"auger" poems
Single red tulip
nods its lonely head
in a light Spring breeze,
satin petals flaring open
in a last show of beauty.
Eileen Auger
5/6/14
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
I sit on my back stoop,
alone in the moonless dark
lit only by a window glowing
in my neighbor's new spa room.
Spikey tropical plants.
backlit by warm yellow light
are all I can see
from my vantage point
only yards away.
But my imagination runs
to visions of two lovers
delighting in their newest acquisition,
bathing in clouds
of fragrant steam,
a couple still together.
They have each other,
while I sit alone,
me minus you.
Eileen Auger
4/4/2010
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
1142
The Props assist the House
Until the House is built
And then the Props withdraw
And adequate, *****
The House support itself
And cease to recollect
The Auger and the Carpenter—
Just such a retrospect
Hath the perfected Life—
A past of Plank and Nail
And slowness—then the Scaffolds drop
Affirming it a Soul.
5.1k
FISHTHOUGHTBLOOD JON BOLDUC
When I was a boy,
Father taught me to ice-fish.
Here’s a memory;
Father drills a hole,
the auger bounces, vibrates, roars,
shaving ice– soon
the blade connects with winter water,
–the engine fades off.
I fish floating ice chunks from the hole with a skimmer
while
Father sets the trap, ties the sinker, and hooks the minnow
thru its side.
He lowers the line
gently into the fishhole; the bait plunges to the lakebed.
Father reels up the slack, pitches the three legged trap
above the exposed black water
and we wait for a trout, or a snarled toothed pickerel.
Father,
I have learned
to fish for thoughts
with an ice–trap. When the flag
springs up, I reel
slippery ideas up from deep darkness.
As they flop, I pull the hook out from their lips,
knock them in the head,
throw them in a pail; gut them, I spill fishthoughtblood on the white snow.
After the low sun sets,
My friends and I fry caught fishthoughts
in my dim cabin.
Hughes, Plath, Ginsberg, and Eliot
talk around the fireplace
as the pan sizzles, as the oil jumps. Soon
we feast on flakey poemfillets;
we talk about the dark english rain,
the crowded zoos, electroshock therapy, bald mediocrity.
After we have eaten
and finished the wine,
and all my friends have gone home
I look down at empty plates
and somehow,
“the page is printed.”
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
Such a classic mortal blunder to lay
my spine as it erodes, graceless, inelegant
on Galatea’s cold, ivory arms;
such delicate carvings can never be human, look human,
feel human under my lonesome bones.
I long to see you flinch and break
into fine, liquid, rain of dust blinding me,
covering the walls of this room
in a blameless shade of white: a new asylum ward
for my kind of insanity,
you say.
It envelopes like light around my awe
and my forlorn limbs,
tangled with Galatea’s unmoving ones.
I look for comfort within brittle carcasses
scraped of everything they could ever give.
The quiet persists eerily.
But here, Pygmalion’s gifts remain untainted:
the apex of auger shells, the beak of a songbird
the blunted ceriths, the rusty chisels
all impaling my spinal bones.
Yet the sculptor’s kisses, long erased,
the careful carvings, long defaced,
long reduced into a Grecian ruin.
I bury my body on your arms yet they find no rest
against the ghostly pleas of mammalian tusks.
How many for your fingers?
How many for your hair?
Tell me, Galatea, were you carved to bear the weight of
all the sea salt I swallowed as I drowned?
Soften under my meandering thoughts; I long
to see you flinch and break — like all the dead elephants —
any reminder that you yield pliantly to the voice
of the love goddess, that you were once turned human.
Break now, your solid arms, under my own collapse
over the sea foam caught on fire.
I am no longer bending and weeping to pick myself up.
Here it all goes down and ends:
my bones,
and yours,
burning,
snapping.
Nothing —
nothing less glorious will last after us.
— Fray Narte
Dec 5, 2022
Dec 5, 2022 at 10:05 PM UTC
1034
His Bill an Auger is,
His Head, a Cap and Frill.
He laboreth at every Tree
A Worm, His utmost Goal.
1.8k
Lying on the beach
Surrounded by murmurs
Of conversation
Children laughing at play
And the soft rustle above
Of heart-shaped leaves
Dancing in a brisk breeze.
All once familiar
Yet now foreign,
It occurs to me ,
That I no longer fit,
Have ceased belonging
In that comfortable way
Of former times
When you loved me
I no longer fit
In the world of couples
Though they kindly try
To include me
If only occasionally
It just isn't the same
Any longer
Feeling fragmented
I dole out bits of myself
Almost stingily
Guarding carefully
My inmost thoughts
Smiling as if all is
As it should be
But it isn't
And maybe never was
When you were here
I felt safe and whole
For the first time ever
Secure, wanted, needed
Now I am a puzzle piece
Of an odd shape
That no longer fits
In the larger scheme
Of humanity
Perhaps I have lived
All these years
In a mindset
Of childish fantasies
Now suddenly dashed
Like letting go unwillingly
Of Santa and the Easter Bunny
Maybe this is Life
Seen without benefit
Of rose-colored glasses
Maybe, maybe not
Eileen Auger
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
The Self That Used to Be
It is entirely possible
that no one will ever know
no one will ever see
the self I used to be
a long time ago,
the self that is still me
but hidden for now.
That flirty eye-twinkle
and teasing laugh
lie tucked away
like a piece of fine jewelry
in its velvet lined box
waiting silently
to shine on the next
suitable occasion
which may never come.
Eileen Auger
9/13/09
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
The years of memories
pile up like cord-wood
stacked randomly,
a Jenga game of blocks
balanced precariously,
verging on toppling
when a piece near the bottom
is removed too carelessly.
Memories must dwell in the past,
forever in the life of the mind.
They cannot be pulled out,
touched and held,
nor lived over and over again,
except perhaps in dreams.
Eileen Auger
3/22/14
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 11:45 PM UTC
There is a humility in art,
Where simplicity plays its part.
There is an excitement
Of primordial sensations,
Solubility and Insolubility of textures,
And the sublime fluid,
Of deconstructions.
Its’ menace haunts,
A View in the Dark.
The forms are stolid.
Black and stark.
Beyond Black is where
The hues play Hide ‘n’ Seek.
Surfacing,
Resurfacing,
Diving headlong,
Into the absence of a peak.
The smudge and the smog,
In the dizziness of Desire,
Are the nuances of a beige fog,
Perturbed in a Vertical Blue retire.
All the lines ******
As they refuse to talk,
Questioning the lingering persuasion,
Of the eyes that stalk.
The dawn silence
Answers in a luxuriant red,
When rebellious strokes,
Keep dancing on that fiery bed.
Fragments keep coalescing into a whole,
It pulsates against the senses,
This Illusion of the soul.
This song is bright,
Even in the absence of light,
The Song of Silence,
Portrays an indomitable might.
The Mirage looks back,
Like every familiar stranger,
The unsettling Rejoicing Red,
Such impacts can auger.
*Blossom in dark,
Through Dark and Deep,
Rhythm of tones,
A View in a Dream*.
Alone breathes the Isolated Red,
As The Melodies in Grey
Resonate
What the Resonance of Blues
Had left unsaid.
There is a bucolic symmetry,
A revelling immortal mystery,
In The Meditative Silence,
Of
Gopi Gajwani
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 1:18 AM UTC
Betwixt the wish to endear
with soda bread and cabecou
as ever our vases of marigolds wither with age
Yet I wish we could auger well, while standing still
with a *** of lapsang tea
before you kick off your slippers
tip toe upstairs
in sweet anticipation,
entice this confusion with our X and Y's,
and by turning the latch of the bay window
you will look into a misty pool
and dream of your entitlement.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 2:55 PM UTC
My dear Candy Crush
You are such a shameless tease
Stringing me along.
Eileen Auger
4/28/14
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC
The summer sun's an auger drilling deep
To sap my will and hasten my decline,
And by the time night falls, I'll pray for sleep.
From when its faintest rays begin to creep
Beyond the long horizon's boundary line,
The summer sun's an auger, drilling deep.
When morning comes, I'll buy my living steep,
But living wilts me 'till I can recline
And by the time night falls, I'll pray for sleep
As if I died, as if I'd get to keep
The scrapings that I'd earned, as if they're mine.
The summer sun's an auger, drilling deep.
Each moment sowing seeds I'll never reap
Comes twisting down around my brain and spine -
And by the time night falls, I'll pray for sleep.
All wisdom, wits, and words ring hollow, cheap,
Some wilted offerings at a broken shrine.
The summer sun's an auger, drilling deep,
And by the time night falls, I'll pray for sleep.
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 2:23 PM UTC
When people asked
my dear friend,
early in her widowhood,
"How are you doing?"
she would wryly reply
"Waiting to die... and you?"
After all these years alone,
I am not asked that question
anymore, in the same way--
The assumption being
that my grief is a thing of the past.
Most people, I have noticed
Just want to talk about themselves, anyway.
But if asked, I might just say
(with relish at their astonished look),
"Waiting to die... and you?"
Eileen Auger
7/28/14
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC
Struggling against a swift current eventually you give in
Realizing you are simply a man out of time
Just an auger boring forward in a gyre forever turning
Yet moving nowhere
In a place where you are no longer living nor dead
Neither past nor present meaningful nor meaningless
You just are frozen in time and space
Where there are no awe-inspiring last words
No enlightenment
No decree stating what your impact on this reality has been
It is just you dwindling until there’s no more fight left
The pugilist in your soul concedes
The lost souls of those lost before you
Coaxing you to justly give in and concede
The final battle has been fought and scripted long before conception
The burning wick sputters and suffocates rhythmically until it flickers
No more
All Uniqueness begets soon insignificance
And like the swimmer in the mists of the midnight sea
You disappear
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 2:23 AM UTC
Unwanted items
turn into yard sale treasures
for somebody else.
The thrill of the hunt
Faded away long ago.
For me, less is more.
There's nothing I need.
Just one thing I really want--
but can never have.
E. Auger
5/12/14
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
Decades worth of journals
(once my daily confidante)
lie under the bed
untouched,
gathering dust.
The record of my past
does not entice ,
has not for what seems
like forever.
As for the here and now,
the pages of my last birthday gift
are empty, unless you count
maudlin entries typed and printed
out of pure laziness.
My past can never be retrieved,
never relived except as
sometimes vivid memories.
My present is of little interest these days,
future hopes only a mirage
(for what seems like forever).
I have no wish to relive today,
spilling my guts on blank pages
for posterity,
even while despairing for
a better tomorrow.
Eileen Auger
10/01/2014
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
Piteous cries long ago ceased
Achieving anything save
Turned-away heads, selectively
Hearing-impaired,
Exasperated with repetitious litany
Tuneless and tiresome
Irate when counsel is spurned,
Casually abandoning a lost cause.
Eileen Auger
2/19/2010
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
Candy Crush, you *****
Why do I play your dumb game?
It's a love/hate thing.
Eileen Auger
2014
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
Inside Out
If I could turn myself
inside out
this gut-full of fire
would engulf my world
in flaming destruction.
Frigid blood in my veins
inexplicably sustaining life,
would flood the landscape,
ushering in a new Ice Age.
This brain-heart-soul,
a jumble of emotions,
would be opened wide,
releasing an explosion of chaos.
Eileen Auger
2006
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
The bones of my resolve
crumble porously,
muscles slackened
by stealthy Spirit-Flu
creeping into my psyche
when my guard is down,
leaving behind only
a molten mass
feverish and limp,
juicy veins squeezed
dry of life-force..
Sleep's finger-crook
beckons temptingly
offering blessed escape
temporary at best
from sickness of the soul.
Eileen Auger
March 21, 2008
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
SHRINKING WOMAN
I shrink daily,
folding into
a package
too compact
to contain anything.
I'm becoming
smaller
and emptier
with the passage of time.
Soon, I'll be
invisible
even to myself.
Eileen Auger
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
Fingernails bleed,
worn ragged
with gripping
the lip of the abyss.
Clawing its crumbling edge
struggling to see light above,
she won't look down
at the blackness below.
Arms and fingers burn
with the strain of holding on,
the spark of light flickers
ominously.
And she wonders,
will she sink like a stone
or float like a feather
to the bottom?
E Auger
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC
My dreams are drugs;
my hopes are dope
–the joie de vivre
of old so-so–
from waning eyes
to waxing grace
my spirit seeks
another place
And rhythmically
on pain of death
from newborn cry
to my last breath
with rancid teeth
and rheumy eye
around the globe
cutting soft sky
filling the stars
with water high
to flood and pour
to light and soar
to anger each
contented *****
But not so boiled
nor never baked
swathed transcendence
of all mistakes
melancholy left un-churned
around young danseur
crapping wealth unearned
fueling no immortal work,
marching still
against the dark;
Freshest grass-scent
Lingers long
past broken tractor
at break of dawn
as crumpled shrapnel
and sticks of oak
remain wedged throughout
the auger's blades,
refusing to reap
or shadow wheat;
Therefore, this vision
pulls and holds
on wisest minds,
with fools endures;
musty marble crumbles too
all garish gold
rusts through and through...
spinning slower
then Bosons are gone...
sunny sleep stops
mowing lawn
(All things must break
when left untouched
but touching wears toucher
oh so so much!)
Arrows fly,
inertly tickle
all that's evil
whatever's wicked;
But nothing so so much
as hope
fades quietly
oh so so much.
Slumping shoulders
warring forward
searching ever
for temperate porridge,
concluding all
to dust from dust
Inciting all
from lust to lust
But rarely ever
dreaming truths
science mangling
interstellar flight
because nothing good
rhymes with truths
devoid of pretense
and heckling youths
After crops have rotted
that fed our needs
One contemplates
tending the weeds.
I've lost you now
(I surely hope)
Because at last,
here is the dope:
Riddling madness
is a cancer.
Reading answers
is disaster.
We're much too late
to break the tractor.
Grapes left on vine
do not make wine,
so smiling scythe
will give me mine.
And in the end
it's not defeat:
For Beauty Grew,
And Many Ate.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
When I wake to a new day
after a long sleep filled with pleasant dreams...
When I feel the sun's yellow warmth
bathing my face in the morning quietness ....
When a light Spring breeze
ruffles gently through my hair...
When a Cardinal flits into its nearby nest
or an iridescent dragonfly alights nearby....
When I read an evocative poem
that speaks to my heart...
When a brief glance at a photograph
vividly brings back the past...
When I wait for sleep to come
and a memory brings a smile...
When this or that or anything occurs
from dawn until night falls,
I hear my mind speaking silently to him
saying "Hello, I love you" .
Eileen Auger
April 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC