three poems about things

I am unpacking some older poems and sprucing them up.

ODE TO OPAL
The opal, they say,
is partly water,
softer than crystal
(though not as clear),
smoother than pearl
(though not as soft),
as fragile as a heart
nearly mended.
Break it and it bleeds —
scattering light
like dreams at dawn.

The opal, the say,
attracts joy, love,
creative spirits
that fire the heart,
sends from its center
the magic of all other stones,
– an irresistible call
to iridescence.

ARTIFACT
There once was a point
to this old lantern
that now only reflects
what light slips through
somber drawn drapes
Once it had a purpose in
repelling night’s dark hand.
Its flickerings lit dim stairwells,
dispelled the haunts of nightmares,
revealed vague truths locked
within shadowy eyes.
Useless in lonely oblivion,
it waits for storms
that devour the sky
and send the world
into frightful corners
of unexpected night.

STILL LIFE WITH LUNCH
I indulge my tongue with baguette and brie
and contemplate a miniature collection
of my life’s best metaphors,
captured in small wooden squares
framed, off-center, in an expanse of
off-white kitchen wall–
spiny shells and chunks of stone
bought or stolen from gritty beaches
and hallowed hillsides;
two miniature totem poles,
stacks of toothy masks eternally
divining and defying;
a ceramic face of serene Kwan Yin,
graceful hands open in eternal
maternal blessing;
a pious, pewter St. Anthony,
haloed, holding the sad Child, and
on the lookout for misplaced keys;
a feather, probably a duck’s
because the wild turkey’s didn’t fit,
and every altar needs a feather;
a brass double dorje, the mate
to the Tibetan bell I ring
in moments of turning
toward thoughts of a frameless future;
and, finally, a crumbling wine bottle cork
on which is printed,
in balky blue ballpoint:
CONUNDRUM.

The Last of the 60s Singer/Songwriters

Having just seen the Bob Dylan move, A Complete Unknown, I am thinking about all of the great singer/songwriters that came out of the 60s and 70s. Joni Mitchell, Leonard Cohen, Kris Kristofferson, Joan Baez, Donovan, Judy Collins… I can go on and on.

Their lyrics were poetry, and they sang them so that we could clearly hear and understand the passion and authenticity behind the words.

I get it that Rap can also be poetry, but it is delivered in a cadence and speed that too often blurs the meaning of some very powerful words and emotions.

Taylor Swift is just about the best contemporary singer/songwriter, and I get why she is so popular. But, again, her lyrics often take second place to the sounds of the instrumentalization, the beat of this generation.

My favorite contemporary singer/songwriter is Don McClean. His song, “Vincent” is pure poetry in both words and delivery.

But my favorite work by a singer/songwriter of 60s, who is still alive, is this one written by Joni Mitchell and sung by Judy Collins.

Both Sides Now
Rows and floes of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I looked at clouds that way
But now they only block the sun
They rain and they snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way
I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down and still somehow
It’s cloud illusions I recall
I really don’t know clouds at all

Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way that you feel
As every fairy tale comes real
I’ve looked at love that way
But now it’s just another show
And you leave ’em laughing when you go
And if you care, don’t let them know
Don’t give yourself away
I’ve looked at love from both sides now
From give and take and still somehow
It’s love’s illusions that I recall
I really don’t know love
I really don’t know love at all

Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say, “I love you, ” right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I’ve looked at life that way
Oh, but now old friends, they’re acting strange
And they shake their heads and say I’ve changed
Well, something’s lost, but something’s gained
In living every day
I’ve looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It’s life’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know life at all
It’s life’s illusions that I recall
I really don’t know life
I really don’t know life at all

A Fabled Coat Tale

The following is a double “haibun” that I wrote. Generally, a haibun consists of one or more paragraphs of prose written in a concise, imagistic style, and one or more haiku.

The coat was heavy with history – nights thrown over naked shoulders at smokey Montparnasse cafes, or tossed onto the back of a scarlet sofa at a late night Parisian salon. Its heavily textured fabric masked a delicate residue of absinthe, bathtub gin, and the mascaraed tears of its most passionate devotees. Nina Hamnett, self-proclaimed and notorious “Queen of Bohemia,” wore its gold satin lining next to her skin while she danced shimmering lights into its weave of rich silk brocade. On those nights, the coat created its own melody, a mesmerizing harmony of color, texture, and pattern, the timeless echoes of Sirens’ songs.

            from creative abandon
            and dazzling artistry
            mythos emerges

When war started and the creative effete fled to the safer shores of England and America, the infamous coat reappeared in the window of the Fifth Avenue Parisian boutique that Zelda Fitzgerald frequented during her spendthrift forays around New York City’s Palais Royale Hotel in search of the perfect evening dress. What she found, instead, was the legend and the fantasy of the still richly seductive coat, artfully displayed in a shimmer of late afternoon sunlight. And so the storied coat became her constant companion through bi-polar adventures played out over two continents and two decades, until both she and the coat began to unravel.

            relics of deadly excess
            burdened with fear
            set fragile souls afire

I Concur with Judith Viorst

I just picked up from the library, two humor books by Judith Viorst, who is 93 years old. The two books are Unexpectedly Eighty and Nearing Ninety. Since she has had a long marriage to her husband, is financially affluent, and has a slew of grandkids, I don’t resonate with many of her pieces. But there are two that caught my attention.

From Unexpectedly Eighty, “Been There, Done That”:

When I see a young woman strolling down the street
With her gleaming hair, glowing skin, and impeccable thighs,
Evoking from the passing male population
Some appreciative glances, some longing sighs,
Some politically incorrect but rave reviews,
And when I notice that none of these fellows is taking notice of me
In my elasticized-waistband pants and my comfortable shoes,
I mobilize the wisdom of a lifetime
And tell my envious heart, Been there, done that,
Calling upon my memory’s rich store,
To which my envious heart replies,
Recalcitrantly, unreasonably,
But I want to be there again
And do that some more.

And, from Nearing Ninety, “Answers”:

I do not believe in God,
But if I did,
I might be thinking he’s not such a lovely person,
Considering all of the misery and injustice in this world,
Some of which (volcanoes and earthquakes, for instance),
Cannot, in spite of free will including
Our freedom to screw things up,
Be blamed on us.
Furthermore, I do not believe in an Afterlife,
With an upstairs and downstairs for the naughty and nice,
Our room arrangements made by a Higher Authority
Whose job it has been to scare us into behaving ourselves.
On the other hand, I do believe in Mystery,
And in my inability to fathom
How the world came into being,
How life began,
And, if there is a point,
To the point of it all.
So, if you are looking for answers from this old lady,
You won’t find them here.

Still plugging away.

I’m sending out Letters to the Editor and OpEd pieces promoting the petition to whatever publications I think might accept them.  Please feel free to send your own Letter to the Editor to your own local newspaper.  Meanwhile, inspired by “…they paved paradise and put in a parking lot…” from Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi.

Revenant

Under a dark moon,
she hunts the land for what
she cannot leave behind:

the scent of marigold
crushed on skin;
the fragile grace
of seedling maples;
the soft acceptance
of lambs ear leaves —

all lost to the dark,
to a place too ruined
for digging.

Tirelessly, she wrestles
the ghosts she has come
to free from the hold
of reluctant stone,

from the evil spell
binding the earth once
worked with the patient
need of her hands.

Held by the moment,
I breathe deeply
the sharp-scented air,
search for signs
of moon in the sky,

pray to find
what has been lost
from her night
and from my own.

I remember a little boy.

I remember a little boy
with a heavy brow
framing a careful gaze.

I don’t remember
where I lost him.
Maybe
it was at that fuel pump,
where I absentmindedly
drove off, only to see him,
in hindsight, running
down the road after me,
crying. Both of us
crying.

Maybe
it was during that
black and white
winter night, when
the only light was
moon on snow,
and I left him, alone
powerless, not knowing
that the dark house
would overtake him.

Maybe
I didn’t really lose him.
Maybe
it shouldn’t matter.

What matters is that
I still dream about
a little boy with
a heavy brow
and a dark gaze,
who is always reaching,
reeling, and running.

No Charm School Charmer #2

A version in poetry, in contrast to the prose version. This is a good example of how my poetry comes from a much deeper and more honest place than my prose.

Charm School

They sent me to Charm School
that graduation summer.
Each day I dressed for Park Avenue:
black high heels and gartered hose,
dress hemmed below my pristine knees.
Even white gloves, the eternal symbol
of lady-like correctness.

They sent me to Charm School
to smooth my ragged edges,
remove me from the music
and the bad boys who played it
and give me the face that they
wanted to show the world.
And I went, my last concession.

The sent me to Charm School,
where I learned to sit with ankles,
(not knees) crossed, hands cupped
demurely in a lap that never opened.
They amended my eyebrows, hair,
tried to dislodge my unpleasant
speech, bearing, attitude.

They send me to Charm School.
And the one thing I remember
is how Loretta Young could open
a door into crowded room and
gracefully turn her back
on her eager audience.

They sent me to Charm School,
but their bright fantasies and
those charming illusions,
could not defuse the dark fire
that fuels my recalcitrant soul.

While I’m Waiting

While I’m waiting for the signatures on the Improve Senior Housing petition to reach 100, I’m poking around in my old poetry. This from pre-Covid:

The Senior Center Singer

Hair white as winter,
face aligned with 91 years:

Seconds slow to match her
shambling gait secured
with sturdy black cane
and orthopedic shoes
as she moves to the mic
in the room’s easy silence.

As the soft piano tones,
her eyes glow like summer
mornings, bright and vital;
the plains of her face revive
as the clear soprano of her voice
reclaims the joys of Summertime,
recalls when living was easy
and babies hushed to the touch
of her melancholy lullaby.

My Fan Crush and Why

I have a fan crush on young Vincent D’Onofrio.  As I lay in bed tonight, I finally realized why.  He reminds me of an old flame.  Something about the tall body type, the surrounding air of intense creative energy. 

Ed was an artist.  Well, he still is, since he is still alive.  Lives in Bangor Maine and still teaches art. D’Onofrio no longer looks anything like the young man he once was, although I still watch the old “Criminal Intent” reruns from decades ago, in which he plays Detective Robert Goren.

One summer weekend, Ed and I drove out to Boston. We stayed at Copley Square and roamed the surrounding streets of Boston, meandering galleries and shop windows, never at a loss for conversation and delight.

That night, as we prepared for sleep, he asked me to get up and pose, with my arms out, in the light from the window. He pondered the pose for a minute, and that was it.

So, when I saw this painting on his website, I wondered if that image of me stuck somewhere in his subconscious and wound up in this painting.

Probably not, but I can fantasize, can’t I?

If you’ve the mind to, check out the paintings on his website.  His spirituality (he’s an ex-priest) comes out in his paintings, capturing the very essences of his subjects.  His paintings are full of the kind of beauty and energy with which he lives.

Here are two poems that resulted from that weekend in Boston.

Stone Cold Demon

I hear the silent scream
of the demon in the shop
on Newbury Street,
teeth bared, hunkering in
some primal isolation.
I want to hold him to my heart,
warm the stone that molds him
in his place, sing him
soft with lullabies
and promises I will keep.

I taste his fear in the tears
that mark my cheek.
“Love me, love me!” he cries.
“Love!”
“Me!

 

Pan Makes a Personal Appearance

To think it was you I summoned!
All those incantations,
those spells dispatched
to shift the stars, returned
as this immortal face,
this ancient tale.

To think the gods still answer prayers!
Make bright, deft-handed landings
right before my eyes,
fall haloed and goat-footed
deep into my mark,
breathing mischief and mayhem,
and bold bewildering dreams.

Angel, satyr, shepherd,
your music stirs the skin.
Play your syrinx now
for me, my kin.
We will dance, dance
to your tune.

September Sunflowers

Valley Time

Easterly,
the winds tease the sun
toward morning
brushing aside the easy showers
of early summer clouds.
Time follows the way of the wind
through this dawn-misted valley,
filters through the blue unfoldings
of fragile morning chicory,
flows through the slow, green seekings
of those low growing vines,
breathes honeysuckle and wildrose rain
into the season’s drifting light.
Westward,
the sun leaves the high horizon,
draping a dry autumn night
over the tired faces
of September sunflowers.

© Elaine Frankonis