Random pics, me, others.



   









Started the week feeling crappy and ready to tell the world about it.

















I start the week from my library with short poems by Jill Wiggins from the anthology Feeding the Crow, published by Plain View  Press in 199.

Wiggins has  a degree in  art from St. Edward's University and works as a writer and graphic designer.











Lacrymosa

Leaving work sick of someone else's priorities,
I go home in the rain
play Mozart's "Requiem"
on the upstairs porch
see only wide-screen tree,
bursting April green,
and wet silver-beaded curtain.

The birds:
cardinal, jay, woodpecker, mockingbird, sparrow
harmonizing with the "Lachrymosa,"
filling Mozart's poignant pauses.

My priorities become tree, rain, birds, song.


December Walk with Neruda

Leaf -broken light,
dappled words of agate, quartz and wheat -
a moment outside time.

River shimmer shatters vision,
double sun draws radiance
into dark waters -
I could drown
in words.









Back to old poems, a bit of fun for me since I don't remember most  off  them.

This from 2007. (The photo, 1976.)









dream weaver

the boy
in the yellow
shirt
with dark
Latin
eyes
looks for the girl
in the yellow dress
with broad brown
shoulders
and hair
black
and flowing

he dreamed
of her last night
and knows
she
will soon dream
of him










This library poem is not from my library but from a post on Facebook by my poet friend Gary Blankenship. Gary is well represented in my library, but not this poem.

George Orwell's time has come and it behooves us all to recognize the signs of deception he defined for us.







George Orwell's Fourth Rule

Never use the passive when you can use the active.

WAR IS PEACE

FREEDOM IS SLAVERY

IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

Concise to the point,
a lesson that might be learned
if the slogans were not modus operandi
among every government whether
on the right or left

Each able  to operate
among the nine words
with impunity as long
as those assigned as guardians
passively drool  content
as a dowager's lap dog

Peace with honor

the civil rights ad civil  liberties of all Americans including Arab Americans,
Muslim Americans, and Americans from South Asia,
must be protected, and that every effort must be taken to preserve  their safety

Congress shall make  no law...

all  men are created equal

The list could extend
beyond the capability
of loggers to down forests
enough for paper  enough
to contain all the possibilities

I salute you, sir,
a wordsmith of uncommon  talent,
a prophet who only missed
the year not the event

and so it goes









This is from last  December, lost in the cracks, perhaps better left lost.















These two pieces are by Arthur Munoz, taken from his book, From a Cop's Journal, published by Corona Publishing in 1984.

Born in a Los Angeles barrio in 1924, Munoz, after two stints in the Marine Corps (WWII and Korean War), attended Texas A&I University, and, for a time St. Mary's Law School. He worked for the San Antonio Police Department for 23 years, as a patrol officer, investigator and homicide detective. From there he worked as an investigator for the Texas Department of Human Resources.

He was writing throughout this time and, at the time the book was published was Poet in the Schools with the San Antonio ISD.







The Old Breed

You can read America
in their faces
and when they talk
there's sand
in their throats
from both shores.

Their hands have known love
but now only a whisper caresses
because they're bent and tired
from years of picking and weeding.

But in their eyes
there's laughter
that can't be silenced;
it's what got them
through the Texas valley,
110 degrees in Indio,
and the dirt of Idaho.

Today they can be found
with friends
on the side of the barrio store,
or down at the square
recalling the Saturday dances
in Fresno.


23rd Street

There used to be fences
on 23rd Street
a forest of pickets
catering to resident flowers,
and trees
whose branches wove
the sun rays into welcome shade.

Now, paint peeling,
they lean and lie
on each other
trying in vain
to keep out the weeds
and the shoving of time.

On 23rd Street
the city is dying











Here's a story about why I don't pick up hitchhikers anymore. The poem is from 2008,  the incident probably sometime in the mid-80s.











walking is so pedestrian

it was about
40 years ago,
the night
I picked up
the King of  Denmark
at a gas station
in San Marcos
Texas

I was coming from
Austin,
heading
for Corpus Christi
by way of San Antonio

I stopped in San Marcos
for  gas and while pumping
noticed this guy
looking at me, like
he was trying to decide
whether he wanted
to talk to me
or not

I topped
off my tank,
went inside to pay
the bill
and it was only
when I came out again
to go to my car
that he stopped
me and asked
where I was going

he said
he was going to
El Paso
and was looking
for a ride

I  never was  one
to pick up a hitchhiker,
having had some
experiences
as a hitcher myself
that made me wary,
but he was a decent
looking guy
clean clothes
seemed sober
didn't smell
and was polite
so I though what
the hell
and told him
to get in

we were only
about a mile
and a half  down
the road  when he  started
telling me
his story

he was the
legitimate
King
of  Denmark,
he said,
snatched a birth
from  his castle
in Copenhagen
and bought
to  the United States
where he was sold
to a dairy farmer
in Kansas
who worked him
from sun up
to sun down,
dark to dark,
he said,  almost
from the time
he could walk

he ran away
when he was twelve,
he said,
and had been looking
for  a  way to get back
to  Denmark
ever since

he was getting
tired
he said,
and was losing
hope
that he'd
ever get home
again,
but that wasn't
the worst part

the worst part
was he was in  constant
danger
since the pretender
to  the throne
had his assassins
looking for him
since the day
he snuck off
from the farm
and if they found
him
he was  dead man
for  sure,
he said

it's really put me
under a lot of pressure,
he said,
sometimes
I don't know how much
longer
I can  take  it

by this time
he reached this point
in his story
we were  on the outskirts
of San Antonio
(a much smaller city
than it is today)
so I told him
I  was heading
south
while he wanted
to  go north
and I needed to drop
him off

he said he wanted
to go downtown
to the bus station
and I said,
well,
I'm not going that way
but I can drop you
here
(the corner of
Austin Highway
and Broadway)

it's a ways
I  told him,
but from here you can walk
straight on downtown
to the bus station
where you can catch
a bus to El Paso

walk,
he said,
I can't do that,
walking is so
pedestrian -
no way
for a king to make
a royal  entrance
into a city like this

I'll just catch a
city bus

do you have
a quarter
for the fare?








Next, several poems from Ten Thousand Leaves, Love  Poems from the Manyoshu,  published by The Overlook Press in 1988.`

Compiled in its final form during the eighth century, the Manyoshu is an anthology containing 4,516 poems arranged in twenty volumes. More than 400 known poets contributed to the volume, as well as innumerable anonymous poets whose work is included in the collection.

The poems in this book were translated from Japanese by Harold Wright.









1.

Let us not cease
     to enjoy ourselves in drink,
           since the plants and trees
Which bust to bud in springtime
    will but wither in the fall


2.

Your favorite flowers
     that are growing near the house
           have bloomed and faded
Yet the tears that fill my eyes
     have not begun to dry


3.

On the hill near home
     flowers of the fall's clover
           will soon be scattered
How I wish she'd seen them now
     before they're harmed by the wind


6.

When spring arrives
     the frost on the river's moss
          is melted away
In such a way my heart melts
     over longing for your love


7.

Near my loved one's house
     there is now in full bloom
         a flowering plum tree
If it ever gives forth fruit
     then I will know what to do









An observational  from the new coffeehouse mentioned earlier.

















The next poem is from The Best American Poetry - 2003, published by Scribner Poetry.

The poet is a favorite of mine, Rita Dove. Born in 1952, Dove was appointed Poet Laureate of the United States from 1993 to 1995, the first African American appointed to that position.  She also served as "special consultant in poetry" to the Library of Congress for the 1999-2000 bicentennial. In 1987 she became the second African American to receive the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. She also served as the Poet Laureate for Virginia from 2004 to 2006.

A side note - after forty years of married non-dancing, I gifted my wife for Christmas with lessons at Fred Astaire. Our second session last night, the fox trot. A fool dancing, I'm anticipating my progress to dancing fool.




Fox Trot Fridays

Thank the stars there's a day
each week to tuck in

the grief, lift your pearls, and
stride brush stride

quick-quick with a
heel-ball-toe. Smooth

as Nat King Cole's
slow satin smile,

easy as taking
one day at a time:

one man and
one woman,

rib to rib,
with no heartbreak in sight -

just the sweep of Paradise
and the space of a song

to count all the wonders in it

   (first published Callaloo)











Time to reset the time machine, 2009, this time.












you can always count on the bald-headed man

it's a white tablecloth
type of place,
flowers on every table
and crisply folded napkins

the food is excellent
(it's their pollo e mole
I favor most)
with prices to match

considering the bill
I was expecting
at the end of our meal,
I was shocked
when Chris found a hair
in his food - but not  Chris,

having worked in restaurant
kitchens from fast food
to fine dining, he says
a hair in your food
can  happen
anywhere,
from a hash house
slinging $5.99 blue-plate  specials
to the fanciest
dandiest
gourmet emporium
on the Champs Elysee,
it happens,  he says,
but you do need to  tell
someone about it because
a free meal
in such a circumstance
is expected

so he called the waiter over
and showed him the hair
and the waiter, a shiny-pated
bald-headed man about
my age, said,  not allowing
a second to pass,
"not  mine"

we all laughed
and Chris got his free dinner
and we all  learned a lesson -
there is no experience so bad
that it can't be made better
by the wit
of a bald-headed man











The next poet is Heather Sellers from her book, Drinking Girls and Their Dresses, published by Ahsahta  Press from Boise State University in 2002.

Born in 1964, Sellers is recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship for Fiction. With a Ph.D. from Florida State University, she teaches fiction, poetry and creative nonfiction at Hope College in Michigan.












Concert

Tonight I watch boys  push up the moon, spill
madras drink. In a moment you will
arrive in stolen telephone
wire hair, a dress of black petals shirred down
you bare back.

We want our lovers to taste December, amber,
these nights with kitchens of stars. Just for fun?
you ask, pulling our bright squeeze into concert.
Yes, yes, I say, dancing, fearing arrest, the end

music which wants us sleeping.
Can we get closer? I wish, kissing
my last green penny, my little car, the ravine
out back where finally we will part like
hats on night thick seas.









Another left-over from late last year.
















The next poet, Evangelina Vigil, was a born and raised San Antonio poet when her first book, 30 an' Seen a Lot, was published by Arte Publico, but that was in 1985. She has moved on since, now an award wining poet, translator and television personality.

The book includes a mix of poems in English, Spanish, and sometimes both.






















warm heart contains life
                to our amas

warm hart contains life
heart's warmth
which penetrates through penas
lifeblood that reveals inner thoughts
subtly

secrets collected
pressed between pages
to be kissed by lips red
protruding with warmth, desire
sometimes hurt, pain:

recuerdos
like that autumn leaf you singled out
and saved
pressed in-between the memories of your mind
diary never written
but always remembered, felt
scripted en tu mente -
your daughters will never read it
but they'll know it
when they look into your eyes
shining luz de amor, corazon
unspoken, untold
keepsake for our treasure chests
que cargamos aqui adentro
radiant with jewels
sculpted by sentimientos y penas
y bastante amor:

intuition tells us
better to  have lived through pain
than never having felt
life's full  intensity













From 2010, a memory of my lovely Reba.










high and mysterious grasses

I promised
Reba
last night
before I put her

to bed
that Id take her
for a walk
this morning

and I know
she sits by the door
at home
now

waiting
knowing I'll  be there
to get her
as soon as I finish

this
because the jot to me
of watching her joy
when I reach for the

leash
feeds the new day
like a shot of sunshine
on the cold shoulders

of a sleeping cat
shivering
in the morning chill -
bringing back

the morning  dream
of slow and stupid
mice
 and warm milk

waiting in a bowl
by the fire
and the safe lap of he
who makes the sun to shine

so  bright
on this winter morning
begun by a walk
through high and mysterious

grasses









From his book, War on War, this poem is by Lowell Jaeger. Born and raised in  Wausau, Wisconsin, the poet is a graduate of University of Iowa  Writer's Workshop and  teaches at the Flathead Valley Community College in Kalispell. Montana.  He founding editor of Many Voices Press and author of seven collections of poetry.

The  book  was published in  1988 by Utah State University Press.






Weird

She got  the mascara
painted on like oils.
Got plaid  tennis shoes
with red laces tied in knots.
Got a ticket for someplace far.

She dance like she be cool,
humming in the bus depot
so me and my new baby, one cop
and maybe twenty old ladies
be an audience she ignore.
Won't sit on the plastic  seats,  just
stand, be looking mean,
smoking on  a plastic stem
half the length of my arm.

She got tattooed blue jeans,
red ink and black ink and blue.
Got a black beret with three gold stars.
A leather jacket. Silk scarves.
Got a button too,
she post it on her chest -
I'm not  weird, it say,

you are.









A couple of moody pieces from the past couple of weeks.









 






Next I have short pieces from River of Stars - Selected  Poems of Yosano Akiko, published by Shambhala in 1996.

The poet Yosano Akiko, author of more than seventy-five books and one of the most celebrated Japanese writers of the twentieth century. She was born  in 1878 and died in  1942. Although best known for her  erotic poetry, she also championed the causes of feminism, pacifism, and social  reform.

Her poems in this book were translated from Japanese by Sam Hamill and Keiko Matsui Gibson.






Rather than  trying
to touch the burning passion
pulsing beneath my soft
pale skin, you preach morality.
Aren't you awfully lonely.

~~~~~

The little lamb's eyes,
desperate for  forest water,
must resemble mine.
O you whose love I long for,
how can you understand me?

~~~~~~

Feeling you nearby
how could I not come
to walk beneath
this evening moon rising
over flowering  fields.

~~~~~

What can I  put in
my burning mouth now the blood
my lover's finger -
he asked me to kiss it -
begins to  dry on my lips.

~~~~~

Almost transparent
white and soft, my kimono
makes me  despise
this faintly flickering
late night candlelight.

~~~~~

The blossoming plum
bright pink in the morning mist
above this valley -
The mountains are beautiful,
and I am beautiful too.









From 2011, a banner year for me in book publishing. Now if I could just sell a few  of the damn things!

Well, Van Gogh didn't sell until he died. Does anyone know a shortcut to that process.








understanding the business of art 

final draft  read-through
of the next book
today

off to the publisher
by
Friday

up
and available to buy
by July 1st...

then
the next book,  edit complete
this weekend

then to Paraguay
for final
proof

on the retailer's
shelves
by October 1st

next up,
the last book of the year -
the road poems

issue:
how do you make a book
out of three long poems,  good poems

but still, do you pad the book
with lesser poems just to publish
the good ones?

ePublishing revelation!

cost off publication cheap
whether three poems
or three hundred

solution:
apply the WalMart volume theory
of retail merchandising -

publish a three-poem book,
sell  it for a buck ninety-eight
hire street corner

sign-slingers
to  work the streets of American,
Poetry Sale Today! Almost-Free Poetry Today!

remembering
to beef-up security for
crowd control

as poetry readers gather on opening day, large
women in sweatpants stampeding
in a crush

to the cheap-poetry bin,
crashing
the gates of eCommerce -

forward! forward!
poets -
the business of art is now explained

~~~~~~~~~~

now explain to your wife
why losing money
for the Muse

seemed
such a good idea at the time
time

or
charge it off to price increases at Starbucks -
she'll never know the difference








Last from my library, a poem by Sudeep Sen, from his book Postmarked India - New and Selected Poems. The book was  published in 1997 by Harper Collins Publishers India.

Born in 1964 in New Delhi, Sudeep Sen is a poet, translator, editor and and artist. He studied English at the University of New Delhi ad earned an MS in journalism at Columbia University. Recognized as one of India's finest young poets, he writes and lives in New Delhi and London.








Night in Times Square

At two in the morning at Times Square,I
     see steam escaping  from man-hole crevices
as its fumes screen the changing colors
     of the competing neon signs.
A homeless person totters across the street,
     stiff and cold, totally unstartled
by the frantic yellow cab that misses
     hitting him by a mere inch.
Late nighters like me, amblers, whores,
     all gesture in silence,
in a language unknown, understanding
     each other with an  everyday skill,
as the chorus of horns drown their murmur
     scintillating with the tiniest flicker of
the many-colored cathode tubes
     illuminating the peculiar normal night.
A tiny island country
     capsules a continent, innocuously, just
as the typical night envelops the square.
     I started walking southward,
down one of the avenues, hear
     the subway underground, its rattles
fleeing the iron-grates on the street.
     Through the silhouette of the buildings,
appears a patch of night sky, and  part of
     the moon, pale orange, reflected faintly,
in the glass and steel canyon
     of downtown, in the city of dreams.
   








Here's the last of me for the week. I survived, though not  always sure of it.








I dreamed last night

I dreamed last night,
a vivid, intense dream
of a reality where I had found
the solution, not just a solution, but

THE SOLUTION

to all the ills and miseries of our kind
in this time, disease, poverty,
injustice, crime, body odor, flat feet,
bigotry, TV preachers, pot holes after heavy rain,
disrespect for our heroes, anger between  lovers,
love denied, love lost or
never found...

THE SOLUTION -

so immediate and close
I could feel it in my sleep,
taste it in my dream, so immediate
and necessary I forced myself awake,
to wake up, to get up, to begin to tell the story
of how all could be made better again,
a new Eden where apples will be free of
consequence and snakes will depart all the forbidden wisdom
of the ages, where we would be made again
the whole we were when we started...

THE SOLUTION -

it involves boring two holes
in each tree, holes made to look like
bullet  holes, the secret sign
of the new day...

and that's all I can remember







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