Effortlessly limber she entered
His room, his mind, and the rest
She appropriated, triaged, rejected
With cool gherkin competence.
Neglected to fashion belief in his eyes –
Best leave him to wonder and finally mourn.
She entered, effortlessly limber,
And impoverished us all.
Finally I make it in time for Open Link Night over at dVerse Poets Pub – one of the friendliest and most talented community of poets I have seen online. Or in person.
It’s taken me nearly a week to chew over this one, so apologies for my slow reactions, dVerse Poets Pub.
On the 9th of March, Brian Miller and Gretchen Leary suggested two different types of prompts. One was to ask someone to give you a few words to incorporate into a poem – but my own family came up with such delightful combinations as ‘poohead’, ‘smosh-smosh’ and ‘supercalifragilistic’, so I soon gave up on that one. The second was to think of a seminal song from when we were growing up and I instantly thought of Billy Joel’s ‘We didn’t start the fire’. So, for the past few days I’ve been trying to add a few verses to that song, to bring it up to date. This has been far more difficult than I thought! [Perhaps I will write another time a post about the difference between hard-working form or imitation versus spontaneous poetic outburst.] In the end, my rhymes and verbal verve are not quite up to the original, but here goes:
One day like this or a few weeks of medal fever, cheering loud,
Being nice, a good sport, no rain falling from our cloud.
Dontcha feel unsisterly vibes at work or when you raise your child?
If you’re poor, endure the jibes, you’re universally reviled!
People killed every day at the click of a mouse,
Together we are forced to stay, shore up the value of our house…
Celtic Tiger lost his roar, gulf in Spain is golf no more,
Pension plans are sinking down, bankers screwing everyone.
Gladiator, Amelie, turned all blue in Avatar.
Lucky we can drive away in our silent Prius car.
We didn’t start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world’s been turning
US is divided nation, tsunami and radiation,
Greeks protest austerity, nought left for posterity.
I don’t know where to turn - is there anything left to burn?
We didn’t start the fire
No we didn’t light it
But we tried to fight it
The next time you pin out your life on paper
in butterfly sprawl – for all to finger and paw…
tread cautiously upon the buzzwords,
prepare courteously for the skewer.
Next time they ignore or reject you,
call you Mr. Annie if they remember your name,
when they boast of hundreds of outstanding applications…
feel the low tide of stand-in, a has-been, intently dim.
Next time they invite you to look in their eyes,
bring out the weapons, the fake and the true.
Though barbs pierce you dearly and scar tissues tighten
to scour your heart, build up bile, rot and decay.
Though you long to cauterise wounds in sheer lava,
As layer by layer they strip you of pride, esteem and hope.
Next time…
Curse them softly.
But don’t melt to brine.
Don’t let them define you.
Don’t you dare fall pigeon
into their hole.
Join me at the Open Link Night over at dVerse Poets Pub to enjoy many fine poems and some delicious company.
You fear meningitis with each stiffening joint.
You understand colitis at its intricate extreme.
Tachycardia is no stranger to your medicated bliss,
doctors are your allies, your mirrors and your envy.
Advice you dispense freely, with countless cups of tea,
lashings of lemon and honey to soothe throats.
So prudent, so careful
you inch your way across
the very same finishing line
that others flash on by.
I never was my mother except
when I distort the truth and tell
strange tales that no one else can fit
in nor recognise nor believe.
I never will be my mother
but when I feel that vice is gripping whispering
‘bereft of friends’
I wonder: is that an echo of her whingeing?
No reflection of my mother except
grey-peppered hair, turgid jaw,
or does my voice harshen when I offer
praises lethally counterpointed with ‘but’?
We are strangers on drifting shores
each other’s greatest disappointment.
Yet darkness floods us both alike.
If we could mention it
there might be hope.
And, in the spirit of full disclosure, let me share another poetic experiment with you. This was a poem I wrote as an answer to the question I posed in the previous post: Who lingers when all done is said? Version 1 is my first attempt: wordier, spelling out meaning. Version 2 is trying to take all of the superfluous padding out. Is there enough left there to convey the meaning? I’m not sure. Probably a mix of the two will be my final version.
Photo: Nigel Clifford, Rowl Images.
Version 1
The afterchime
The aftermath
The silence when the noise subsides.
They come to haunt,
Some: happy ghosts,
Some long-faced, gaunt.
They parade, unfold, start pacing.
But some stick fast
Like cobwebs on bushes
After the rain.
Version 2
The afterchime…
They come to haunt,
Some ghosts.
Stick fast
Like cobwebs on the bushes
After the rain.
The challenge for this poem, should you choose to accept it, is guess the title (or the ‘subject’ of the poem). I know, I know, sometimes a poem isn’t ‘about’ anything, but this particular one was written in response to a very specific fear (some might say I have too many fears in general). A much earlier version of this poem appeared in the online multilingual literary (and arts) magazine http://www.respiro.org/
First the little slip.
Name much praised
remembered slightly aslant
like a jigsaw piece chewed and frayed
not quite fitting in its groove.
Then a petulant rewrite
of yesterday’s events:
a pout of a travesty
bearing no semblance, no cause, no fruit.
Too stubborn to admit all is haze and indifference.
Next, the heartbeat stop before mad scrabble
and dig and delve
to capture that elusive frame
in the broken film of the mind.
Finally, the chasms beckoning:
throw self in?
chuck pretence out?
make way for shadows,
population of yesteryear?
Darker and darker the woodland cover
hunched, stop-cock breathing,
waiting for the elliptical, haphazard flux to cease
the lynx-bared jaw of foaming bite
those fixed clear eyes of poison fire.
Precarious rock after rock
the chamois cleared.
But only just.
Next day
next week
its foothold less secure
chasms will close in-
to beckoning pools of blankness.
Soft swish then silence
No traffic out my window-
Snow has come at last.
Steady trickled drip.
Drainpipe thick with icy coat.
Downward flash of mouse.
Frozen carrot nose,
Twigs in perfect puffy spheres.
Ours is best of all.
Lego bricks scatter.
Damp circle in flattened grass,
Where proud snowman stood.
Spit out weak coffee,
Collar up, I venture out
in the toothache cold.
With enormous thanks to Quirina, who reawakened me to the possibilities of the haiku.
