"chitchats" poems
Why don't I meet those students?
I can be a teacher
I am a teacher
not teaching English in a community college
or NYC for that matter
yet a teacher
and I have Freudian asymmetries
I mean I am hung up on women
on old world literature
on promiscuity , racial mixing
tense ****** moments.
I am also quite frank
to myself, to my sensibilities
my self centered world.
I do have students
who seem to be interested in
chitchats outside class
those evening walks grabbing coffee somewhere
learning a thing or two
about life, men.
I mean, their chief complain
they have dated boys
missing pseudo-intellectuals
& everyday enactment of 'Oedipus Complex' in reverse.
I see compelling eyes,
provocative bodies,
keen to learn, waste and start from scratch
yet I don't meet those girls
who would rip apart my three year old marriage
keep me pseudo-happy for the time
have *** in claustrophobic venues in unknown hours of the day
make me quit jobs, sanity and pragmatism
marginalize me to despair and defacement
to
inevitably break up with me
so that I can write a book or two about it
Random House may be interested
and I would have to turn forty,
without a single care in this whole, wide world
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 6:05 PM UTC
With December’s breath I am whole again,
crackling with hope in the grey and rain,
Through rotting leaves I wander and wade
relish the decay of these days.
Oh my brain, it is scorned by the horror of words
and infinite texts that seem so absurd,
in the library I think, and I bite back my cries,
each bitter reminder that love lies in lone skies.
But, no! There is hope, for the ice is in bloom
and snowflakes now cluster on the window of my room,
and the waste of the winter is not quite a tundra
for I hear the bells call, the semester goes under.
All chitchats and language now swirl into view
through the fog of sorrow glints the elusively new,
and my mind will assent to only this;
this lovely thought, this season, Christmas.
And I stifle no cynicism, having no reason to moan,
I’m bound home on the train, quite simply alone,
save for the spirits that spin in my head
,
the prospect of faces, not books to be read!
Farewell to the city, if only for a while,
The lights are lavish in their pretty little smiles,
but I am not transfixed, I am barely aware
for the glow of my home is for all I do care!
Now I slip into the safety of Daisybank’s arms,
with many hot stews my stomach is calmed.
In this brief time comes embracing warmth;
no exams, no essays, no tears of scorn.
For my kin I am blessed
and with their presence no longer am I oppressed;
yes me, the starving soul of a girl
lovelorn and hungry for her home, this world.
And all that is festive, shimmering gold
is in the hands of many to hold,
and pass the gifts that press their love
and know one day is not enough
To reap the sense of seasonal joy
to forget the stress of being employed
and swallow all that one can eat,
a cure, a remedy sweet for one’s deceit.
Yet as long as the photo does not fade away -
remains a flashlight amongst the verges of decay -
then with every star may we make the wish
to prolong the soar of a spirit submerged in bliss.
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 11:38 AM UTC
<>
“I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat,
gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals,
I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,
Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the
day and night”
Song of Myself (1892 version) by WALT WHITMAN
§§§
*Irony great, some say unto delicious, for my writing,
be a fusing of surroundings of silences, admixture of
inconsequential noises, atomic horn and geese honking,
sun rays speaking in tongues, my skin translating, both,
the sounds of the city, those of out of city, merged, both,
accessible, instant recall, stored for tongue tasing upon
these blank pages below, needy for wordy fulfillment,
copy and place these mishmash of cacophonous,
on a single page, simmer, blend and sauce, of course,
salt to taste, mine, author of this recipe being born,
born in the night, prepped by day, the lovely sounds,
kettle or pan, broiler, fryer, slow cooked on full flame
they are the melted butter sweetness crossing the span
between the body of the heartbeat, the ache of the brain,
shot out in rapidity, error’d and stain’d, their state natural,
for this mess of beans, collection of noises, stir my soul
where they contain’d, aromatic, fanatic, exotic, sticky hot,
only a singular harsh invades, the shrill of the voice human
this piece, this poem, a flavoring, a dish-not-to-be-repeated,
once consumed, spoiled milk, molded with Jello mold green,
back to hiding in place of unseen, of bravura masked as cowardice,
when crackle of easy wasted word cowards, daily spewed,
so precious these ingredients, these artful sounds, easy ruined,
chitchats of nothingness, parlous blasé wastrels, seize! cease!
take thy tongue, let it memorize all the oddities that fill your ears,
ecrivez! the cooing, smacking, the alliteration of snap, crackle, and
yes, pop! and if you can love the human voice, of that too, tho not me,
more beloved, the exterior symphony of kettle drum, soft cry of violin,
timpani tingling, guitar plucking, the voice of men, too oft abusing and abused by untruths, emboldened lies, they are the sounds
I love least, love to hate. a shrill disease, the TV liars...*
§§§§§
May
Manhattan Island
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 3:44 PM UTC
And evening came,
Wrapped in your warm coat,
I drapped in my fluffy scarf,
With our usual chitchats
Bits and pieces of jokes...
Towards the sunset we set off.
Across the table we sat,
At the corner of our favorite coffee house,
Staring at the menus,
Making fun of those in offer
Those which we understood not
But still...
Ordering what we usually had...
Our usual.
There we sat...
Synced physicality
Shared laughs
Stolen gazes
Passing time...
And in it all
We still were one...
United in what we knew not.
Two coffee pots later,
Euphoric state shared,
Emotions laid out bare,
Words left unspoken
And with one final peck,
The evening came an end,
With a promise of another date...
Our coffee date.
©JoyRedd
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 11:30 AM UTC
When I’m hurt, I forget about all the beautiful things
I forget the taste of my favorite sweet coffee in the morning
I forget the view of sunlight creeping in my room
I forget the sound of wind chimes and calm sea waves
I forget the feeling of soft breeze lightly touching my skin
I forget the scent of the flowers my mother have grown in her garden
I forget the little chitchats and the nights out with my best friends
I forget the view of the soft blur of city lights right in front my eyes when I’m on the top of the world
When I’m hurt, I tend to forget my virtues, my capacity to do good, and my value.
If I have to kneel down and ask for one thing: it is not to remove any pain from the things that can’t be stopped from happening, but to always be reminded of the beautiful things I have around me so that no matter how shattered I am, I will be healed
— so I can keep going,
so I can go on breathing
Nov 30, 2020
Nov 30, 2020 at 1:52 AM UTC