Makes-It-All-Happen
and is therefore guaranteed a place in the silver-leafed halls
of for-ever-after

and what does that mean  to you and me who don't have
and are unlikely to ever find a clue to  our own original intent or purpose
and whose transport to the eternality of forever-and-forever-amen
would seem to be completely unlike that of the true-to-their-nature thieving
squirrel, etc, and much like the weekly lotto, purely a matter  of random
selection








Next from my library, Philip Larkin, with a poem from his chapbook,  High Windows, published by Faber and Faber in 1974. Born in 1922, Larkin grew up in Coventry. He became Librarian of the Brynmor Jones Library at the University of Hull in 1955 and continued in that post until his death in 1985. He was  recipient of many honors, including the Queen's Gold Medal for Poetry.









Dublinesque

Down stucco side streets,
Where light is pewter
And afternoon mist
Brings lights on in shops
Above race-guides and rosaries.
A funeral passes.

The hearse is ahead,
But after there follows
A troop of streetwalkers
In wide flowered hats,
Leg-of-Mutton sleeves,
And ankle-length dresses.

There is an air of great friendliness,
As if they were honoring
One they were fond of;
Some caper a few steps,
Shirts held skillfully
(Someone claps  time).

And of great sadness also.
As they wend away
A voice is heard singing
Of Kitty,  or Katy,
As if the name  meant once
All love, all beauty.












 From last week, about another very nice morning.














an alternate dimension

another poet
writes today of an early morning
so still and quiet it seems more like a snapshot
than real...

and I know that time myself,
this morning, up before six, walking
around my backyard in dim transition light,
not day, not night,
a moment in-between, an alternate dimension of
in-between
where birds in rumpled morning feathers
do not sing, where the creek flows
slow and silent, like silk on a young woman's
bare shoulder, where elephants, had we any in our
neighborhood, would roam the streets on ponderous
tippy toe, where cars do not start, radios do not  blare,
where there is a hole in reality, a pause that wraps us like
the soft  down of a baby
chick fresh from its mother's
shell...

it is  the early morning, tranquil, still,and quiet...

I know that  time and I treasure it...











My book, The Fact of a Doorframe, Poems Selected and New, 1950-1984, by Adrienne Rich, is a huge book, so big that, though I already used one poem from it this week, there are plenty more to enjoy. Here's one of them.











Two Songs

1.

Sex, as they harshly call it,
I fell into this morning
at ten o'clock, a  drizzling hour
of traffic and wet  newspapers.
I thought of him who yesterday
clearly didn't
turn me into a hot field
ready for plowing,
and logging for that young man
pierced me to the roots
bathing every vein,  etc.
All day he appears to me
touchingly desirable,
a prize one could wreck one's peace for.
I'd call it  love if love
didn't  take so many years
but lust too is a jewel
a sweet flower and what
pure happiness to  know
all our high-toned questions
breed in a lively animal.

2.

That "old last act"!
and yet sometimes
all seems  post  coitum triste
and I a mere bystander.
Somebody else is going off,
getting shot to the moon.
Or, a moon-race!
Split seconds after
my opposite number lands
I make it -
we lie fainting  together
at a crater-edge
heavy as mercury in our moon suits
till he speaks -
in a different language
yet one I've picked up
through cultural exchanges...
we murmur the first moon-words:
Spasibo. Thanks. O.K.

1964 








I  wrote this in April or so, 2009. A peculiar thing is there is a Dixie Creme donut shop scheduled to open soon (the sign says) and it is right on the way to my coffeehouse hangout. So every morning on my way to my coffeehouse hangout, I look, hoping it is the morning that the donut shop will finally be open. I'm beginning to think it just be a cruel joke.






I want a donut

I want a donut

I said, I want
a donut,
dammit

not a carrot
stick
or  a celery
stalk

not a bowl of
moose
munch in
re-hydrogenated
goat's milk

no cold little
cauliflower bud

not even a sugar-free
donut

don't want it fat-free
either

I want a gold ol' suicide-
in-the-round
glazed
Dixie Creme capital D
donut
with sprinkles

you gotta fight back
or the older
you get
the less you get in
living

now
get me
my damn
donut








Last from my library this week, I have the title poem from the book Borders by Pat Mora. The book was published in 1986 by Arte Publico Press of the University of Houston.

Mora, born in El Paso, is author of poetry,  non-fiction and children's books. I have used her work frequently here.

She graduated from the University of Texas -  El Paso and has received honorary degrees from North Carolina State University and and SUNY Buffalo.








Borders

             My research suggests that men and
             women may speak different languages
             that they assume are the same.
                                  
                                       Carol Gilligan

If we're so bright
why didn't we notice?

I

The side-by-side translations
were the easy ones.
Our tongues tasted luna
changing, chanting to the words
it touched; our lips circled
moon sighing its longing.
We knew: similar bur different.

II

And we knew or grown-up talk,
how even in our  own home
like became unlike,
how the child's singsong
                                             I want, I  want
burned our mouth
when we whispered in the dark.

III

But us? You and I
who've talked for years
tossing words back and forth
                                             success,  happiness
back and-forth
over coffee, over wine,
at parties,in bed
and I was sure you heard,
            u n d e r s t o o d,
though now I think of it
I can remember screaming
to  be sure.

So who can  hear
the words we speak
you and I, like but unlike,
and translate us to us
side by side?










This is  from last year, a rainy March as  we just had a rainy June.











just being a good friend

not really rain,
just heavy fog and mist
so I can't truthfully claim
to be walking my dog in the rain,
more like just walking in the wet
which would have made a really anticlimactic
song in the movie even though
there are puddles through
which to

s                 p
         l
                        a
             s
h


and

fr
  ol
     ic
        if
          we
              wanted...

but I won't because I have my good
shoes
on
and neither will Bella
because she hates it when water
collects on her snowshoe feet and between
her big  hairy toes
and I can understand that
because
I feel the same about it...

but the  point is
I can't claim dog-lover martyrdom
for walking in the wet with her
so I'll have to
settle
for just being  a good friend to  a
good friend













Here it is, my last for the week, a memory poem.











I used to write sexy poems

I used to write sexy poems
but haven't hardly
in a long time

may
be
I
can
take
a
pill or
some     thing








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)



´╗┐Poetry
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






Fiction


Sonyador - The Dreamer








                                                                       Peace in our Time






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