Nat Lipstadt

Nat Lipstadt Apr 2017

in the river of good company

I dedicate this poem to
Mr. Harlon Rivers,
one of the best poets (here)
and from his good company,
i could drink all day and
never be quenched

~

Preface

sometime, the heart wants it wants,
denial, temporarily from your vocabulary, excised

sometimes, beauty keelhauls you, gets you
awestruck inspired, then arrogance overcomes
the brilliance of common sense and you go ahead and
mess with perfection despite every sensor flashing
uh oh, duh, oh no, fool on the premises, lockdown needed!

do believe this condition can be found in the medical books
under I, for Inspiration, Incantation, or S for Stupidifacation

my heart wants to write a poem,
cause I was a witness, sitting twenty feet
from the heavenly crime scene,
and every intonation swept my brain into that secret place,
when I heard KD Lang singing "The Valley"^

~~~

in the river of good company**

simple sentiment but good god
all I ever wanted and so oft lacked
such was my fate, one I made,
had plenty good words for boon companions,
the occasional touch of a woman rippling waves
cross my face, a love lapping slapping
of concentric pebble rings,
till like most good things
gone good goes bad,
it just happens to evaporate and
you think someday, maybe,
you will walk again in good company

the brain says quit right here
but the heart brooks no damning tantrum of sanity imposition,
for those handful of deepest, not quite six feet under
palpitations of insensible, cutting glimpses of that word I hate so,
memories,
of when
you walked in good company

men women no different - it is that heated aura
tween bodies that confirms that you are once again
a human being, just a being, temporarily
enhanced, elevated, by good company

so go ahead sweet talks ya, that devil id a/k/a desire, says -
one more for the road can't hurt ya,
write that poem -
and perhaps one good man, glory hallelujah, a good woman,
will read it and you can stop weeping you idiot,
do it so you will be back, nuttier but nurtured,
drinking from the river of good company,
mouthing not even dare whispering,
satisfied satiated, loving and loved
~
all reposts greatly and grateful appreciated!

4/2/17 9:24am

the perfection...
~

K. D. Lang - The Valley (Jane Siberry Lyrics)

I live in the hills
You live in the valleys
And all that you know
Are these blackbirds
You rise every morning
Wondering what in the world will the world bring today
Will it bring you joy or will it take it away
And every step you take is guided by
The love of the light on the land
And the blackbird's cry
You will walk
You will walk
You will walk in good company

The valley is dark
The burgeoning holding
The stillness obscured by their judging
You walk through the shadows
Uncertain and surely hurting
Deserted by the blackbirds
And the staccato of the staff
And though you trust the light
Towards which you wend your way
Sometimes it feels all that you wanted
Has been taken away
You will walk
You will walk
You will walk in good company
I love the best in you
You love the best in me
Though it's not always easy
Lovely, lovely
We will walk
We will walk
We will walk in good company
The shepherd upright and flowing
You see

Mar 2017

onlylovepoetry

the painstaking man

wondrous words,
shades of colorations,
this pain,
artfully slow, steady stalking,
finale staking into
my hardened heart

with tireless twinges
of loss and constant regret,
painstakingly plinking away,
leaving pockmarks of bullets shot
at the concrete ring-fencing,
failing to protect me from just another,

oh god not again,
have no mo' time
for jes one mo' time

love's aftermath regret,
bitter acid wash,
that cleanses nothing,
for you are already nothing
when love loss wrenches/rents your
soul's garments with knotholes of
unfashionable distressed
distress

better not to have loved,
better, better, better,
than this battering silent hurricane
invisible thunderstorm internally,
than respects no seasonality,
for which the meteorologists
can predict neither its path or its
final cessation

painstakingly,
did I build my walled shelter,
only to fail-fall to the siege machines
of beauty and desire,
and
once conquered,
with fire and heat,
they burnt me
from the outward edges inward,
and I am not a
Phoenix

see the stooped slow white walker
more than dead, yet alive enough
existing to be witness to
his own devouring,
his hands wrapped round
the stake in his chest stuck,
painstakingly
protecting it,
lest its removal
be one more undoing of the
painstaking man

#painstaking #man #olp

Nat Lipstadt Mar 2017

relics of a bygone sky

~dedicated to Robert Lepage^, a master at remembering~

~
we enumerated our days thusly,
each one was commenced with skyward glance,
eliciting an epithet, a blessing or a curse,
none passed unremarked, the plainest even,
acknowledged with an indecipherable glancing
mmmm* from the chest cut or purred,
quick withdrawn and quietly shared

thus recorded, our history disordered,
who can recall if it rained or snowed
on the last Sunday of July of 1998,
or even the sunset fabulous
that was its global signature signing of au revoir

of course, agreed, we remember the great hurricanes
as if they were births or deaths of our most intimates,
but the vast attended, unto mounds collected,
the ticket stubs of dead leaves, sunburns,
rain showered soaked ruined silk blouses
and pairs of good shoes, are not recycled,
but forlorn forgotten condemned men in
a life's imprisonment of an unmarked grave,
with no epitaph possible for no one knows what here lies

~~
written on Sunday March 26th, 2017 9:08am

inspired by the happy happenstance intersection of
this poem and Robert Lepage's memory play 887,
but of course in no way equal to either.

Dead Leaves
by
Georgia Douglas Johnson,
1880 - 1966

The breaking dead leaves ’neath my feet
A plaintive melody repeat,
Recalling shattered hopes that lie
**As relics of a bygone sky.**

Again I thread the mazy past,
Back where the mounds are scattered fast—
Oh! foolish tears, why do you start,
*To break of dead leaves in the heart?*

~~

887 is a journey into the realm of memory. The idea for this project originated from the childhood memories of Canadian director, actor and playwright, Robert Lepage; years later, he plunges into the depths of his memory and questions the relevance of certain recollections. Why do we remember the phone number from our youth yet forget our current one? How does a childhood song withstand the test of time, permanently ingrained in our minds, while the name of a loved one escapes us? Why does meaningless information stick with us, but other more useful information falls away?

How does memory work? What are its underlying mechanisms? How does a personal memory resonate within the collective memory?

887 considers various commemorative markers—the names of parks, streets, stelae and monuments—and the historical heritage around us that we no longer notice. Consequently, the play also focuses on oblivion, the unconscious, and this memory that fades over time and whose limits are compensated for by digital storage, mountains of data and virtual memory. In this era, how is theatre, an art based on the act of remembering, still relevant today?

All of these questions are distilled into a story where Lepage, somewhere between a theatre performance and a conference, reveals the suffering of an actor who—by definition, or to survive—must remember not only his text, but also his past, as well as the historical and social reality that has shaped his identity.

Mar 2017

onlylovepoetry

The special powers of women

Qualities.

Quality.

The quality of Qualities.

But, man oh man,
Am I qualified?

the movie theater goes dark,
the trailers, the advertisements,
the silencing warnings, the advisements,
the darkening final and lastly,

"be sure to keep an eye on your valuables."

she turns to me and says,

"I've got my eye on you."

I cannot tell you the name of the movie
or what it was about,
as powerful shaky camera dizziness overcame.

But I can tell you about,
the special powers of women.

for it is one reason,
perhaps,

the reason

he writes only love poetry.

#olp #special #powers #of #women #only #love #poetry

Mar 2017

Left Foot Poet

"indeed," or, what she says when she doesn't want to say what she's thinking

"indeed,"

or,

what she says when she doesn't want to say what she's thinking,
denying me her angered feelings.

by all your judgmental metrics
the title alone
is a poem,
done

indeed.

the original
"whatever"

so many stanzas on this,
ramp up my manly ragings -
all begging to say
"I have been released"

but I daren't unleash the hormonal
masculinity
feelings

so, borrow her word
that says nothing while saying anything,
e v e r y t h i n g
you don't want to hear.

indeed.

#leftfootpoet #what #she #says #indeed

Mar 2017

ogdiddynash

this little poem mine

this little poem mine
sadly, died upon the vine,

tho watered and sun'd,
tended and tendered,
to and from your neglect,
it sadly surrendered,

from which there is
no respite or surviving

three or four sprouts tall,
grounded, now homeward bounded,
from dust to dust,
earth to ash,
this little poem ******,
to the dustbin condemned,
my sweetest, petitest, little trash,,

never to be read again.*

0ggdiddy Nash