Category: My poems

POEM: longevity

Published 13 December 2010 by Jason Crane

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longevity

an expectation of longevity
as if the glaciers don’t melt
given enough time and a tireless sun

on a human scale they’re eternal,
you might say, having no other
scale on which to measure them

everything is eternal, just
not in some magical way
that fits you with harp and sandals

there is still all the matter
there ever was, “every atom
belonging to me as good belongs to you”

where will you be in one million years?
spread out among the stars
or covering the back of a dog?

there are still dinosaurs, they’re just
shaped like toasters and raccoons and
a little girl eating her ice cream before it melts

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POEM: Ah, Basho, who were you really?

Published 12 December 2010 by Jason Crane

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I first lived in Japan from 1991-92. During that time I picked up a Penguin edition of Japanese haiku master Matsuo Basho’s book Narrow Road To The Deep North. I’ve loved him ever since. Not just his work, but the very idea of him.

Ah, Basho, who were you really?

My friend the Japanese literature scholar —
by which I mean to say he is a scholar
of Japanese literature and a literature scholar
who is Japanese — thinks you were a ninja.
Or a famous warrior of some sort.
I can’t quite remember. But his point
is that no mere poet could have passed through
all those military checkpoints.
And no old-man poet could have covered
all that ground as fast as you say you did.
Were you lying? Is all poetry fiction?

Perhaps you started out from Tokyo —
they called it Edo then —
with every intention of completing the journey
along that famous narrow road.
Perhaps you packed your paper and brushes
to write those glorious verses.
Perhaps you set out upon the path,
made it as far as the first resting place
before your old bones got the better
of your young heart.
Poets invent whole worlds —
all you needed to do was describe
the world that already existed. Even a mortal
could do that.

Me, I like the ninja idea.
Poets are thought of as many things —
deadly is rarely one of them.
We need more poet ninjas, creeping about
on moonless nights, stealing
into the rooms of young lovers, leaving
a verse or two on the pillow.
Gone as silently as the break
in this line.

Then again, maybe I’d rather
you were just a poet.
Not a liar. Not a ninja.
Not a warrior traveling in disguise.
Just a man who wished to see the mountains
of Japan’s interior with his own eyes.
A man who used his paper and his brushes
to let us see those same mountains,
thousands of miles away,
all these many years later.

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POEM: romcoms

Published 9 December 2010 by Jason Crane

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“Romcom” is short for “romantic comedy,” my favorite kind of movie. This ended up being another relationship poem. Just about the only kind I write these days.

romcoms

like a glimpse over the wall
into the neighbor’s much nicer yard
the one with a new grill
and a pool and a picnic table
where there’s plenty of cold lemonade
condensation on a glass pitcher
endless afternoons of happiness
with someone who looks into your eyes
like they were the whole world
there are friends around the table, laughing
telling stories and eating
you laugh with them, delighted
to find that these people are real
sometimes she reaches over
squeezes your hand
or puts her fingers on the back of your neck
as if to say, “I’m real, too”
when you get up to take your plate
into the house, she follows
you kiss in the kitchen, one hand
still holding the plate, the other
brushing her hair back over one ear
later someone lights a fire in the stone circle
and everyone gathers around it, dreaming aloud
she is close beside you
if this is the last night ever
if they never make a sequel
it will have been enough

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POEM: pulled pork

Published 8 December 2010 by Jason Crane

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pulled pork

we ate Elgie Stover’s unlicensed pulled pork
on the back porch of the Blue Nite Cafe

talked about the future and what we imagined
it might look like

I can’t speak for anyone else, but I never
imagined it would look like this

even though that first conversation
contained the seeds of everything that was to follow

Elgie served his pulled pork on a single piece of white bread
in a styrofoam container

we could always tell when he arrived because smoke
would drift in through the back doors of the club

from that moment on, every song
rushed toward the back porch

we played music like men whose minds
were already eating

if my parents hadn’t had friends on the island
I never would have known about the club

if I hadn’t known about the club, I never would have been
on the porch, eating pulled pork and talking with you

I think a lot of this would have happened anyway
it probably would have been easier

but I wouldn’t trade those conversations
or this pain for all the pulled pork in the world

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POEM: writer’s song

Published 5 December 2010 by Jason Crane

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I’m not sure whether this is a poem or a credo or a mission statement or a manifesto or all those things at once.

writer’s song

to write is to stand against despair
each stroke of the pen an affirmation
as ink flows into the paper like a transfusion
the arteries of the world are filled once more

to write is to acknowledge dreaming
caressing the soft flesh of possibility
it is a gentle kiss, like an afterthought
or the smell of cookies baking

to write is to assert the self
one human being in a fragmented age
it is a hand-brake on the spinning world
an extra moment to bring life into focus

to write is to say “I love you”
and to let “you” be all the world
six billion diamond-bright minds
flowing over the earth like water

to write is to throw a rope to a drowning man
to be on shore and in the water simultaneously
it is oxygen in the lungs so sorely needed
to power the dreaming blood, to sing this song

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POEM: Apple

Published 4 December 2010 by Jason Crane

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Apple
(for my mom)

They say the apple
doesn’t fall far
from the tree.

Sometimes
it doesn’t fall
at all.

I am suspended
in the sun,
depending on you.

My skin,
in your image,
reddens.

Inside me
are the seeds
you planted.

The worm seeks an entrance
but I am strong,
as you taught me to be.

My sweetest days
are yet to come.

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POEM: Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln…

Published 1 December 2010 by Jason Crane

Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln…

There is candle wax on my table
from a flame that should by rights
have been doused long ago.
There is an empty chair
and a couch that pulls out
into a bed, waiting for you.
Waiting. Is there more to life than
looking ahead, peering into the fog-
bound harbor, looking for the lights
of an approaching ship?

At intermission, Martha took a short stroll
around the theater. Voices
hushed as she passed by.
Perhaps this would be the start
of something better, a lifting of the
gloom that had sunk deep into the
walls and floors of the house.
White, indeed. Nothing was darker
than that swampy prison. Maybe
a night out at the theater
was what they needed.

I set a place for you at the table.
Thinking that maybe you’d change
your mind. I know, I know.
Presumptuous. I made all
your favorite dishes. Couscous with
steamed vegetables. Lentil and barley soup.
Flatbread from my own oven.
Of course, all this is theater in its
own way. I have no idea which
foods you like. That’s a fundamental
thing to not know about someone.

The walk back to their private box
seemed longer than usual.
A private box. Who would have thought
Martha Todd would be
in the president’s box at the theater?
Her husband had already taken his seat
for the second act. Such a lovely idea,
the theater, she thought.
A whole world inside these walls, the harsh
reality of war and melancholy shut out
beyond the velvet ropes.

I appear to be eating alone. Again.
I waited until I felt foolish,
checked the door because sometimes
the bell doesn’t work. Thought maybe you’d
be standing there and we’d laugh
at another near miss.

The second act was well under way
when Martha felt a breeze on the back
of her neck from the curtains
of their box parting. She heard
someone step into the box
behind them.

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POEM: Hindsight is 20/20, and so is foresight (November Poem-A-Day 30)

Published 30 November 2010 by Jason Crane

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This is it. The 30th and final poem for the November Poem-A-Day challenge. I’m glad I participated. I think I’ve got a few poems out of it that will stick around for a while. Today’s prompt was to write a “lessons learned” poem.

Hindsight is 20/20, and so is foresight

They should have sealed it with a kiss
and left together. Never looked back.
They should have known there might not be
another chance.
Except, and here’s the lesson:
There’s always another chance.

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POEM: Romeo & Juliet

Published 29 November 2010 by Jason Crane

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Romeo & Juliet

my therapist thinks we’re tragic
so tragic, in fact,
that when I told him our story, he laughed
not standard therapist behavior, perhaps
but it’s hard to fault the man
when you lay out the facts, line them up neatly
anyone would be incredulous, would doubt our veracity
wonder how the hell something like this could happen
I told him I don’t believe in God
but this whole situation makes me think
there may be a Devil
my mom thinks things happen for a reason
what’s the reason for this?
Shakespeare already wrote Romeo and Juliet
who are we to try to one-up the Bard?

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POEM: a lost man… (November Poem-A-Day 29)

Published 29 November 2010 by Jason Crane

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This is poem #29 for the November Poem-A-Day challenge. Today’s prompt was to write a “next steps” poem.

“Lost Man” by Michel Rajkovic

a lost man wonders what to do next,
decides to gamble it all on one throw of the dice

Hell with it, he thinks
putting down the last of his money
on the airline ticket counter

nothing ventured, nothing gained
no guts, no glory
know Jesus, know peace

that last one doesn’t fit
so many things don’t fit
the timing isn’t quite right

in fact, it’s wrong in a tragic
Hollywood or Shakespeare
sense, the kind of wrong

that is worse because it’s so
close to right
it’s almost there, it’s Maxwell Smart

missing it by “that much”
fingers held close together
the width of a telephone line

the ticket agent looks up
asks him where he’s going
a fine question, that

go west, young man
pack up your troubles
in your old kit bag

search the desert for treasure
scale the mountains
plumb the valleys

find the other half of your heart-
shaped locket, the one made
from an actual human heart

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POEM: Villawood (November Poem-A-Day 28)

Published 28 November 2010 by Jason Crane

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This is poem #28 for the November Poem-A-Day challenge. Today’s prompt was to write a “what really happened” poem. This poem is about the Villawood Immigration Detention Centre near Sidney, Australia. What happens there is horrifying. I learned about it through the work of Dan Burke (twitter.com/proudreader) via his appearances on the indispensable Citizen Radio.

Villawood

We told them to come and it would be safe.
They were running away. Escaping.
We were a return trip, back across the Styx
toward the stairway that leads to the living.
By the thousands they came. Pleading.
It’s just over this way, we said, through this gate.
And we shut it behind them, locked them in.
Of all people to imprison refugees, doing it here
has a special irony. Here in a land born in prison.
On ground we stole from an ancient people.
Our blood baptism brought forth a new religion.
And now we sacrifice their children — refugee
children — on the altar of our merciless god.
In truth, we’re grateful when they sew
their mouths shut, because their screams
pierce the night and steal from us our dreams
of beer and song and beautiful women.
And when they hang themselves or jump
they spare us the expense of the slow death
we were always planning to give them.
There is a boat across the Styx, and a staircase.
And at the top of the stairs, a gate.
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.
And welcome to Villawood.

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POEM: blame the brown people (November Poem-A-Day 27)

Published 28 November 2010 by Jason Crane

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This is poem #27 for the November Poem-A-Day challenge. It’s almost over. Today’s prompt was to write a “blame the (blank)” poem. It’s quite possible this poem was impacted by how I spent most of my afternoon.

blame the brown people

for standing under all those bombs we dropped
getting themselves killed
didn’t they know enough to get out of the way?

sure, the cluster munitions and the food packets
were the same basic color and shape
but Jesus-H-Christ-on-a-crutch
how goddamned stupid are those Afghan and Iraqi kids?

I think they mostly hate us ’cause we’re right about everything
that would annoy anyone
don’t you remember the brainiac in high school
who you just wanted to punch until he went down
and stayed down?

Anyway, I think the next thing we ought to drop over there
is a picture of a bomb that says DON’T STAND UNDER THIS

Fuckin’ A right. Praise Jesus. Amen.

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POEM: After a poem by C.P. Cavafy

Published 26 November 2010 by Jason Crane

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I wrote this today in my favorite coffee shop while reading Cavafy’s Collected Poems. The italicized lines in the poem are from Cavafy’s poem “Before Time Altered Them.”

After a poem by C.P. Cavafy

They were full of sadness at their parting.

A fleeting kiss, meant to play the role
of so much unexplored country.

Tin-voiced airline announcements listing
destinations — a word meaning, originally,
“to stand.”

So he did, looking out the terminal window,
watching her walk away.

That wasn’t what they themselves wanted.
It was circumstances.

So easy to place the blame on fate.
Throw the stick in the stream,
watch it float toward the sea.

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POEM: the salmon come back every year (November Poem-A-Day 26)

Published 26 November 2010 by Jason Crane

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This is poem #26 for the November Poem-A-Day challenge. Today’s prompt was to write an “on the run” poem.

the salmon come back every year

looking for love — or at least life —
in the same place they found it last year

I always thought I was a human
and I’m not all that strong a swimmer

but apparently these are scales
and I am traveling upriver

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POEM: Today I played chess with a turkey (November Poem-A-Day 25)

Published 25 November 2010 by Jason Crane

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This is poem #25 for the November Poem-A-Day challenge. Today’s prompt was to write an animal poem. Given that this is also my first Thanksgiving as a vegan, I decided to write a poem about doing something with a turkey other than eating it.

Today I played chess with a turkey

Rather than eating him, I mean.
His name was Ronald.
I was embarrassed, because I thought
all turkeys were named Tom.
“That’s OK,” he said, “everybody thinks that.”
We played in the park on one of those tables
old men use when the afternoons get too long.
Ronald told me he’d always wanted to play
the saxophone, but his limbs weren’t set up right.
I suggested the koto, a Japanese instrument played
by plucking, something I figured he could easily do
with his beak. “It’s just not the same,” he said.
“You can’t play the blues on a koto.”
Ronald mentioned that he once played a one-string,
jug-band bass with Muddy Waters, during Muddy’s
last gig in Chicago. “But Muddy died in 1983
and turkeys only live for 10 years,” I said.
Ronald said that was another myth.
“I’m 47, and my dad lived to be … well …
I know it was more than 80, at least.”
Ronald said many turkeys only live 10 years
because most of them never develop hobbies.
We played three games of chess and Ronald won
all three. He was very gracious about it.
“It keeps me young,” he said.
After the games, we walked back downtown
to my apartment. The whole way there, Ronald
hummed “Mannish Boy.”

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