Mashup Part III
I mashup me, myself, and thee: Part III
Excerpts from my poems posted after July 16th, 2013,
about poets, poetry
and the process of composition.
This time, in a disorder all their own,
for my own words,
Did not consult me.
When inspiration is imprisoned,
a crime-of-no-passion victim,
strangled by codification,
clothed in a prison uniform,
where uniform be another word for a
poet's death sentence.
If you courage enough to
Call yourself poet, then
It is audacity, not blood,
Warming your extremities,
So foolishly try, always be prepared to fail.
Commandeer the words hidden within,
Sort them by rhyme and meter,
Answer the critics,
bend them over to your way,
Write your own poetry,
fearing no ones judgement,
Put your self out there,
I have so many times.
Death, betrayal, disillusionment,
Regular visitors in the upstate prison cell
of my head,
Are all greeted with
new poems of old words,
but confident in their inevitable return,
I write defensively between their visits,
a good offense is eloquent literacy.
The clouds were magnificent.
No, I cannot write a poem about the cloud colors.
Their shape shifting inexhaustible,
Mine eyes high on their creativity,
I'm just not good enough a poet to tamper with that sky.
You who write after midnight
Of razor blades, pills and shotguns,
And not marked two decades even,
on this planet,
You want hard,
Write a poem about a sunset in ways never done before.
The saddest poem ever wrote
Was not yours, where you titillate with daring words
Razors, pills etc.,
The saddest poem ever writ
Was this one,
a meager vanity to capture a
Sunset that keeps trying every day to
Its previous glorious failure,
Like we should too.
I will write about pain,
Arrogantly, as if there is any unused combination of
Letters, vowels and consonants left unspoken, *****,
Having sworn not to, for pain is cumulative.
Which is greater?
The pain of
creation, inception, origination and birth,
The pain of
wreck and ruin, destruction and death.
Compare and Contrast
Suddenly, I am expert.
Creating a poem a day is very painful.
A poem that is the sum of
Reflection, research, and purging.
Here, surrounded by the gentle breezes of
Long Island Sound and Gardiners Bay,
Sweet and salty flavors
of the Peconic atmosphere,
from your eyes to the page fall,
Smudged by joyous tears,
for the muses of the island
Have embraced you yet again and rebirthed
within their comforting, sheltering grasp.
With deep regrets and promises solemn,
Adieu, Adieu my friends, bay and chair,
wait for me!
This poem but my R.S.V.P.
an oath of return sworn,
for I am man, placed here only
to sing the praises of my earthly delights,
my truest friends,
I sing of thy grace,
Grace Before A Meal
If not for you:
I would weep more.
I would weep less,
(so many tears of joy!).
My carousel, horse back riding days,
would be over, ended.
I would never make a bed unasked
(but it gives you so much pleasure).
I would live on Frosted Flakes
and microwaved hot dogs
I would die w/o ever seeing
after reading my poetry.
For that alone...
Let us intimate a Poetic Competition,
Tween an Irish lass,
and a New York Jew,
I shall serve, and you,
You shall return
Our tongues, our racquets.
Across the table,
The words, shall birdie fly,
Across the net,
Couplets and haikus
Shall smash and whistle
The winner will be the one
The God of Poetry
Accepts for permanent servitude
And the only lingua Franca
Shall be darts of poetry
In a language our own,
A collective work we will weave,
A blessed unity, a single tongue now,
Lilting, singing, bespoke
explicate and deconstruct
our unexamined lives,
help us to extend the boundaries,
record the voyages of our timepieces,
declare us all free and victors,
file away the chains of language
and declare us all poets
The reality of this composition
of kisses incessant,
of hugs galore,
tears and thoughts,
is for you, for us,
for now, for whenever,
for our forever, whatever that be,
but that too, limitless,
for this poem will be stored,
incised in our conjoined hearts
and in our genes
They say speak to her, she can hear you,
But the evidence is contradictory,
I am not convinced.
When no else is there,
I stroke her head and
whisper in her ear,
"It's ok, time to let go, my mother fair."
You think to yourself alone,
This is not poetry,
This is real,
This is an extraordinary
Life or death warfare.
Write clean and clear,
Let the sheerest wonderment
of a new combination,
Be the titillation
of the tongue's alliteration,
No head scratching
at oblique verbal gestation,
Let words clear speak,
each letter a speck,
That gives and grants
afternoon quenching Coronas, wearing white T shirts,
a summer eve's Sancerre,
Wave-gazing on the reality
of rusted beach chairs,
Babies sandy naked,
washed in waves of Chardonnay,
The traffic-filled word-way highways and bay ways,
Exiting at the Poet's Nook,
for exegesis & retrieval.
Body shakes and juices,
Taking her, afternoon, unexpectedly,
her noises your derring-do!
the Off switch,
née Peiman, 1915~2013,
passed peacefully Sat. July 20th.
Critic, speaker, writer,
her fiercest feat, her leading role, creator.
A near century of memories
her legacy, memories that
linger not, for incised,
chiseled in the granite of the books, papers,
and the very being of her descendants.
Her faith in Almighty, unflagging, for He did not
forsake her in the time of her old age,
when her strength failed.
Write not in fear of dying
Angels delivering bad news in vacuum tubes,
Write joyous, psalms of loving life,
Live like your writing,
Write like your living,
**So you may die well.
The ~ and demarcates a stanza from a different poem