An Instruction In the Grander Scheme of Things   Sunday, January 12, 2020








an instruction in the grander scheme of things



in the grander
scheme
of things
the world is
wet
today
or
at least
my part of the world
is wet
which is wet enough
for me
since non-wets
in other parts of the 
world
don't affect
me
here
where
wet is
the grander
scheme
of me and mine 
and
your non-wet
has entirely
no affect
on my wet
which is the
grander
scheme of my thing
today
which
you may have guessed
is wet
and it is cold too
which is the other part
of my grander
scheme of things today
and if you're hot
and dry
in the Gobi desert
well
big fricking deal
since I can't see
how that has anything
to do with
me
since
cold and wet
is my grander scheme 
of things
today
and searing desert
sands
have no part in
it

any questions?








Here it is.


Me
an instruction in the grander scheme of things



Me
I dissemble convincingly



Me
Monday notes



Lynn Crosbie
Goodnight, Goodnight



Me
the fella in the booth next to me



Me
a grumble of English teachers



Susan Hollahan
Sister Betty Reads the Whole You



Me
how to make friends in Texas



Me
when your magic twanger of inspiration fails



Me
a map for those who may someday go



Robert Pinsky
Akhmatova's "Summer Garden"



Me
the story of our time









I dissemble convincingly



been up
for nearly three hours now
and the bug
says
time to get you acey-duecy ass down

but
work to do
I protest

commitments
to keep

maybe I can get all that done this
afternoon
I dissemble convincingly
to my own self

until then
my acey-duecy ass
is going back to bed







Monday notes



overcast day
today

too bad

just found my sunglasses
I couldn't find
yester-sunny-day

~~~~

45 at sunrise
60 by noon, great for squirrel-chasing
at the park, mostly Bella
chasing
while me, mostly I'll be watching

she'll never catch a squirrel
but she doesn't know
and I'm not telling

ambition -
it's important
even in a dog's life













First from my library, I have a poem by Lynn Crosbie from her book, Miss Pamela's Mercy. The book was published by Coach House Press in 1991.

Crosbie, born in 1963, is a Canadian poet and novelist. She teaches at the university of Toronto.




Goodnight, Goodnight

to Herve Villechaize

your dress is too tight for you. the holes
cut in the side reveal an angry flux of skin,
that bulges like the embryo of an oracle.
the printed pyramids are stretched, as if
they are housing a chubby pharaoh and those
yellow sphinxes look torpid and sick, the
night is here - you draw two watery triangles
on your brow, and walk away, heels scratching,
waist splashing in, then out. you are tall,
alert on a staircase, and I love the look
of your oily eyes in the wet flower of your
face.

you are polishing a rifle at home. its mouth
yawns, and you slither on the bed with it.
the water under you, the bayonet points to
its reflection. she is quiet in a chair when
you ask for music. a Latin dance, your arms
clamp her thighs in a blur, you mesmerize
me - with your pendulous larynx and the bean
brown plush of your throat. and you tell
me about a summer you spent in France, to
work on a painting. it was a great achievement ,
this heroic portrait. you modelled all day
as Napoleon, and your hands were cramped from
their seclusion. they feel rough and matted,
a surprise on the edge of two dimpled baby's
arms.

she keeps phoning in a teary voice, that is
dulled with devotion. and asks about your
lover. I say that he tore the skirt from you
angrily and you sprawled along the pavement.
that he lived with giraffes , and that he bought
you things. I see you wear the sometimes
like careless reminders, the time when your
heavy skirt parted, and showed off marabou
slippers. he pines, and sharpens his pencil.
in a steady voice writes, they won't find
him, to you, a violent wind disturbs your
lipstick. its bright red shows you, dancing
a two-step, dusky hair upon hair in a blizzard
of beauty.









the fella in the booth across from me



the fella 
in the booth
across from me
is a fair-sized guy, but
his feet are enormous, I mean,
I bet he wouldn't get blown
over 
in a hurricane even if he tried to...

I know a big-footed fella
is not the thing most people
would notice
so early in the morning and
even though the moon this morning,
a crescent hook in a velvet black
sky is beautiful and worthy of a pause
and neck-stretching look,
so bright and silver, just hanging up there
with no visible means of support,
all that, and still
it was not nearly as interesting as this fella's
big feet...

now I notice
he has finished his breakfast and is leaving...

I wonder how many eggs it took
to fill those
feet









a grumble of English teachers



every Monday morning
at the coffeehouse, early,
a grumble
of retired English teachers,
my age or maybe a little older,
high school teachers
probably,
though from the way they talk
it seems clear they regret
all the universities' loss by their pedagogical absence

(the one, struggling with removing the trash can lid,
looks at me,
says,
"you'd think someone with a PhD wouldn't 
have such a problem with trash can
lids")



another,
skinny, with malnourished hair,
toenails like a badger
digging, and a thin, reedy whiny
voice
that would drive me nuts after ten minutes
in a classroom, talks the most -
says fuck this & fuck that
a lot
in the English teacher voice,
like she's fallen into an old Norman Mailer novel
and can't get up,
and it's all I can do
not
to laugh out loud,
thinking back near 65 years,
imaging old Mrs. Buck,
my 115 year-old high school
English teacher
saying fuck this, 
fuck that...


and thank god my English teacher days
are far behind me














This this is the title poem from the book, Sister Betty Reads the Whole You by Susan Holahan. The book was published by Gibbs-Smith in 1998.

Born in 1940, Holahan has taught writing at the University of Rochester and Yale University and is former editor for Newsday, Yale University Press and other newspapers.




Sister Betty Reads the Whole You

Some people are too nervous to have hands on their head.
Some people don't like you inspecting them, so I keep my
eyes down. I look at hands.

A picture for you now: tops of trees against a gray sky. A
bird flying. Wind blowing. The bird looks like a hawk. You
were in a deep well. The only way to be free was to look up.

I begin to see you in a house of worship. Musty. With a long
pole you're reaching up, opening stained glass windows,
letting the light. In that life you were a sexton. Windows
were your job. You listened to the choir practice. You drank
but you were forgiven. You were kept on - housed, clothed,
fed. In that lifetime you brought your feet to the church.

I am a child in a swing, the kind that boxes you in. Up or
down you can't fall out. There is a mood swing; nowhere to
fall except into your own being. That's why you chose the
mother you did. Who would give you more mistrust?

Give up the illusion that the distraught, angry mother
is God. No longer tell yourself you must be perfect to be
loved.









how to make friends in Texas



if it's a man,
admire his dog

if he doesn't have a dog
congratulate him on his choice
of firearm

if it's a woman,
tell her you like what she did
to her hair

if she has no hair, tell you think she has great
boots and are thinking
of buying a pair
for your
wear

(being extra careful to enunciate
clearly, especially if her husband is nearby)










when your magic twanger of  inspiration fails

was thinking
I'd hold off on writing this poem
until some inspiration
stumbled by

but there's the whole issue
of a new ice age
coming
as carbon builds up in the atmosphere
and the magnetosphere
reverses its spin and the earth turns
upside down
and all the other stuff pending
an appropriate doomsday

and I don't want to end up
dangling upside down,
my participles frosting over
while waiting for inspiration
to poke its head.
the Phil whathisname groundhog,
out its hidie hole
and present me with the inspiration
required
to write an A-number-one poem
so I thought,
what the hell, my defunct magic twanger of inspiration be damned,
let's just write this sucker
and see how it turns
out...

and speaking of ice ages,
I read about the people who do discovering
discovering a camel fossil
in the arctic, left over from the days
when it was cold but not yet
arcticy, a camel 9 feet tall
which scares me even more than
dinosaurs because I've never met
a dinosaur but I do have some experience
camels, nasty, vicious, ugly beasts, spitting
and biting without forewarning
and the idea of a pack of 9-feet tall camels
wandering my neighborhood
would certainly make me want to move

and I'm thinking
that's maybe what happened
to that ice man, the fella from olden times
they found encased in a glacier
when it started melting,
poor fella was just minding his own business
when he ran across a rampaging herd
of 9-foot camels and fearless warrior and hunter
that he was, found the better part of valor
in running away but slipped on the ice
and fell in the glacier,
last known victim of rampaging 9-foot camels
before they also fell into the glacier
and shrunk
into regular sized but equally vicious
camels that we've come to know
today

~~~~

just my opinion
of course









a map for those who may someday go

bright button
moon
hanging
on a blue
October sky

shadowed
rills and mountains
plainly shown

points
of interest
clearly
drawn for
long-distant
travelers...

a blue-morning map
for those who may someday go

















This is a poem by Robert Pinsky from his book Gulf Music published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux in 2007.

Born in 1940, Pinsky, a poet, essayist, literary critic, and translator, served as Poet Laureate of the United States from 1997 to 2000. He is author of nineteen books.




Akhmatova's "Summer Garden"

I want to return to that unique garden walled
By the most magnificent ironwork in the world

Where the statues remember me young and I remember
Them the year they were underwater

And in fragrant silence
Under a royal colonnade of lindens

I imagine the creaking of the ship's masts and the swan
Floats across the centuries admiring its flawless twin.

Asleep there like the dead are hundreds of thousands
of footfalls of friends and enemies, enemies and friends

The procession of those shades is endless
From the granite urn to the doorway of the palace

Where my white nights of those years whisper
About some love grand and mysterious

And everything glows like mother-of-pearl and jasper
Though the source of that light is mysterious.










the stories of our time

so 
I heard of this fella
down where I grew up
who bought a restaurant
in the country...
the restaurant
had three very tall palms
in front, so naturally
he named his new restaurant
"Three Palms" -
that was right before 
he cut down
all three palms...
make of that 
what 
you will, I'm not sure
myself
but am suspecting
it might just be a story of our
times

~~~~

sleet
on the northside
snow predicted
for this evening
and I'll stay up late
to watch it
maybe 8:30 or 9:00 o'clock
anything that happens after that
is not part of my
universe...
make of that
what 
you will, I'm not sure 
myself
but am suspecting
it might just be another story of our
times

~~~~~

ducks
on the river
huddle in the cold
not smart enough
to get out of the river
and go someplace 
warm and dry -
the comfort 
of the known
trumps
good sense every time...
make of that 
what
you will, I'm not sure
myself
but an suspecting
it might be just another story of our
times

~~~~~

I write poems
even when I don't have
anything to say
but work very diligently
to say it
well...
make of that
what
you will, I'm not sure
myself
but am suspecting
it might be just one more story of our
times

~~~~~

so many stories
of our times you would think
at least one
would make sense...'
make of that
what
you will, I'm not sure
myself
but am suggesting
that
the story of our time
is that none of the stories
of our time
make any sense
at all









I appreciate hearing from readers. Although they do not appear here, your comment,, if you choose to make them is available to me. So feel free to pass on any reaction, comments, or opinions by clicking on the "comment" button below.


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



Also as usual, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and a not so diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:


Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony, 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











0 Comments:

Post a Comment



Archives
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
Links
Loch Raven Review
Mindfire Renewed
Holy Groove Records
Tryst
Poems Niederngasse
BlazeVOX
Eclectica
Michaela Gabriel's In.Visible.Ink
zafusy
The Blogging Poet
Poetsarus.Com
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