21 April 2007

Response to April 17 Prompt

it happened one night

sleepless in seattle,
i enter an all-night theatre
filled with the usual suspects,
a streetcar named desire
lounges across two seats in the front row,
feeling up the bride of frankenstein,
hey, some like it hot.
the elephant man
's in a trenchcoat in the wings,
swallowing milk duds and touching himself,
features twisted in the heat and glory.
outside the apartment,
i'm one of these reservoir dogs,
alien to happiness,
the best years of our lives
spent in movie theatres,
for kicks,
to sweeten the grapes of wrath,
to calm the vertigo of these modern times,
'cause in the silver screen
it's a wonderful life,
and
life
is
beautiful.

20 April 2007

Just Posting these Here to Keep Track of Them

Until I can put them in my notebook. I have organizational problems, to say the least. :)

TOMATO SALAD

They’re doing construction across the street,
Large men in hats with even larger trucks,
Surrounded by huge concrete cylinders,
The whole scene covered in mud.
She pulls the peppery-smelling star-shaped stems off,
Plunges the tomatoes under water,
Rinsing off the dust and dirt.
Their trucks grumble, rattling the house,
She hones the blade of her knife,
Matching their industry with her own kind of purposefulness.
Then comes the shout of the jackhammer,
The orange-vested operator leans against it with his body weight,
With the assistance of gravity he tears up the road,
Drinking glasses rattle in the cupboard.
She leans into the tomato with her knife so as to make an even, clean slice,
You can see she doesn’t like disruptions, is frightened by loud noise,
Her shoulders set just a little too high, tense,
As if they might climb high enough to cover the swirls of her ears,
Seashell-shaped to help capture sound.
She removes a blue glass bowl from the cupboard,
You can tell it is her favorite bowl because she holds it up to the light
Streaming in from the kitchen window, she admires it,
She slides the sliced tomatoes into the bowl,
It shakes just a little on the counter before settling down.
It’s five o’clock, she thinks, they should be going home now,
Hoisting themselves up into their big trucks,
Turning up their radios so loud she could sing along
If only she knew those kinds of songs.
She pulls a handful of parsley from the little glass jar in the refrigerator and chops it,
Lets the leaves fall in a green cascade from her hands,
She anoints the tomatoes with olive oil,
Cracks sea salt over the bowl,
Stirs gently with her wooden spoon so the tomatoes retain their structure.
From across the street come the sounds of revving engines,
Deep voices and laughter echoing off the rocks and concrete,
and someone’s radio, Hey! You! Get off of my cloud!
She sets the tomato salad on the table, then moves it slightly to the right,
She places the palms of her hands against her warm cheeks.
As the last truck pulls out of the construction site,
The tension leave her, it slides off like a piece of silk lingerie,
And you can see she is waiting for someone, a child, a lover, a husband maybe,
You can tell she needs the quiet to concentrate on those slick tomatoes
Bitten between her beloved’s lips.

*******

AMERICA

Peggy has to go to confession

Because she read the newspaper

She watched the five o’clock news

Now she can’t stop saying, “God-damned America”

Because she read the newspaper

They don’t print poems in the newspaper anymore

Now she can’t stop saying, “God-damned America”

Too much ravaging and raping for poetry

They don’t print poems in the newspaper anymore

Peggy loves to hear the fiddle

Too much ravaging and raping for poetry

All the boys want to dance with Peggy at the hoe-down

Peggy loves to hear the fiddle

David danced before the Lord, but them baptists don’t like it much

All the boys want to dance with Peggy at the hoe-down

Peggy likes the way her body shakes and shimmies

David danced before the Lord, but them baptists don’t like it much

They’ll ban dancing in America next

Peggy likes the way her body shakes and shimmies

They outlawed morphine and marijuana

They’ll ban dancing in America next

Peggy doesn’t know she’s got a tumor

They outlawed morphine and marijuana

Confession makes her feel better, but dancing makes her feel real good

Peggy doesn’t know she’s got a tumor

She watched the five o’clock news

The doctors don’t find it ’til it’s too late

Peggy has to go to confession.

*******



07 April 2007

Ticking

I loathe the expression "What makes him tick." It is the American mind, looking for simple and singular solution, that uses the foolish expression. A person not only ticks, he also chimes and strikes the hour, falls and breaks and has to be put together again, and sometimes stops like an electric clock in a thunderstorm.
- James Thurber

04 April 2007

Difficult Tasks

Being a woman is a terribly difficult task, since it
consists principally in dealing with men.

Joseph Conrad (1857-1924)

Language by W.S. Merwin

Language
by W. S. Merwin

Certain words now in our knowledge we will not use again, and we will never forget them. We need them. Like the back of the picture. Like our marrow, and the color in our veins. We shine the lantern of our sleep on them, to make sure, and there they are, trembling already for the day of witness. They will be buried with us, and rise with the rest.

02 April 2007

Strawberry Jam

Post one of the first poems that made you fall in love with, or hate, poetry.

01 April 2007

Liz's Prompt for the Week of March 25

Color-Coded Dreams

In a dream I see my sister
in a bowl of cobalt glass
filled with water,
a bowl held up
by elegant silver feet,
a coffee table adornment
were it not for the drowned body
of my sister lying inside it,
green eyes closed.
I wonder how she managed
to fit her woman's body inside,
where all her hair has gone--
shocked not to see it
fluttering down behind her
like the lustrous, elongated feathers
of some mythological raven--
why her wrinkled, ringless hands
are open, palm up, reaching
(for what?).

I dial her number
as soon as I wake up,
an electronic voice
encourages me to leave a message,
promises she'll call me back.
I have nothing to say
that I know how to put into words,
nothing but,
Let me fill your hands
with my own plump heart,

nothing but,
Let me comb your shiny black hair
with my comb of silver stars
given by a raven I met
in the last dream I had of you,
nothing but,
Let me play a game with you,
Say, say, oh playmate,
come out and play with me,
in a forest that is safe from bears
and beasts and grown men
intent on touching your silver-white skin,
just two sisters, laughing,
a canopy of pine trees
reflected in your green eyes,
the cobalt of matching quilted jumpers
reflected in mine.

Waking Up in Somebody Else's Dream

Somebody's already dreaming a heaven,
a home for people like me,
where ragged hand-me-downs are burned
for velvet robes of emerald green.
Somebody's heaven
for all those bodies
that ran twice as hard
but never reached the runner's high,
for all those hearts that ached
for true love forever
but got blisters and a broken heart,
all those minds that wound and leapt
for brilliance and perfection
but barely managed,
for those who didn't have the guts
to be a sinner
or the fortitude of a saint.
Somebody's heaven
where there are no big sisters,
no middle children, no progress reports
or evaluations,
no such thing as a tag-along,
no trading shame for knowledge.
Somebody's heaven
where you can live for the laughter
and sunlight and green grass
of Easter egg hunts,
not peeking out windows (cheating)
or counting how much,
where you can dip your finger
in the blue frosting
of a Holly Hobbie birthday cake
and not get sent to your room,
where you can love
the cellophane crinkle
and curling bow of a gift
more than the sneaking under the tree
to open carefully and re-wrap,
more than the counting how many,
more than the price tag.
Somebody's heaven
where there are no separate bedrooms,
no places off limits,
Get out!
Get out!
Get out!,
where music is together--
with dancing--
not sisters
rocking back and forth
with headphones on,
pushing,
Go away!
Go away!
Go away!,

where funny is a virtue
and there's room made for silly
in your NY Times crossword puzzles,
inside jokes in your pencil drawings
of fingers, eyes, noses in spiral sketchbooks,
clowns in your coveted,
leather-bound masterpieces
of English Literature,
Be Quiet!
Be Quiet!
Be Quiet!
Somebody's heaven
where there is no more reaching,
just this falling back
into a lake of cobalt--
pretty enough--
with silver stars
in my eyes.