"worcester" poems
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consuelo
to keep her dentist's appointment
and sat and waited for her
in the dentist's waiting room.
It was winter. It got dark
early. The waiting room
was full of grown-up people,
arctics and overcoats,
lamps and magazines.
My aunt was inside
what seemed like a long time
and while I waited and read
the National Geographic
(I could read) and carefully
studied the photographs:
the inside of a volcano,
black, and full of ashes;
then it was spilling over
in rivulets of fire.
Osa and Martin Johnson
dressed in riding breeches,
laced boots, and pith helmets.
A dead man slung on a pole
"Long Pig," the caption said.
Babies with pointed heads
wound round and round with string;
black, naked women with necks
wound round and round with wire
like the necks of light bulbs.
Their ******* were horrifying.
I read it right straight through.
I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:
the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside,
came an oh! of pain
--Aunt Consuelo's voice--
not very loud or long.
I wasn't at all surprised;
even then I knew she was
a foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed,
but wasn't. What took me
completely by surprise
was that it was me:
my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at all
I was my foolish aunt,
I--we--were falling, falling,
our eyes glued to the cover
of the National Geographic,
February, 1918.
I said to myself: three days
and you'll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stop
the sensation of falling off
the round, turning world.
into cold, blue-black space.
But I felt: you are an I,
you are an Elizabeth,
you are one of them.
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to look
to see what it was I was.
I gave a sidelong glance
--I couldn't look any higher--
at shadowy gray knees,
trousers and skirts and boots
and different pairs of hands
lying under the lamps.
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen.
Why should I be my aunt,
or me, or anyone?
What similarities
boots, hands, the family voice
I felt in my throat, or even
the National Geographic
and those awful hanging *******
held us all together
or made us all just one?
How I didn't know any
word for it how "unlikely". . .
How had I come to be here,
like them, and overhear
a cry of pain that could have
got loud and worse but hadn't?
The waiting room was bright
and too hot. It was sliding
beneath a big black wave,
another, and another.
Then I was back in it.
The War was on. Outside,
in Worcester, Massachusetts,
were night and slush and cold,
and it was still the fifth
of February, 1918.
3.5k
Cockles and winkles
cheese and pickles
washed down with lovely
sweet rosy lea.
Mushy peas
with mint sauce.
Yorkshire puddings with
Worcester sauce.
Clotted cream and lavender jam
The orangy bread bits on the ham
Oh to be in England
That is the life for me.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:07 AM UTC
***he rises early, well before the premature, minutest hints of early dawn,
cradling tenderized words, from a silent marinating mind withdrawn,
some spices harvested from the soil's mortality of daily strife, others,
manna gifts of wild floral tenderness, plucked from Eve's tree of life
neither gardener nor chef, the fruits of his labor, are product of
a mothers mind's silent back labor, emerging with no notice or invitation, spilt from lips unmoving, eyes shuttered, fingers ungloved
ministering a Temple sacrifice of plain psalms authored but un-titled
some spark ignition causes a key reversal, from motionless to motion,
moving with no in-between, words simmering, from seeds unknown,
the dishe's integrity questioned, but it births itself, uncaring, eagerly, willing copied from cavern decorations of rude, wall drawings
almost fully formed, though untasted and undigested, a savant smell
provokes a leap from placid prone, to upright and seated upon the
throne of his writing desk, can one*** divine ***a recipe from odor alone,
thus claiming authorship of an untitled dish, one that can't be recreated?***
sets it down before you uncovered, with a lustrous screen of silk damask,
plated on Royal Worcester fine bone china, yet, without any utensils,
asking you to ken this work,
**eat this poem, with bare hands,
love it as if it was your own first born,
consumed/consuming
a strange but familiar spirit**
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC
In about 1868,
William Torrey Harris,
Wanted to teach the great.
He instituted early efforts in schools,
To reach his goal, now and forever,
To educate the gifted,
And make them even more clever.
In about 1901,
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
Teachers opened the first school,
Specifically for gifted students.
In about 1954,
Ann Isaacs was really not a bore.
It was under her leadership that it was founded,
An association that propounded.
The association was therefore called,
The National Association of Gifted Children, one and all.
In about 1972,
The Marland Report was issued to schools,
T’was the first formal meaning,
Of giftedness and it’s teaching.
Teachers were strongly encouraged,
To define it broadly, with courage.
With academic, intellectual, and leadership achieving,
Visual and performing,
Arts, creative and productive thinking,
Gifted people were diagnosed,
And the teachers became engrossed,
In teaching them the most.
In about 1974,
The Office of the Gifted and Talented was given a status,
Like never before.
Finally it was,
Made to be official,
The Office of G&T;,
Was now more beneficial.
In about 1988,
Congress passed,
The Jacob Javits Gifted and Talented Students Education Act.
This was a rather large part,
Something that was just right smart,
Of the Reauthorization of the Elementary and Secondary Education Act.
In about 1990,
The National Research Center for Gifted and Talented,
Was established.
At the University of Connecticut it was located,
And it was also associated,
With the included researchers, none named Prinia,
At the Unis of Georgia, Yale, and Virginia,
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 11:25 PM UTC
But I just want to know why you’re
so old, so cold, so bone-chillingly
alone
out here.
You’re my Sky.
And I just don’t understand where
Mami is where daddy with the big hat
could be while you
shiver and shake I
can’t take
you back there with me.
You’re my Sky.
So we huddle under stars while the cars
they drive they’re faster than your
heartbeat it’s slowing let’s play
a game while we
shiver and shake I can’t take
you back there with me.
You’re my Sky.
We wait.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
scribing with smoke and utter devotion
———————————————-
****
*half an orange, half a grapefruit,
on a crystal dish, resting on a fine china plate,
Royal Worcester, from England retrieved,
in a smoke cloud, upon my chest appears
the coverlet up to my chin pulled,
my arms tucked in tight, side by side,
the light turned off, the television too,
who? in a smoke cloud, catch a faintly glimpse
the menu does not mention love, or utter devotion,
no recollection of ordering either, and yet,
here I-am, well served, piping hot and well chilled,
scribing of one’s shadow, she who never disappears
she, whose never disappoints, late in the evening,
early in the morning, a mirage, a ghost, magical elusive,
lightest touch of a forehead kissed, a tingle for evidence,
but not the only proof of her*
utter loving and devotions appearance
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 9:15 AM UTC
“To the Glory of God, and in grateful commemoration of His servants, Thomas Cranmer, Nicholas Ridley, Hugh Latimer, Prelates of the Church of England, who near this spot yielded their bodies to be burned, bearing witness to the sacred truths which they had affirmed and maintained against the errors of the Church of Rome, and rejoicing that to them it was given not only to believe in Christ, but also to suffer for His sake; this monument was erected by public subscription in the year of our Lord God, MDCCCXLI.”
“ ‘Be of good cheer, Ridley; and play the man. We shall this day, by God’s grace, light up such a candle in England, as, I trust, will never be put out.’”- Hugh Latimer.
Just outside Balliol, upon Magdalene street,
There’s a cross made of stone you can see at your feet.
It’s where Ridley and Latimer were burnt at the stake
For that which they held dear; beliefs they would not forsake.
They were Bishops of London and Worcester in life;
now bound by cruel chains to keep them upright.
The guards piled on ******* the fuel for the flames
while Ridley and Latimer called on the Lord’s name.
Martyrs or heretics? I’ll let others decide.
But the crowd was impressed by how bravely they died.
Latimer reached out embracing the flames
and was soon called to glory with an end to his pain.
For Ridley a death that was slow and obscene;.
On his side the wood that they used was still green.
His feet and legs roasted while he suffered in pain
held fast to the stake by the cruel iron chain.
His temporal agony raged on and on
Til the flames reached his face and poor Ridley was gone.
Queen Mary reigned briefly, yet ere she was done,
Many souls suffered death in fire and blood.
England, once Catholic, embraced a new faith.
The Romish persuasion at last was replaced.
Their candle burned brightly, a glorious flame,
and continued to shine as Elizabeth reigned.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
The sky presses down on
us, this town, this
dump, this place where down
is up. Where up is out, where
swinging at night is
the only way to doubt
you’re dying.
And it’s carried me this far-
I wear this town like an
old scar- It’s been hard.
But I’m not dying
anymore, I’m flying out this
door- I’m moving,
I’m living,
I’m out.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
I was officially born in the 17th century.
My homeland was England.
My parents were many.
They conceived me in coffeehouses.
I was officially born in the 17th century,
When the crowns of Scotland and England united,
When James VI, King of Scots,
Ascended to the throne of England as James I;
When civil wars between roundheads and cavaliers
Ended in Parliamentary victory,
At the Battle of Worcester.
I was officially born in the 17th century,
At the time of Interregnum,
Commonwealths, Glorious Revolution,
William and Mary
and the English Bill of Rights.
Reformation and proliferation of literacy:
People learnt to read the Bible,
Then chose to be curious and explore,
Secular literature and novels
In circulating libraries.
My parents were many.
They conceived me in coffeehouses,
Scattered around the city,
Spread throughout the country,
And finally reached abroad:
Another Revolution,
on the other side of the Channel.
My parents were many.
They met at intellectual bacchanalia,
In reading societies and clubs,
‘Cause that’s where news was communicated.
Freely criticizing politics and governments,
They engaged in conversations
in an environment of confrontation,
Social status set aside,
To listen, exchange, formulate,
Understand and comprehend.
Another William called me ‘mistress of success’,
Blaise thought I was ‘the queen of the world’.
Being well informed and debate in social networks
Was a duty, before being a right,
As my parents’ opinion would guide the rulers,
Ideally in the interest not of few, not of many,
but of all.
First heeded by governments,
They quickly learnt to manipulate me,
They muzzled me and domesticated me,
Taking away my freedom and relevance,
With the unofficial excuse by which
My parents were too ignorant
to even have a voice.
Now those coffeehouses have changed their shape,
Intangible, virtual, ethereal,
New spaces for new parents
To develop ideas, opinions,
And exchange;
Not currencies or stocks
but information and views.
I am my parents’ voice,
My name is Public Opinion.
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 6:02 AM UTC
You’re kind of a
mess girl. All jumbled up, all
pulling at your hair, can
you remember
Sun anymore?
And you’re kind of a
wreck the way you
shake from side to side like
someone’s rocking your
insides, like something’s
scared behind your eyes-
I know you’re hurting,
I know the signs,
but smoke before
fire every time
Just let me save you.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
Like children, pages
drift away adolescent,
refusing what I offer

Defiant
in their questions,
beyond all answers in their parting
Forcing what’s left, to live trapped
in the abandoned distance
between us now
All movement stopped
and estranged, from the very things
we used to know
(Worcester Massachusetts: March, 2011)
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 10:14 AM UTC