Photo (c) Andrzej Pilarczyk
Thanks to the wonderful Albany arts & culture site Nippertown for featuring my poem “Gravity,” inspired by Matthew Shipp:
“Gravity” at Nippertown
Leave a CommentCategory: My poems
Listen to this poem using the player above.
North Greenbush To Albany
Start: the Sharp house, aging Greek revival
in what was once Bloominville.
They used to bottle spring water here
until the well dried up. Then it’s three miles,
nearly all downhill, because the Hudson
draws all riders to its level.
There are two bridges – the first
across the railbed, trains carrying what few goods
we still produce and the many others
we pull in like driftwood from the sea.
These caravans of metal containers are
bound for Manhattan, lodestone of heartbeats
and rushing blood. The same lines
carry women and men to concrete hope,
to the race, to the scurry. Some will return,
lowering their sights and settling in for the long haul.
Others will half-return, riding more prestigious lines
to their magazine homes. Or so I imagine,
in the ten seconds it takes my legs
to propel the bicycle over the tracks.
The second bridge is at the base of the hill,
the bottom of the gravity well. The concrete wave
crests atop the Hudson, that once mighty barrier-highway
that is now the scenic accompaniment to stroller moms
and weekend excursionists. The river is brown on this April afternoon,
laced with the white rush of recent rains. Soon
they’ll haul the old battleship back to the dock,
so children can giggle on the blood-washed decks
where their grandfathers stood taught, gripping the rails
with terror-strengthened fingers.
The river bridge descends into the city.
The Hudson is reluctant to give up the living,
and matches every descent with a grinding climb,
testing my resolve to leave its banks. A slow, steady rhythm
carries me past Albany Lodge No. 49 and the Beirut remains
of a once majestic hotel. This is the King’s Highway.
George Washington once climbed this same hill, walked
through this city when concrete was wood, pavement
was cobblestone or dirt, before Rockefeller’s bulldozers
created this modernity, drained its character for the queen.
The general is remembered with a street and a park and a blue iron sign.
The bells are tolling the three-quarter hour as I pass the chambers
where the laws are made, and the halls of education and bureaucracy.
Then it’s home, where a distant city’s baseball team is on the radio,
and I cook my imported convenience-store noodles and sit down to write.
Listen to this poem using the player above.
My first stab at a visual poem. Click on the image to see a larger version.
Listen to this poem using the player above.
Most people know that Walt Whitman published the first edition of Leaves of Grass in 1855. What few people know is that he plagiarized many of the most famous lines in the book from a lesser-known Massachusetts poet named Whit Waltman, who published his own Keep Off The Grass in 1854. The only known copy of Waltman’s book has been passed down by my family for generations, and I’m very happy to finally offer excerpts from it here.
Excerpts from Keep Off The Grass
by Whit Waltman
I hear America singing,
And I wish it would shut the hell up.
***
I celebrate myself
And so should you,
Because every atom that’s yours is mine
And every atom that’s mine is mine.
***
Oh captain! My captain!
Do you think we could get this boat moving sometime today?
These runaway slaves aren’t going to return themselves.
***
Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much?
It takes a long god-damned time to mow, I can tell you.
***
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
And if you’re not here by 8:30,
I’m going to the game by myself.
Listen to this poem using the player above.
If someone were to ask me to pick one person as a personal hero, Lenny Bruce is who I’d pick.
A Photograph Of Lenny
I write my poems
under a photo of Lenny Bruce.
He’s staring straight out at me,
denim-clad (maybe),
in front of a chain-link fence;
bags under his eyes
and a strap around his neck
that trails down
below the edge of the photo
so I can’t see what it supports.
When I look up to find him
staring at me, I feel exposed,
as if he’s challenging me:
“What are YOU doing about it?â€
I think the answer is probably
not very much, Lenny,
but I’m trying.
Listen to this poem using the player above.
Transubstantiation Is A Crock(pot)
Thomas didn’t want to touch Jesus
because he doubted His existence;
he wanted to see if He was tender.
“Nothing ruins a sacrament like tough Christ,â€
Tom said, casting a knowing glance
at the others. He spoke loudly
so that Jesus wouldn’t hear the fire crackling
in the next room, and to distract the Savior
from the stealthy approach of Simon/Peter,
who brandished a rock above his head.
He called the other night the last supper?
mused Thomas. He ain’t seen nothin’ yet.
Listen to this poem using the player above.
no-night stand
we met at a minor-league baseball game
she was there with someone else
but not really there,
if you know what I mean
I mean, he wasn’t much to write home about,
and she didn’t write home much anyway
so we chatted, like people do
I peppered the night with one-liners
made fun of the guy she was with
because I didn’t have a lunch box to hit her with
like I would’ve done if we’d been kids
by the time we reached the post-game pub
I’d fallen completely in love, like people do
we sat talking at one of those
small round tables
that make things either uncomfortable or intimate
some people are just easy to talk to
interested in what you have to say
not just waiting for their chance
we didn’t dance or walk in the moonlight
or discover the same favorite song,
it was just a long conversation
touching past, present and future
because there wouldn’t be a second
eventually it was time to go home
like many tragic love affairs
this one ended abruptly
not with poison or the blade
but with a debit card and a
“nice to meet you”
unlike many tragic love affairs
this one was experienced
by only one of the people involved
Listen to this poem using the player above.
Inspired by Matthew Shipp’s April 1, 2010 performance in Troy, NY.
Gravity
(for Matthew Shipp)
Matthew has to force his hands
back down to the piano
stop them from floating away
maybe from carrying him away, too
when it’s quiet you can hear the machines
tearing up Green Dolphin Street
they smash through the tarmacadam
down to the cobblestones
but then something goes wrong
some failsafe fails, and the machines
plunge on, grinding
into clay and on into the crust
a rock shelf gives way
there’s a long metallic groan
as the biggest digger spirals down
into the molten core
Matthew stands up from the piano bench
when the crashing subsides, then
he pushes against the piano,
forearms lean and tight,
really putting his back into it
slowly, so slowly you almost
don’t notice it at first,
the piano starts rolling
Matthew is sweating now,
his brow damp, his jaw hard
the narrow end of the piano
hits the crash bar and the door opens
flooding the theater with red light
a few dollops of lava
are already cooling on the remnants
of the pavement outside
Matthew pushes the piano through the door
to the edge of the hole
gets down on his hands and knees
and listens, peering into the pit
when he’s sure it’s time, he rises,
pushes the piano again
until the front wheel
clears the edge of the hole
Matthew plays one final chord
as the keyboard lifts off the ground
then watches as the piano tumbles
end over end into the pit
leaning out over the hole
he follows the piano’s path until it’s out of sight
and it’s only then that Matthew realizes
he’s not quite touching the ground
so he lifts his arms to the sky
and the clouds accept him as he rises
welcoming their returning son
as he breaks the tether of gravity
Listen to this poem using the player above.
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.
Listen to this poem using the player above.
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
Listen to this poem using the player above.
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
Leave a CommentListen to this poem using the player above.
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
Listen to this poem using the player above.
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
Listen to this poem using the player above.
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