Brittle Poems

Still another poem about writing, but without any technical advice.

No how to- piece. Instead, some sounds, some images painted with words.

Add a bit of a twist with "fireflies ... looking for someone with a jar," and there you have it.

Many of my poems are "little thoughts" ... whether they blink on and off is another matter ... but they are ordinary little topics, depending a great deal on what the reader brings to them for completion.

Also, I keep saying that poems are meant to be shared ... so much depends on "someone who/ will catch them, enjoy/ them, let them fly again."

And there are so many out there worthy of being caught ... enjoyed ... shared.

The poem:

BRITTLE POEMS

My poems are written
on brittle paper, little
thoughts that blink
on and off like fireflies
scouring summer nights
looking for someone
with a jar, a quick
hand, someone who
will catch them, enjoy
them, let them fly again.

 © 2001

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: brittle

Ahead and Behind

(Yes, that's me ... caught in the daily whirl of activity)

I suppose it was there all the time ... an ability, on occasion, to say something that sort of had the sound of poetry ... something that, while alien, perhaps, to the formal, prescribed structure and style of real poetry, had an element that conjured up poetic images for the reader ... or listener.

I began writing these things for myself. 


They usually came to me during my daily walks. When I got back home, I would sit for a few minutes at the kitchen table, scribbling away.

Then I began sharing these scribblings with Phyllis. She liked them ... at least said she did ... and encouraged me to keep writing.

I did keep writing, and writing, and writing ... and, though today's poem is a bit of an exaggeration ... poetic license, you know ... it does sometimes seem that I've gotten ahead on my writing ... behind on everything else.

Meanwhile, the poem:

AHEAD AND BEHIND

For many years
I wouldn’t venture
into this strange
realm of poetry,
but then, like
a water-loving dog
finding a pond,
I plunged in, 
can’t be coaxed
back out, and I’m
paddling around,
getting slowly
ahead on poetry,
way behind on
everything else.
© 2001 

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: paddling

Trail of Thanks

Sometimes I think I spend too much time explaining the poems I post here.

Oh, I think it's helpful to describe what inspired a particular poem, where I was when I wrote it, why I went ahead to share it with you (a lot of my poems ... shy creatures that they are ... still reside in my handwritten journals ... or on tiny scraps of paper).

But the poem ... like today's ... sometimes explains itself. It requires no further words from me. And still I go on and on ... sometimes ... but not today. I am trying very hard ... today ... not to overdo it.

That said, here's the poem:

TRAIL OF THANKS

Tiny morsels
of my thanks
mark the trail
I have come,
leading back
to a grandmother
who reared me
as her very own,
etching her lessons
on the innermost
growth rings
of my young mind.
I am thankful
for her lessons,
her example making
my journey easier.

 © 1995

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: thanks

Sleepless Night

Today's poem addresses something I've experienced at various times ... and is for all those nights before air-conditioning ... or without it ... when I was growing up, when I was in military service, later, in a rented room here and there ... and even later.

There were a lot of those.

It's for those lonely nights when a siren would signal the approach of flashing lights which would go dancing across the ceiling and splashing on down the street.

Once or twice that siren and those lights were for me. But "not this time ... old pals."

It's for the times I listened to the crickets picking up the threads of conversation in the darkness ... and I lay listening to the night ebbing away.

I don't dwell too much on the past, but it does provide the foundation for today ... and tomorrow. It does bear some thought. I try to give it that, and I'm glad when a poem is the end result, especially when that poem eventually finds a good home. This one was originally published in Riverrun.

SLEEPLESS NIGHT

A sharp-edged siren
comes careening through
my open window, scant
warning of lights
that will go slashing
across my ceiling,
tumbling pell-mell
in the littered street,
spattering buildings
with fiery colors
that ooze and fade.

Not this time
for me, old pals.
Not this time.

Slowly, like strangers
waiting for a bus,
crickets pick up loose
threads of conversation,
and I lie listening
to another night
burning itself out,
the welter of chirrups
reeling in another 
sweltering day.
© 2000

Today's word: threads

Passages

Strange how ... and where ... poems sometimes reveal themselves to a person.

As I recall, I was sitting in the car in front of a Post Office, waiting for Phyllis to go in, mail a letter, and return.

I noticed the reflections of the vehicles going by on the street behind me ... how the warped window made them appear to be leaping ... like horses or hunting hounds ... bounding over a hedge.

I thought about reflections I had seen in store WINDOWSin my home town ... and of one window, in particular, on one of my last visits there. That store was vacant. Oh, the memories I had of that little country store!

Then the poem started asserting itself ... I reached for a scrap of paper ... always waiting in a handy pocket ... and began writing.

And now, the poem:

PASSAGES

The cars change shape
as they come and go
in the warped window glass
of a store that once was,
dusty now, this begrimed
keeper of secrets,
these windows that
have seen it all
in this small town: deaths,
FUNERALS, weddings, births,
departures of its young
who sometimes come back,
stand beside a grave,
listen to an acorn falling,
SLOW ticking of eternity.

© 2007

(originally published in Waterways)

Today's word: ticking

The Moment

Memories. We can't live in the past, of course, but memories can help to make the going easier in the present.

Today's poem is based on earliest memory.

I find it hard to believe that I'm going all the way back to the cradle in recalling my mother's words ... not the specific words, but the memory of the sounds, enhanced, perhaps, by the distance, the years since I heard them.

Or I may just be imagining it all, the product of my wanting to "hear" them.

When I was about two years old, I went to live with my grandparents, who reared me to adulthood. My contact with my mother, over those years, was, by various circumstances, limited to a certain degree.

It would be natural for me to have more memories of my grandparents than my mother. Still, there is that connection, that need to go back as far as I can to those earliest days.

It's a wistful poem, a semi-dream poem. And I found a certain healing in the writing of it, a certain comfort in reading it again. It was originally published in Capper's:

THE MOMENT

In the moment
between sleeping
and waking,
when morning light
drifts strangely
through the trees
and sounds seem
borne aloft
by distant voices,
my mother’s words
come curling back
like wood smoke
on a rainy night,
and I am comforted
by that memory.

© 2001

Today's word: wistful

In the Choir

How many times I've wished I could sing, if only for singing in the shower ... but that gift seems to have been taken from me forever when my voice changed.


I have become an avid listener, instead.


It is from this listening that the metaphor for this poem arose. I do wish my voice might rise, realistically, not as a singer, but as a writer.


Even there, I am reconciled to the possibility that mine might not be a voice intended to be heard above the chorus of other writers' voices.


If that's the case, then, let my voice ... my writing ... remain steadfast, I say in this little poem.


There, now that I've explained the whole poem, I hope you will still take a look at "In the Choir," originally published in Capper's.


As always, I know that the reader brings a special point of view ... a special knowledge ... to the poem ... and I do enjoy the reader's perspective, the added dimension this gives to what I've written.


I appreciate your taking time to drop by ... even if it's just to "sit for a spell" and listen to my ramblings ... but if you choose to join the conversation by leaving a comment, well ... that's always icing on the cake. In either event, many thanks. I'll keep trying.


Meanwhile:



IN THE CHOIR

Oh, that my voice
might soar like
a tenor's rising
as clearly as a bell
from the choir,
but if that wish
is not to be, then
let me remain
a faithful voice
among the many,
my song steadfast.
© 1998


Today's word: dimension

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

Cradled in the Hand

Here I go again, writing about writing ... and, as usual, I insert an early disclaimer: I'm no expert on the subject ... I'm still learning ... still struggling ...

The subject is one which intrigues me ... challenges me ... sometimes frustrates me ... but I keep going.

I keep going because ... when the result is a finished, polished piece of poetry ... it is so REWARDING.

And when someone else reads it, likes it, identifies with it ... maybe even exclaims about it ... well, that's truly a hefty slather of icing on the cake.

I often say that poems come to me ... in the quiet of the night ... or in the midst of a noisy crowd at the mall.

I never know when an idea is going to show itself ... so I'm always prepared ... with a scrap of paper ... a stub of pencil ... or a BALLPOINT PEN ... to try to catch the essence, at least, of that idea.

Later, the real work begins.

I'm sometimes amazed at how that first draft shapes itself on the page. Other times, the idea is there, but the poem isn't ... so I put it aside, let it rest ... and later, sometimes much later, I'll discover it when I'm looking for something else ... there's a new flash of inspiration ... the wheels start turning again ...

I speak of "the perfect poem" in today's posting ... I haven't found that yet in my own writing ... but I keep searching, trying ... and maybe some day ... some day ...

Meanwhile, this one:

CRADLED IN THE HAND

Finding an idea
is a beginning,
but only that.
There must follow
the grinding, shaping,
polishing, plain
hard work that takes
a found stone
on a long journey,
transforming it
to that gifted gem
cradled in the hand
of its creator,
the perfect poem,
alive with light,
singing to us,
dancing across
the ballroom floor
of our memory.

© 1997

(originally published in ByLine)

Beach Music

I grew up far from the ocean ... any ocean ... so the one time that I got to walk on a real ocean beach was ... to put it mildly ... a most memorable occasion.


Oh, I had glimpsed the ocean at the movies ... in books or magazines ... but never the real thing.


I think I was most impressed, when a face-to-face meeting finally came, with the immensity of it ... its power ... its beauty ... its music.


I tried to get some of that music in this little poem:



BEACH MUSIC

Waves come tumbling
onto the docile shore,
flinging foamy fingers
across the ochre plane.

Teeming with bubbles,
they search and settle,
soothingly diminuendo,
on a healing chord.

Eliciting a sigh
from pliant, sandy keys,
the fingers slide off
into the lap of the sea,

where joyous whitecaps

merrily urge them,

jostle and encourage them

to play it all again.

© 1998

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: joyous

Avalanche!

(Another of my quick watercolor sketches ... done along the way)

As always, please keep in mind that these ramblings generally reflect only my viewpoint ... and they may not be really current (I understand that's the way the mind works, sometimes, as  it ages).

So-o-o-o … I was driving (some months ago, now) as we started out to run some errands.

At our first stop Phyllis gathered up a double armload of covers … not heavy, but really bulky …  and headed toward the laundry/dry CLEANERS. 

I sat behind the wheel and pulled out a tattered crossword puzzle collection … to, as is my custom, fill in a couple of minutes by filling in some blanks.

Then I glanced into the rearview mirror (I do that occasionally, so I‘ll be ready to go when Phyllis returns).

Oh, NO!

There was Phyllis on the ground … on the pavement, actually … and someone was helping her up.

By the time I got out of the car and to the building, she was already just inside the door … and the proprietor was trying to help her. 

Her glasses were badly scratched, but weren’t broken. Her lip was bleeding, she had a cut just below her left eye, and there was a large discolored (bruised) area there, too, all the result of tripping and falling. While I was fumbling for a tissue to APPLY to her lip, another customer entered.

What perfect timing!

“I’m a surgeon,” he said, in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice, and started checking her out … advising against stitches for her wounds, but recommending some remedies … which we followed.

Meanwhile, if you happened to see Phyllis … and noticed that she had a black eye … I hoped you understood … I didn’t do it. 

Meanwhile ... I’ve said it before ... and I’ll say it again: I can’t rhyme worth a dime.

It’s true. Oh, I can sometimes put a couple of lines together, maybe, but then I get so bogged down in the mechanics of it that I can’t tell the story I started out to relate.

So, I stick mainly to what I CAN do ... and that’s what’s called free verse. It has a certain rhythm to it, a certain amount of rhyme, though not always where expected (no end rhyme, for example), and I do ... sometimes ... manage to tell a story, or get a point across.

(Oh, how I envy those who have the gift for creating structured, rhyming poetry which tells their story for them!)

And now, Exhibit A in the case for "can’t rhyme worth a dime":

AVALANCHE!

When I wrote my first poem,
It was really quite a chore,
But I just had to show 'em
I could do one, maybe more.

Now poems spill off the end
Of my DESK, across the floor.
If this continues, my friend,
They'll be sliding door-to-door.

© 2011 
(originally published in PKA's Advocate)

Today's word: rhyme

Autumn Trees

(One of the photos I took during a visit to Pondview)


Yes, my children, there was a time ... no, not back in the days of the dinosaurs ... a little more recent than that ... when there were candy stores, and others, I suppose, which sold their sweet wares for a penny apiece (I hear that the price has gone up a bit since then).

The poem is not about the penny candy store, exactly, but it helps if you can bear that image in mind as you work your way through. 

Imagine, if you will, a place where there are so many choices all around you, each one seemingly more appealing than the one you just hovered over, and that one over there ... so mouth-watering alluring that you simply must have it.

No, wait ... there's another one.

Transfer that to a tree-lined highway at its autumn peak, you're driving along enjoying ... well, you've got the picture. This one was originally published in Capper's:

AUTUMN TREES 

Lining the highway
like penny candies,
they invite us
to pick this one,
no, maybe that one
there, each seeming
a little prettier,
more alluring,
all bidding wildly
for those precious
pennies clutched
in our sweaty hand.
© 1998 
Today's word: alluring 

After Summer

In keeping with my repeatedly-broken 

promise (to myself) to be brief, I’ve selected a 

short poem to share today. 

I’ve written a lot of those. Perhaps it has 

something to do with writer’s cramp ... or

writer’s block ... or maybe attention 

span. But that’s another story.


Briefly speaking, though, I see now that it 

might have been just a line or two longer ... in 

order to incorporate the chorus of leaf 

blowers (which also provide background 

music) ... and then I could have mentioned 

the dreaded snow blowers.

But I did indicate I was going to be brief, didn't 

I?


The poem:


AFTER SUMMER


Comes autumn,

when the mighty

chorus of mowers

ceases singing,

an intermission

too soon followed

by a chorale

of snow blowers.

(originally published in Capper’s)


Today's word: chorale