poet, interviewer, musician, traveler
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A memory of taking my older son to the bus when he was in first grade.
darkness, whispering
he seems too small
to withstand
the yellow
metal embrace
it gathers him in
and he disappears
lost behind the vinyl
seats tall as walls
I try to wave
but he doesn’t see me
so I walk back home
in the pre-dawn
darkness, whispering
softly, to no one,
that’s my little boy
I wrote this poem today for Jaime Escalante, the math teacher who was made famous in the movie “Stand and Deliver.” He died March 30, 2010, at the age of 79.
Photo: George Rose/ Getty Images
My Name Is Jaime Escalante
I sing the body mathematical;
my children calculate
the warp and woof
of the universe.
They strain at their limits,
breaking through the
expectations of parentage,
economy, geography.
In an infinite series of small
achievements, the next generation
ascends to the summit,
surveys el barrio.
No fence can restrain them,
no cracked concrete
prevent their flowering.
They are transcendent,
a series of small stones
bridging the chasm
between now and
what could be.
Just another man from East L.A.,
a son of Bolivia and father
to the children of the function,
the integral, the derivative.
What equation can measure this sum?
What sign can equal these lives?
I sing the body mathematical.
My children calculate the answer.
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This poem is the sixth in a series of pieces inspired by bass clarinetist Thomas Savy’s new CD, French Suite (Plus Loin Music, 2009). This particular poem came from his composition “Ouverture.” You can learn more about Thomas Savy at his MySpace page. I’ll be posting more poems in this series in the coming days. You can also read and listen to the first, second, third, fourth and fifth poems in this series.
toujours l’ouverture
cymbal crown church bell
assembles the faithful
center: two dancers
basso profundo
et Fili et Spriritus Sancti
screech strike rumble
circle ’round the cobblestones
white scarf around the waist
falls to the street as he spins
lightly, lightly now
dip and circle, bob and weave
“trouve moi la mélodie, mon amourâ€
one then another then another
until the street is clear
and the breeze carries the scarf away
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Ego ingredior proinde ego sum.
Proof
these are my footsteps
thudding on the pavement
so I must be here
otherwise
I wouldn’t have believed it
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This poem is the fifth in a series of pieces inspired by bass clarinetist Thomas Savy’s new CD, French Suite (Plus Loin Music, 2009). This particular poem came from his performance of Duke Ellington’s “Come Sunday.” You can learn more about Thomas Savy at his MySpace page. I’ll be posting more poems in this series in the coming days. You can also read and listen to the first, second, third and fourth poems in this series.
worship
come, Sunday
and make of us
believers
through the power
of your melody
and the glory
of the chord
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This poem is the fourth in a series of pieces inspired by bass clarinetist Thomas Savy’s new CD, French Suite (Plus Loin Music, 2009). This particular poem came from his composition “Ballade de Stephen Edward.” You can learn more about Thomas Savy at his MySpace page. I’ll be posting more poems in this series in the coming days. You can also read and listen to the first, second and third poems in this series.
Stephen Edward
writes his cramped
letters in a worn
notebook, sitting
everyday at the
same table, making
his single glass last
sometimes he leans
back, letting the sun
hit him full in the face
at other times he’s
hunched and indrawn
the world shut out
his thoughts swirling
he’s filing reports
for a nonexistent
newspaper, one whose
readers all live in the
same house, between
two ears and exposed
to the rain under
Stephen’s sparse hair
whoosh
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This poem is the third in a series of pieces inspired by bass clarinetist Thomas Savy’s new CD, French Suite (Plus Loin Music, 2009). This particular poem came from his composition “Stones.” You can learn more about Thomas Savy at his MySpace page. I’ll be posting more poems in this series in the coming days. You can also read and listen to the first and second poems in this series.
Stones
like the ones
my grandfather
painted flowers
on, found near
the water
where the pilgrims
landed, stepping
onto the big stone
and calling out
thanks to their god
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This poem is the second in a series of pieces inspired by bass clarinetist Thomas Savy’s new CD, French Suite (Plus Loin Music, 2009). This particular poem came from his composition “My Big Apple.” You can learn more about Thomas Savy at his MySpace page. I’ll be posting more poems in this series in the coming days. You can also read and listen to the first poem in this series.
My Big Apple
every tune about New York
rushes forward this way
even the ballads
the kinetic energy of the city
is just too strong to resist
and before you know it
a laconic melody about
the Hudson has turned
that river into the Mississippi
at flood stage
the skyscrapers floating by
at 45 degrees to the horizon
businessmen doing the
backstroke off the Battery
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This poem is the first in a series of pieces inspired by bass clarinetist Thomas Savy’s new CD, French Suite (Plus Loin Music, 2009). This particular poem came from listening to his performance of John Coltrane’s “Lonnie’s Lament.” You can learn more about Thomas Savy at his MySpace page. I’ll be posting more poems in this series in the coming days.
the bass clarinet
reaches down, scoops
out your intestines
causes your brow
to furrow, your eyes
to narrow then shut
lamentation, an old
fashioned word
from before these sounds
existed, before this
Frenchman was born
John William burned
his lament onto the wax
as he had inscribed it
onto the paper
black ink to red fire
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The quotation that begins this poem comes from the “Excerpts From Oliver Charming’s Diary” section of Jack Spicer’s “Unvert Manifesto.” I read that line and couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Rain
(for Jack Spicer)
“there is a morning when it rains
in the corner of everybody’s bedroomâ€
Jack said, eyebrow raised
I never knew whether he was joking
or whether his little exclamations
were more like Buddhist koans
rhetorical devices that were intended
to get the brain juices flowing
opening the mind for something or other
“better give me that umbrella, thenâ€
I answered, raising my own eyebrow
trying to fight fire with fire
but Jack wasn’t amused
he just turned away in disgust
and opened his well-thumbed journal
I felt like a fool, a novice
I rose to go,
witless and small
“don’t leave,†Jack said, “listenâ€
he put a finger to his lips
I held my breath, concentrating
and there it was, in the corner
of Jack’s room
drip, drip, drip, drip
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My friend Matt and I found an unaccompanied dog while we were walking to lunch yesterday. His tag told us that his name was Zephyr and that he lived a few blocks away. We took him home.
Photo by Matt Leon
Returning Zephyr
everyone just
wants to go home
curled up
on the rug
in front of the fire
weightless
he was there
on the sidewalk
unattended, unafraid
you’ve felt that way, too
still, though
we felt we should
take him home
someone must be
missing him
calling his name
first warm week
here he was
escaped
still, though
we felt we should
take him home
why wasn’t someone
out looking?
no one answered
the phone, ringing
no one answered
the bell, ringing
then she was there
surprised
completely unaware
that he was missing
still, though
we left him there
home
* * *
I think
he would have
been just as happy
to come with us
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Crossing
5 fingers
5,000 lbs of metal
she knows their names
her legs ache on the pavement
she herds them across
shortened crook
5 lbs of metal
5 fingers
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From the Winslow Homer section of the National Gallery
Building The Boat
1.
in the beginning, it was obvious
they were building the boat to flee
resources were scarce
so they were meticulous in the
placement of each plank and the
sewing of each stitch in the sailcloth
carefully they provisioned the craft
and chose only such crew as wouldn’t
miss the homeland, having
no kin to leave behind
the boat was nearly complete
when the first earthquake hit
destroying most of the houses
in the center of town
that afternoon they dismantled the boat
using its planks to build houses
and covering the windows and doors
with the sailcloth to keep out the wind
in time, they sawed new wood for planks
sewed new sails and built a second boat
2.
no one saw the attack coming
certainly relations with the neighboring village
had been strained of late, but the dawn slaughter
of so many innocents startled even
the most cynical among them
fortifications were built from the planks
and uniforms from the sailcloth
they turned away from the surf
and waited for the next wave
behind the barricades
this time the boat-building took longer
there were fewer of them than before
and they had to range farther to get the wood
most of which they gathered at night
when it was safe — or at least safer —
to move beyond the town’s boundaries
3.
by the next autumn they’d finished
this hull was less glorious than the first
or even the second, having been built
from what wood was left
it was seaworthy, though,
standing in the harbor
waiting for those lucky enough
to have berths upon it
the crew had nearly finished loading the hold
when an argument started between the captain
and the chief shareholder
about the planned destination
one said west, one said south
and no entreaties by third parties
could convince either to relent
life went on much as before, and
the fully laden boat rocked on the tide
4.
the submarine nosed toward the wreckage
disturbing the fish who swam between the planks
through the sand kicked up by the sub’s propellers
the doorway to the hold was just visible
it was through this space that the divers slipped
sliding past a hang-hinged door, beyond
the reach of the sub’s light
the divers switched on their flashlights
to reveal row upon row of unopened boxes,
casks and barrels, all neatly tied, waiting
I just found out that the audio version of “Eating Godzilla” was accepted for the upcoming “New Classics” issue of qarrtsiluni. That issue will come out from May to June, with new work posted each day. Watch this space for updates, and thanks, qarrtsiluni!
UPDATE: When I got home today, there was an acceptance letter from Blue Collar Review. They’ll be publishing “Lillian Dupree & The Ballad of Frenchman Street” in an upcoming issue.
That’s two in one day after never having any success with individual poems before. Huzzah!
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Blackout
during the war he rode the English trains
asking strangers to wake him at his stop
they never did, and he’d find himself lost
in the blacked-out countryside
worried that the Brits would find him
and think he was a German spy
“They’d shoot ya,” he told me
holding on to the bar in the subway
and leaning against his wife
“My Ro,” he called her
they’d just been to the opera
to see Atilla, and now here he was navigating
the depths of this city, trying to
find the next connection and looking for help
to yet another stranger on a train
I grasped his hand as I led his Ro and him
to the shuttle for Grand Central
this time all the lights were on,
and no shots were fired