walking in the street
cars passing too closely:
icy sidewalks
Tag: Poetry
ice on the driveway
inside, spicy noodles
and the warmth of conversation
the heater’s fan clicks off
the room is a field of silence
I am imagining Mt. Fuji
I am becoming a mountain
This haiku is largely an inside joke. Sorry about that.
/ / /
warm miso soup
cold soba & the taste of avocado
way better than Chipotle (TM)
biting breeze
blows the curtains in and out
I breathe
sharp winter sun
the snow is alive
with squirrels
Listen to these poems using the player above.
/ / /
salty dream
awaken to the chime
…sit
/ / /
deoxy-
ribonucleic acid:
me
UPDATE: This poem was published in the Winter-Spring 2010 issue of Blue Collar Review. You can get your copy at partisanpress.org.
Lillian Dupree & The Ballad of Frenchman Street
It always starts with the rain and wind kicking up.
Clouds circle like vultures far out over the ocean,
higher than the sailors could see them,
if they were looking.
In a bar near Charity Hospital,
the TV shows the slowly spiraling storm,
but the sound is off and no one pays much mind
as the weatherman says “this is the one.”
In old westerns, the Indian lies prostrate,
ear to the ground, listening for the approaching hoof beats
of a warring tribe. If Donald Harrison, Jr., were to put
his ear to the ground, he would hear the low rumble of the future.
A factory in Texas made the guitar
that will be strummed when the horn should be sounded.
The strings are tight across the bridge,
like the cars and the buses and those on foot will be later.
Back on Frenchman Street, Lillian Dupree gets up from the bar
and starts for home, noticing that the breeze is strong.
She’s still in her scrubs after a long night taking readings,
listening for pulses and watching the moving lines.
This is the old part of the city.
The part the French built when it seemed like they’d be here forever.
As time and the storm proved, no one
is guaranteed this plot of land at the edge of the gulf.
First the French, then the Spanish, then the French again;
they all tried to conquer what could not be tamed;
tried to civilize the wild Caribbean soul of a city that was
never really part of this country, and yet is at the heart of it.
Perhaps it is that very separation, that very wildness,
that will make it easy for many to look away
as the bowl fills with unholy water like a rusty pot
left to decay in the tall grasses out behind the house.
Lillian Dupree is tired.
Tired of walking these same streets every night.
She wishes she could drive, or that she could afford to live
far enough away to commute.
She was born at this very hospital, born to a mother
who was born to a mother
who was born to a mother
who was born a slave.
Did you know that the last ever shipment of African slaves
from the continent came to this very city?
By that time, all the Africans you could ever want
were being mass produced in Virginia.
Donald Hall, one of the country’s great poets, writes with passion about Dock Ellis, one of baseball’s most colorful figures. If all you know about Dock Ellis is that he once pitched a no-hitter on LSD, then you need to read this book and learn the other 90% of his story. And if you, like me, have never heard of Dock Ellis at all, Hall’s engrossing account will acquaint you with a man who deserves wider recognition, as much for his constant support of the black community and his commitment to fighting drug addiction as for his on-field stats. Highly recommended.
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Bongocero
(for Arturo O’Farrill)
the meaty slap of flesh on flesh
the pop of skin on skin
fingertips, the side of the thumb
legs a vice to hold the shells
the heart of the matter is a mix
of rhythm and freedom
of accompaniment and improvisation
of ancient order and modernity
then from the back of the stage
the trumpets kick in
and the bongocero drops his drums,
which fall to the stage with a thud
now it’s skin grasping wood striking metal
as the bell cuts through
the urgent stabs of the horns
and gives a lift to the dancers
gi-gi-go
gi-gi-go
gi-gi-go
gi-go
gi-gi-go
gi-gi-go
gi-gi-go
gi-go
I thought this was lovely and powerful.
Leave a CommentHere are two lovely poems from my good friend Otto Bruno, host of The Sunday Music Festa on Jazz90.1 in Rochester, NY.
There was an old man name of Crane
for poetry he was a pain
he thought it was worthy
I’d rather have scurvy
than listen to poets inane.
And the other, in haiku form…
Jason was Irish
a blight on his ancestry
he did not drink pints
April is National Poetry Month, and Craig Wilson writes in USA Today that he’s found a new understanding and enjoyment of (some) poetry:
The charms of poetry have long been lost on me. Other than the odd Robert Frost offering —Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, for instance — most poems leave me perplexed. And not pleasantly so.
Did I sleep through that class in college? Or am I just a philistine? Probably both. I will embarrass myself further and confess I’m fond of poems that rhyme. Or at least kind of rhyme. At least make sense.
Then again I like my song lyrics to make sense. Is that too much to ask?
So I was going through a stack of books on my desk the other day and came across Poem in Your Pocket, a new book from Abrams Image. Makes sense. April is National Poetry Month.
The charms of poetry have long been lost on me. Other than the odd Robert Frost offering —Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, for instance — most poems leave me perplexed. And not pleasantly so.I’m glad that Wilson was able to push past his initial misgivings and find some value in poetry. I don’t think you need to “get” poetry. I just think it’s worth giving it a try.
(Thanks to Harriet for the link.)
I don’t know enough about the interviewer in this video to say anything, but James rises above the interview setting to give some pithy, witty and probably fairly useful thoughts about writing poetry:
Now that you’ve seen the video, you might enjoy what Norton editor Robert Weil has to say about Clive James’ poetry collection, Opal Sunset: Selected Poems, 1958-2008
.
I am now quite obsessed with Robert Burns.
The other day I spent my lunch break sitting in a cemetery in Ravena, NY, reading aloud from A Night Out with Robert Burns: The Greatest Poems
in a Scottish accent. (Well, I’m calling it a Scottish accent. Many would disagree.) It was fun. Really, really fun. This particular book is divided by subject matter: poems about women, drink, politics, etc. I read quite a few love poems and several about drinking. Then I read — for the first time in my life, I’m embarrassed to say — “Tam O’ Shanter.” What a riot!
I’m also reading Robert Crawford’s new biography of Burns, The Bard: Robert Burns, A Biography
. It’s the first biography of Burns that I’ve read, so I can’t compare it to the many volumes that have come before, but the scholarship seems first-rate and the writing is compelling and fresh. It also doesn’t shy away from the political and religious underpinnings of Burns’ work, which I appreciate.
I’ve long been a fan of Old Blind Dogs, the Scottish traditional band. For a while, their lead singer was Jim Malcolm, a wonderful interpreter of the songs of Robert Burns. I just picked up one of his solo recordings, which I highly recommend. It includes his interpretation of “Tam O’ Shanter.”
Just today, I downloaded Eddi Reader’s album of Burns music, Sings The Songs Of Robert Burns:
Oh my. Oh my, oh my. What a voice. What an orchestral accompaniment. What a gorgeous album. Burns fan or not, you need this one in your collection.
