Spicy Poetry, and Help from Readers

As an idea for a poem (inscape, imagist, and sensuous), I think writing a series of couplets or verse (triplets at the most) about Spices would be interesting.

My brothers and I were talking about spices and cooking, and i got to thinking. My first shot was to think:

tarragon – for making bearnaise and tartare
from french, le dragon herb lives ever in wine
to spice our soups, just in time.

Or something, that’s just a quick idea. (Besides, i know that tarragon is from the French for Dragon), he he!

Now for the help. I’d like to write many of these, and want everyone to leave a quick comment saying which herb you want immortalized.

Please name any, and before the spring planting time (or, for oz and you tropical folks, pretty soon), I will compose a set of verses about spices, their uses, word history, flavors, particular foods and just a few more ideas.

Please help! Comment and tell me an herb you love, a spice you sigh about, a flavoring you cannot live without!

Thanks ever so much, then!

Posted in Poetry | 6 Comments

A try at a Blues song, and hope for rewrites from the masses.

A Blues (This will go unto the songwriting and blues pages when it is more satisfactory. Until then, please tell me what you would rewrite.)

Sing me a song about Rachel
I remember her so well

Sing a sweet song of Rachel
Oh Yes, I remember her well

Blonde hair and handsome body
Kisses straight from hell.

Dancin’ nightly to a downbeat
moving hot with flaming eyes

Dancin’ every night on Club Street
Oh so hot, my baby’s eyes

Even now her music takes my feet
Where her breathin’ was all sighs …

Bright eyes and easy smiling
fingers softly taking mine

Her wide eyes and easy smiling
shyly set her hand in mine

Flirting lightly as a feather
aching for her touch of wine

Rachel was as fair as fair
loved and never asked for walls

Oh Rachel always acted fair
She loved and without any walls

Fools thought this a holy joy
‘Til Rachel waved goodbye to all

I was dreamin’ of her last night
And spoke out loud her name

Dreamed of Rachel last night
called out, called out her name

My wife she woke and beat me
Rachel, please, come back and take the blame

Oh, Rachel please, come back and take my name
in this wide world come take my name!

Posted in Poetry | 3 Comments

Cities for you, readers, here is another one in Japan during Moon-watching Season.

Kyoto, Ancien Haute Couture of Modern Japan

It is only true in the evenings in August
cars desist, Shrines are lit, manners polished
The city of Kimono’d women fills again
ancient ghosts walk streets chattering
here they pass through gates 600 years ago
red silks rustle, parasols reflect yellow globes
servants, faithful since eternity, prepare tatami
sweet grass beckons on a hillside near
empty temples, forlorn and lone shrines
Samurai who walk in contemplation see
the pride of Kyoto in their finest color
arrayed like flowers on the hillside
watched by Empress and peasant here alike
the moon above polished bridges, bamboo
stands, quiet ponds, distant mountain shapes
The moon, the moon, the moon is rising now
and ghosts, ten thousand on the hillside sigh
down centuries, this ritual passes to children
Ghosts, shrines, golden silk and a pretty city
storing ancestors and remnants of historical desire.

Posted in Blogroll, City Poems, Poetry | 5 Comments

Cities again, here are two images of the Caribbean

Charlotte Amalie

The place to shop here is the Bishop Tutu Mall
… an occasional revolutionary parking lot
But in the heat, the slow pace of afternoons outside cemeteries
(New Orleans copied these, A Caribbean standard
… … almost Japanese with crowding)
stone upon stone upon white, aged, stone
hectic tourists chase all the birds away,
swarming the best headstones.

I flew in from St. Croix, before that Tortola, San Juan,
Some sweet line of sea and perfect blue
… And never rode a cruise ship so stood out among the tourists,
Who never entered any other way, they only ever cruise

Also, had more than four……hours to stay so I saw the place
Driving to Megan‘s Bay where the ships have (damn it) sailed
filled the sand with the smell of booze, retirement, and coppertone.

It is somewhat sobering to contemplate what was
… Frenchman’s reef could conjure a storm of pirate tales
lost now under concrete walks behind glass hotels
where mountainous canoes spew money, jobs,
… and the lesser hope of sharing and
locals cast lots for stripping riches.

Christiansted, US Virgin Islands

Here, we didn’t see Iguanas … but on the road
Horses bloomed like magic

Posted in Poetry | 5 Comments

Short stuff, of no particular style

Some rough, some smooth, and here’s 2 Cinquains, one old, one new, both finished, not rough, and contented.

******************************************

Sometimes the image is only a gentle touch
Among quiet hours
When cold harsh lights
Will not intrude the dusky softness.
Sometimes the image is a necessary calm
A child‘s smile.

******************************************

Cinnamon tea is a warming sound,
Softly dressing a silken minute.
Delicious is quite a pretty color,
Lightly wrapping the quiet hours.

Touchings, soft as fur and hard
as diamond saturate our senses,
overwhelm perception, breathing
life into spaces found between us.

******************************************

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AUBADE, CINQUAIN.

The sun
In sudden grace
Arrives, awakes in May
With winter done, a warmer place
Birth Day!

Aubade: A poem to the dawn
Cinquain: A 5 line poem, the lines having 2, 4, 6, 8, and 2 syllables in that order. The meter is iambic for the first 4 lines, and the last line is a spondee, both syllables stressed.

HAPPY NEW YEAR, CINQUAIN.

New Year’s
portends, like Moons
in kissing dreams, a chance
And drinking vows, arriving soon
New Days!

BABY RAP FOR RHYTHM ROWS
(Ya know, like corn rows, gotta practice style once in a while, baby)

listen to a Rap,
get yo head round dat beat
da rhyming beat, meat, feet
But the word come from da street
my friend fall out like heat
on a Corner in an L-A- night
Around the hood
where the word, bro, Word
is yo, what’s down is good.

Posted in Poetry | 1 Comment

once more, on poetry, dear …

 If you are interested, this has gone on to comparisons, with a new version added.

Poetry (A little pretentious?)

This is the love of words,
of cadence set upon the sea of rhyme
caressed within your heart,
tossed upon your tongue into verse
into rhythm, song and understanding.

This is culture savored and renewed
This is the face of Helen,
seen in the lyrics of rock and rap
discovered fresh by children
written on walls throughout the city
slammed upon library tables daily.

This is the regret of the poet,
as the the poetry of yore
founders on the mythic remains
bardic singings retreatedly lost
burning meaning in well formed verse
forcing rhyme to a line while chasing
the rules of quartet and quintain.

Sappho, Tupac, Chaucer, Eminem, Beowulf
LL Cool J, Oscar Wilde, Nikki GioV, and Wright
laid down the sound of the words
followed the meaning of rhythm
forcing the song into language.
and sold the rap onstage.

Posted in Poetry | 1 Comment

More today … We view the poetry of war ..

Today, there are 3,000 Americans boys and girls dead in a little desert stupidity. Here are pictures of other stupidities.

GOD IS A HELICOPTER

Slung under and about with modern machinery
fast firing guns and faster rockets
stand me in the shadow of your power.

I am awe in your fearful beauty
sculpted steel-green metal slick
Oh! So saving when you ranged above our danger

I swore that God had stood you without motion
As you lay about with David’s modern sling

We cheered your strong-arm graces then
rode your blessed highway, curving from the battle.

Alive, alive, we drank your sweet, clean wine.
Answering prayers from Khe Sanh, English
Hue and Pace and Sally, and, yes, Hill 805,

Your pilot-priests, gunner-acolytes, flying,
machine guns sighing holy rage
to save your congregation.

Behind a tropic sunlight, screaming slick,
six on six, in Vee formation, righteous,
angry, spitting, dropping justice, dropping
napalm psalms and one-point-two-inch rocket manna.

We knelt in honest fervor to your angelic escort
Wounded, dripping life along your heavenward journeys,
while we were borne again, on saving flights, born again,
in battle lust, for your sacred airborne blessing.

What God has ever stood so fast in answered prayer?
What prophet ever sounded hope so loud?

***********************************************************************************

BEAUTY

“Tonight he noticed how the women’s eyes
passed from him to the strong men that were whole.”
(From Disabled by Wilfred Owen)

Sometimes it is this I fear
when, like Wilfred Owen
I see the women staring
staring at the strong at the
beautiful gazing
and am too
lost among the love of youth
ashamed.

What is this my body
sometime broken
that has failed to mend
in acceptable ways?

What is this that I
not having but had
am searching to give
others?

See I will show you
what is beauty …

I will show you that cat
whole sleek and graceful
has killed a bird
whole sleek and graceful.

************************************************************************************

THE INCIDENT AT MY LAI COMES HOME

A poem from the 1990s, Appropriate now, too. The machine gunner from the Americal Division who assisted Lt. Calley in the massacre at My Lai was shot to death in a bar, fighting over a glass of vodka. On the news, it was said he had been drunk for most of the 21 years since the massacre.

The blind and lost killer of children
Bled death from his bullet quick
                    How much hatred for himself
             The blind and lost killer of children
       From 21 years of oblivion
Fought to the death
Over a swallow of Russian amnesia
                    How much hatred for himself
             The blind and lost killer of children
       Fought to the death
How much hatred for himself
Can a man hold onto?
                    Fought to the death
             Bled death from his bullet quick
       Over a swallow of Russian amnesia
From 21 years of oblivion
That bullet must have been sweet.
                    From 21 years of oblivion
             The blind and lost killer of children
       The blind and lost killer of children
The blind and lost killer of children
That bullet must have been sweet.

Let’s hope we miss the headlines 21 years from now.

Posted in Poetry | 4 Comments

Today is a day for posting

And changing the links, perhaps organizing pages.

Should we create new pages for each category of poem? Or spread them willy nilly across the screen, and perhaps load an avatar?

I think I’ll find all the poetry spread across my Papers, PCs, and the web and collect it here. Then decide. Comments are welcome.

Let’s start with a little self referential poem concerning how we break lines in modern English Poetry, as if we learned enjambement recently…

LINES, SPACES, BREAKS

Lines break where breath stops
start where words express anew
thought, picture, hue.
lines end here
or there and can be seen
related, or bound with no mercy
tied to your next idea

And again sometimes together you
bind an image like a camera
light to film, line to line, face
to memory.

From the break a binding
image drags a thought
along, past spaces, forces pauses,
—–Emily Dickinson used dashes——
Make the reader see
See the light, see many sides.

You never know, you only
decide yourself how the poem
breaks for you, your ear, your head, your heart.

Posted in Poetry | 2 Comments

Eddas, vignettes, and old found pieces.

Found on a 22 year old computer

Testing my oldest PC, a 1984 Leading Edge XT, I found this poem on the hard drive (it’s not my oldest computer, that’s a 1980 CP/M Kaypro II, but it’s not a PC).

I had tried to write it as a story, or as a long edda, and then perhaps as a poem like Brownings’ “My Last Duchess, or “The Laboratory” and I may still, given a little encouragement from my readers. I am happy I found this fragment, and now have some incentive to work on it.

Someone settled the spaceship, made planetfall
on a little rock near a water swept plain with green,
and the people lived, but the captain wept
at the closeness of the call but there they fell, and stayed
and space marines saved their lives at the outset
desperate works and exploration saved their wants

But in the night of the sunless spaces where the rock
entombed the ship
all the robots with minds but without right
went down and stayed and wept on rustless plastic
wept that their keepers had forgotton or worse
their faithful service and now helpless
grown neurotic in their fretting
find that it will end
even silicon tires, and dissipates if not silently
at last mercifully.

OK, it does need work. Tell me dear readers, what you’d like, what you want done with this. Expanded? A prose vignettte? A novel where the captain’s wife has taken silicon lovers? Suggestions. anyone?

Posted in Poetry | 1 Comment

OK, let’s just put up all the unfinished business and make this website do something!

Take a look at these attempts, tell me what would you rewrite, and why, And thanks in advance for the dialogue.

A Lost Love Song

Summers eve upon the plain
a languid silky shadowed sky
lazy dusky sunshine warm
prairie days declining lightly
wistful breezes weaving grasses
shadow clouds of summer storms.

Among a drifting air desire
like birds upon a zephyr floats
fluttering ever endlessly never
grasping soothing wafting
fingers slide like grasses waving,

breathless touches kissing thunder
attractive lightning quickly wraps
tentative circling discoveries meet
in summer heat, togetherness.

WARM SWEET SAFE HARBOR SINGAPORE

In Singapore, where all is bland and safe,
And everyone lives happy everyday
In warm blue skies, in gleaming gum-free streets
Among the many riches brought to light
Malaysian labor shines amid the fines
The Indian tailors, Filipina maids
At least they’re quiet and they never spit.
We are all here and happy all, we love
Soft ocean breezes, gentle beachside swells
The dignity of Raffles never sets
And no one here will kiss you in the road
For we cannot have passion in our place
Where all the wealthy tag-alongs have come
To find the only gated city in the east.

Posted in Poetry | 2 Comments

A Dream out of Celtic mist …

You think you are a romantic, do you?
For you as for so many others nothing is worse than unrequited love…
Did life not tell you, it is the sole way
to find your soul?
~~ Clarte DuBois, Aisling of Breton

There, beneath the green cap of felt rolled tall
red hair and large eyes intimidate fate
press conclusions into handshakes and running
opinionated into honesty, she left
unsolved, romantic conundrums of nothing
nothing is worse, is worse and she flies
a green tufted, shy breasted, sparrow in air.

She is of course, correct; rigid and right
in expression, philosophy and form, i know.
for among the grasses and dirt roads of walking
encounters with the many blessed finders of souls
has so enriched the understanding of our lives.

The beauty of this Aisling tends to sway light
heat, and her words are music from a bard, a bawd
that always deep and truthful images fill a poet’s ear

the caressing touch of unrequited 30 caliber justice
her gold brass hot among the morning’s kisses …

the spring day of unrequited boredom found a soul
lost in the warm grassy orphan’s yard, not yet alone …

bright unrequited sunlight burns sea, sand, and flesh
in sun bright blinding white napalm cascades …

Gathering souls, insights, images in beauty, muse
or dream or certain drug whispering nothing
nothing worse, and she, La Belle dan sans
assures through pain the soul regains, remains, rest.

Posted in Poetry | 3 Comments

OK, time for the commentators to help

What we need here is a discussion about punctuation in poetry, or what should I do with the Enjo Poem?

I think the spacing defines the rhythm, and punctuation will be redundant here. But that is my own masterly artistic self, and there may be other thoughts in the world.

What say ye?

Posted in Blogroll, Poetry | 2 Comments