At Sunset

I can usually recall the starting point ... the impetus ... of something I've written. Not so in this case.

It might be because I've written so many. It becomes a bit difficult to recall precisely what triggered each one.

I have a feeling, though, that this one promised to be a longer piece ... perhaps a short story. I was letting my imagination run free on this scene from the close of the day. I'm not sure where it was headed ... its ultimate destination.

Writing is like that sometimes. I always like to get the words on paper ... those bits and pieces of thought which come to me of their own accord ... for, on later reflection ... and a bit of tweaking ... they may turn into something worth keeping and sharing.

This one didn't go on to bigger things. But I liked the descriptive phrases, and it appears that the editor liked them, too.

With that, here's the poem:

AT SUNSET

Dying embers of day
arc slowly on drapes
drawn tightly
like an old man's mouth
sealed against saying
that which must
not be said. His room,
steeped in darkness,
recalls a steely pool
of tension, burdened
dome of sky,
dark leaves stirring
now, a gathering
of thoughts seeking
shelter for the night.

© 1999

(originally published in Potpourri)

Today's word: steeped

What'll You Have?

(Yes, I took the photograph ... I don't remember where or when, exactly ... but it's mine, all mine)

One of the early things I learned about sending my poems off into the company of strangers ... on the chance that some very busy person might pause to read, to savor, to accept something I'd written ... is that there's an awful lot of rejection involved.

In fact, unless you have editors writing to you, begging you to submit something, it's mostly rejection.

Not long after my first acceptance, I thought I was having a particularly good run of luck, so I did the math and found I had an acceptance rate of 12 per cent.

Of course, while achieving that "hot streak," I was also having an 88 per cent rate of rejection.

"What'll You Have?" was probably written during one of those intervals when no math was necessary to tell me my rejection rate was high, high, high.

How nice it would be, I thought, if, instead of sending my poems all over creation, I could just have a little shop on a quiet little street ... a place where editors could drop in when they felt the need for a poem.

I would have poems on the wall, on the shelves, in racks ... all over the place ... even "teetering in the back room of my mind." I would, of course, hope that visitors would find something they simply couldn't live without.

I have yet to realize my dream of becoming the proprietor of a poetry boutique, catering primarily to editors, but at least this one little poem apparently did make a favorable impression on the poetry editor at ByLine, and there I was, way back in '96, dancing on the table again. How sweet it was!

The poem:

WHAT'LL YOU HAVE?

Poems, lady?
What would you like?
I have these
written in the nights
of my despair,
a few over there
when I felt better.

A love poem?
Not much in demand
these days, but I may
be able to find one
somewhere on the shelf.

No picks among these?
I have more written,
on the back racks,
aging a bit
before they travel,
and, of course,
stacks and stacks
teetering recklessly
in the back room
of my mind.
© 1996

Today's word: teetering

Take a Peek

(No ... that's not a self-portrait ... just another of my randomly-shot photographs)

This is one of my "dream" poems. I remember the sensation of waking up in a strange place (I'm dreaming this, remember), being asked by some remote, impersonal voice to produce something that would identify me.

I knew there was this slip of paper in my billfold, but I couldn't find it, couldn't, in fact, find my billfold. I kept searching and searching.

Then I woke up. The dream would have been lost, had I not scribbled something on a scrap of paper as a reminder.

I don't usually dwell on the meanings of dreams.

Sometimes they mean nothing more than the excesses of a late-night snack.

Or they may reveal deep-rooted frustrations, unattainable goals, hunger, thirsts, fears ... all the makings of a poem.

Still, I try to save them all. I don't always manage, but I try.

And here's today's:

TAKE A PEEK

My billfold

contains a slip

of yellow paper

with the name

of the President

written on it.

I feel secure

having it with me,

like a number,

next of kin,

t

o be called

in an emergency.

Perhaps someday

after surgery,

responding to

trick questions:

What's your name?

Who's President?

I can say,"Take a peek

at my billfold. There's

a slip inside. It's all

I've got left."

© 1995

(originally published in Potpourri)

Today's word: identify

Sun Catcher

Delia was my grandmother. I can still see her in that cold kitchen, the old wood-burning stove starting to throw out some heat, the skillet in place, waiting for warmth, a dab of oleo, an egg.

The kitchen faced west, but there was a side window that caught a bit of the morning sun. That's where the "film of frost gathered the gold ... poured it softly, like warm milk ... "

Of course, our memories become polished with much handling ... they take on a sheen far beyond that of the original event, and that has happened with this mental picture I still carry with me.

Oh, how I treasure it. The poem was originally published in A New Song:

SUN CATCHER

A film of frost
gathered the gold
of morning sun
on the window,
poured it softly,
like warm milk,
into the kitchen
where Delia
stood working,
embracing her
with a radiance
like the words
of her prayer
being whispered
to the music
of preparations
for another day.

 © 1998

Today's word: sheen

Strawberry Wine

(Barely a watercolor sketch ... one of many I've done while on my daily walks, exploring the countryside, avoiding the confines of closed spaces, when weather permits ... but I just thought I'd share it today.)

Today's poem is about lunar eclipse. 

I think it's about other things, too: It's a love poem, a poem about the exhilaration, if not intoxication, that comes from quietly, thoughtfully observing nature.

That's what I thought when the poem came to me after watching a lunar eclipse with Phyllis.

 
Those moments on that winter night brought back so many memories for me, principally the red of all those strawberries against all that green of the fields. 

It reminded me of the strawberry wine I once saw as a child. It reminded me of so many things.

I had faith in that little poem. I had faith in it when I presented it at a workshop, where the moderator dismissed it with the comment that "the writer was obviously drunk on words when he wrote this."

I couldn't help thinking that he had given it a rather superficial reading. 

But he was partly right. I was "drunk on words." I still am ... in the sense of enjoying that elation which comes from having listened carefully to the words coming to me, then having written them equally as carefully on the page. 

I maintained my faith in this little poem, and I am so glad I didn't give up on it. 

Now it has been published in the noted literary journal, Plainsongs. It is also the title poem of a 64-poem collection looking for a publisher.

And now, here it is:

Strawberry Wine ...

We stood gazing through the tangle

of dark branches suddenly still,
holding the moon in a vast silence,

watching, as others must have done
eons ago, wondering at this sight,
this transfiguration taking place

as the silvered moon glided slowly
into the shadow of a frozen earth,
going golden, pink, then deepening

red of strawberry wine translucent
in the glass, bearing the aroma
of fields snowed over with blossoms

and redolent of ripeness, that fruit
hiding in the quivering green leaves,
the sun bearing down, and now this,

this sweetness of witnessing a most
ancient of miracles, going to bed
with the distinctive taste of it

on our tongues, the scent of it
lingering on our measured breaths,
sleeping heavily, as though drugged.
© 2005 

(published in the Fall, 2005 issue of Plainsongs; received a special honorable mention in a ByLine contest; now the title poem of a manuscript in search of a publisher)


Today's word: redolent

Rainy Night

I have an attic space where few sounds intrude, where I often go to write.

I became aware, one evening, of a tentative tapping on the skylight - rain. The scattered drops were, indeed, binding city lights to themselves, and clinging gem-like against the darkness.

I felt safe in that space, visualized motes dancing lazily in bright sunlight, beckoning, and I started writing.

What I wrote that evening evolved into a poem, which later found itself in good company in ByLine Magazine, and eventually found its way into Chance of Rain, my first collection of poems, all about rain, or its absence.

RAINY NIGHT

First few drops

spatter warily

on my skylight,

binding glimmers

of city lights

to themselves,

sliding them

down the dark

throat of night.

In this dim light

I am held safe

by an arid warmth

that eddies like

motes escaping

an attic book,

swirling, dancing

up a long stairway

toward that door

through which

the golden glow

of revelation

beckons me.

© 2003

Today's word: spatter

Purple

(Today's photo is a worm's eye view of some hyacinths which caught my attention while I was walking in Lincoln Park)

Memory is such a part of poetry - whether of something seen or envisioned, whether long ago or just moments earlier. Memory plays its role. 

In this instance, the memory was implanted so long ago I don't know exactly where or when I saw the sofa sitting on that front porch. It had to have been in my childhood, which would have placed it somewhere in a small town in Southern Illinois.

I remember how the light played across it, how I wondered what its story was, why it was sitting on that porch, neglected, but not really abandoned.

That image stayed with me, followed me, all these years until, finally, I put it to paper and, in doing that, gave it a life of its own. Perhaps it will now stir some memories for someone else, this tattered old sofa "where so many secrets still lie ... "

The poem:

PURPLE

Deep-purple couch sitting alone
in the darkness of the front porch,

lamplight threading a cracked
windowpane, settling like dust

across your back, cushions askew,
butt-sprung, cold, where suitors sat

enduring eternity, waiting, waiting
for that moment that never came,

where others, home from the wars,
found prickly refuge in your embrace,

slept nights away, bone-weary, safe,
where the sick found solace,

baby first slept, generations of cats
yawned, stretched, sank regal claws,

where so many secrets still lie
like lost coins, just beyond reach.

© 1998

(originally published in Potpourri)

Today's word: lamplight

The Mouse

(Just another of my randomly-shot photos ... I think I was taken by the play of light against the clouds, the contrast with the landscape below)

What I started out to talk about was today's poem, based, as are most of mine, on the material at hand ... you know, tangible stuff ... things I understand ... at least sorta ...

Now that I think about it, though, it seems that this particular poem kind of tells its own story, so here goes: 

THE MOUSE

I slept serenely one blustery night

while a timorous sweet-toothed mouse

stole into my house, chewed a jagged

hole in the right-hand pocket of my

old blue robe and took a foil-wrapped

chocolate by surprise.

Discovering the theft, I, Superior

Creature I, smiled at such waste

when my poor pocket was open

all the time.

But who has dined on prized chocolate?

And who stands here holding crumpled

foil while a finger waggles foolishly

from a hole?

© 1998

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: timorous

Late-Night Serenade

I don't like giving away the poem in my opening remarks ... because then there's no incentive to explore the poem, right?

So, okay, this one is about a dog. He wasn't just a dog, but a special personality. Maybe I should just stop there.

We've had a lot of canine neighbors in the years that we've been here at Brimm Manor. There was one small one a couple of doors up ... whose favorite activity seemed to be running in circles and barking at the sun.

Then there was the one who deligted in galloping into the alley, hackles up, barking, barking, barking ... like he really meant business ... when I tried to move our trash container back onto our property.

My favorite, though, was Houdini, who lived right next door. I remember how, soon after they moved in, Houdini barked at me. His owner spoke quietly to him ... I couldn't tell what he said ... and that was the last time Houdini ever barked at me.

We got along famously.

Then there was this other dog ... a situation which could easily become a problem ... but I detect a bit of sympathy in what I wrote about him.

The poem:

LATE-NIGHT SERENADE

Sometimes at midnight, sometimes
three o'clock in the morning,
I hear him pouring out his soul,
and I know he's lonely, or lovesick,
or both, poor fellow, even though
I can't make out the words, just
the emotion of his mournful song
that goes on and on, rising in pitch,
subsiding, resuming, reminding me
of a gray wolf sending a message
somewhere in the wilds. He persists,
night after night, sitting beside
his doghouse, two doors down, nose
pointing heavenward, ears laid back,
howling, yowling, pitifully crying
his poor heart out over a lost bone,
a failed romance, the solitude
of the bachelor's way of life --
something that's obviously bothering
him. And it bothers me that he
doesn't start thinking about it
until I'm trying to get some sleep,
then howls the rest of the night.

© 2002

(originally published in Kaleidoscope)

Today's word: yowling

Interlude

Today's poem likely began life somewhat larger than the version I'm sharing with you.

That's not unusual. When a poem ... or what may become a poem ... begins to present itself to me, I often just let the words go trickling across the page.

Sometimes that works. Sometimes not.

In between that kind of beginning, and publication, there is a lot of revision. That usually means tightening.

Fewer words. More left to the imagination of the reader.

Does this one work? Well, the editor thought it did ... but I tend to think the reader has the final say on that.

If you've ever watched the sunshine come crawling (swarming?) through a window, the poem may work for you as it did for me. If not, well, ... it may still be food for thought:

INTERLUDE

See how the sun
comes crawling
through the window,
like hungry bees
on a single sprig
of goldenrod.

© 1997

(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review)

Today's word: crawling

Homecoming

I think I tend to be too wordy. Not only in my poems, sometimes, but in my commentary, too.

Sorry about that.

Still, I do try to boil things down ... to reduce them to their essence. Readers are busy, in a hurry, have other things to do, so many other things calling for their attention.

I owe them some brevity ... and the more I talk about that, the less I'm giving them. Right?

What I started out to say was that the poem simply attempts to express the feeling that, while it's good to get away ... on a vacation, or even for a few days ... it's good to get back, too ... to be home again.

I could have said much more than that in the poem, but I was under the mistaken impression that Capper's only published eight-line poems ... short lines, at that.

For example, I could have talked about the curving gravel road leading to the barn on the place where I lived at one time ... about the lilacs and maples along that road ... about the big gray house ... the light in the window ...

More about that later, perhaps. For now, the poem:

HOMECOMING

No matter how great
the vacation, there's
no sweeter song
than a quartet
of travel-weary tires
harmonizing on the gravel
of your own driveway.

 © 1994

(originally published in Capper's)


Today's word: harmonizing

The Good Dreams

I'm always searching for poems ... my own published poems ... that I can share with you.


My search this time led me to my little poem which celebrated a beginning, the arrival of a new member of the family.


I also see the arrival of new life in our midst ... this symbol of the continuation of life, this vision beyond the present day, beyond us ... as a symbol of hope.


The pairing with today's art naturally followed: the sunlit path that leads on, inviting us to see what lies beyond the next turn, and beyond that.


The poem:

THE GOOD DREAMS

Your grandparents treasure the joy
of having been there within hours

of your arrival, taking their turns
cradling your downy head in their
arms, marveling at perfect tiny
fingers and toes, your eyes fluttering
open and shut, brief lusty crying,
eager, hungry feeding, your
drifting off into well-earned sleep.

Some distant day you, too, may hold
your own grandchild and know such joy,
may sit wondering, arm growing numb,
what adventures lie still years ahead.

But for now it is sufficient
for you to sleep. So sleep, sleep,
sleep, Thomas, and in time
the good dreams will come to you.

© 1999

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: sleep

The Frozen Pond

There were a lot of ponds in the area where I grew up, but this poem is about one particular pond ... on the property where my brothers and sisters lived at that time.

When I got to visit them (but that's another story), it was our favorite gathering place. I did my first fishing there. I went sledding down the hill and out onto the ice of that pond.

It was one of the first places I wanted to see when I came home on furlough after completing basic training.

Years later, during a visit back to Illinois, I drove out in that area to show my wife that pond. But the house was gone, the land was overgrown, and we didn't even get a glimpse of the pond.

For all I know, the pond may not even exist now, but it's very much alive in my memory. The poem was originally published in Capper's ... and I know, I know ... some of you have heard it before ... but it talks to me about a special place ... and I hope you won't mind.

The poem:

THE FROZEN POND

The pond was always home
for wayward leaves,
adding, in late summer,
the yellowed offerings
of the black walnut tree,
then the reds and golds
of maple and tulip trees,
like tiny boats lazing
among the ducks, twirling
at the tiniest stirrings
of air or water, remaining
trapped below the surface
when winter came, as though
waiting for us to come
thundering down the hill
on our sleds, out onto
the ice, that marvelous,
jeweled surface spinning
us around and around,
our laughter spilling out,
still echoing back.

© 1998

Today's word: echoing

Encounter

(It has nothing to do with today's entry ... I just felt like sharing my little watercolor with you)

It was such a strange encounter. I was startled, but not frightened. After all, it just took me a second or two to realize that what I was seeing was my own reflection.

But I'll never forget that feeling, as I turned slowly, not thinking about anything in particular ... perhaps about where my bus was, when it would pull up at that corner ... and there was this reflection in the store window, a reflection so much like the image of my grandfather, one I had carried in memory for so many years ...

I had never thought that I looked very much like him. Still, that first glance at the reflection was like seeing him again ... my reaction, as I saw it in that window, was like seeing him reach out for me ... again.

It didn't occur to me to rush home and write about the encounter. I wasn't writing poetry then. But, much later, when I began learning the practice of sitting in a quiet place, waiting for the words to come to me, these are the ones that made their presence known to me:

ENCOUNTER

There was no mistaking the slope
of his shoulders, the shape
of his head; it was my grandfather
staring from the store window
while I stood in sprinkling rain
waiting for an afternoon bus.

I recalled how it was raining
when I had stood in uniform
beside his bed in that darkened
room, how I had wanted to say
things he could not hear, how I
had finally broken and wept.

And now, all these years later,
I watched as he reached his hand
toward me, the unwanted child,
then, as I stood watching his image
blur in the rain against the window,
we knew I had finally become him.
© 2003

(part of my first collection of poetry, Chance of Rain, issued by Finishing Line Press, 2003)

Today's word: image

A Day for Flying

Ah, I remember it well.

I was doing a bit of flying myself ... around the house, that is ... trying to pick my way through the early morning fog that blurs my vision and sends my mind down a dozen detours.

I was trying to pull things together for watercolor class ... check for e-mails ... find my list of things I intended to do yesterday ... all this while watching the time ticking swiftly away.

And then, of course, there was a problem with the computer. What kind of problem? I really don't know. It just wasn't working right.

If it's not the kind of thing which has levers and wheels, cogs that are supposed to mesh ... things I can look at and tell what's broken or not working right, I'm in trouble ... big trouble.  

But isn't that always the way it is when you're in a hurry?

So, for a few minutes at least, I'm putting hurry aside now. I'm sitting here calmly at the keyboard, serenely typing a few words which I hope will make their way into "Chosen Words." 

Not a worry in the world.

Like, yeah, sure.

Meanwhile, here's the poem (I hope):

A DAY FOR FLYING

Crisp autumn breeze sliding off

some unseen glacier, sun busy

burnishing the copper leaves,

as though trees were incapable

of doing it themselves, and not

a cloud in sight. A day made

for flying. Indeed, overhead

dozens of silent chalk marks

of planes drag themselves along,

blade marks slowly multiplying

on a blue rink, crisscrossing,

widening, turning into fluffy

cotton batting stretched along

the cold, these diaphanous

contrails abandoned in a flight

to somewhere, as though planes

of the world were gathering

on this day to make clouds,

being impatient for the regular

kind and for the needed rain,

the prodigal, dallying rain.

© 1997

(originally published in Potpourri)

Today's word: diaphanous