Art, Poetry, Writing

From lump to bean

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A book of Anne Sexton poems have been on my nightstand for about a year. I can only read 1-2 poems at a time before saturation. On those nights, chances run high I’ll dream about Sexton. Mostly her voice and sitting around in living rooms and dining rooms. Don’t even know what we talk about. Tried to write her back, with Father’s Day on my mind.

Women are born twice, men once.

But for us, son, the drying off is slow.

From lump to sapling to tree to bean.

And in between we watch and attend.

Watch clumsiness turn to grace to poise to squeezing life out again.

Help from the outside, only let in in small ways.

We are builders and servants, boasters and protectors.

Anne, what would you have made of us

Had you seen us grow from lump around again to bean? Seen us

Fuller, slower than invaders and thralls.

Between you and your slender friend in a Boston cab,

Breaking away from Lord Lowell. Brobdingnag jokes.

You both would catch in my eyes when I saw you as vessels.

As I would see in yours whether I was politic and small or rescuer and hunter.

Consigning you to gray sparking damp clouds would not happen on my watch.

Talking with trained strangers and medicinal minuets probably would.

Son, see how a poem to you turns to apostrophe

Of desire and dreams and duties?

Those are all of the things we do.

Do not let them be all the things you are.

Do not be afraid to take taxi cab rides alone.

Do not take all of your taxi cab rides alone.

Poetry, Writing

Beats

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Giving semi-solace to mock sadness during a fast song.

Salmon, smoked salmon, on that salad, please (as a smart choice).

Shiva playful poses through a mist frosted bathroom’s glass pane.

Hard plastic inside soft plastic rattling of kinship to say hey, me too.

The drawer openings and closings, faucet openings and closings, day over day would hit a rhythm more measured than the most meticulous drummer. Not a rhythm that shakes the world, but a pulse.

Poetry, Writing

Hill of beans

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We are a speck
On the Earth which is a speck
In the Solar system
A speck in a galaxy
Which is a speck in space among other galaxies
In a universe of light matter that is a speck amid dark matter.

Our primate brains seek patterns and causes and effects and correlations.
Loads of primate brains throw a god(s) speck in there
Because they need a speck traffic cop directing these fluffy materials.

Speck and space and Ur-space.
Makes our speck to speck clinging and latching
Everything we can have. Statistically nothing.
But two specks are larger than one speck.

Poetry, Writing

Do not go. I must go.

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Do not go.
I must go.
“You don’t have a complex, you have a cathedral.” said over the shoulder.
Not so. Simple.
It was shelter.
It was guileless.
It was free.
It was us.
It was me.
We know this.
Do not go.
I must go.

Poetry, Writing

Be witching.

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Darting through the sky dragging trails of coal black smoke.

Sometimes with letters, most often circles.

At times the trail is blinding magnesium crackling and sizzling with an odor that makes the teeth hurt.

Then I land, dismount the broom. Look to the skies and see other letters, other circles.

Higher in elevation from where I patrolled, less fresh.

I used to fly lower altitude, more often I tilt upwards to try the cooler air and better view.

Walking on, I see other circles, faded but over my station. For my notice?

Some a pungent bilious green, hopefully dispersed before they catch the breeze on earth. Birds and bugs dropping unconscious before then. Take shelter under a tree.

How many heartbeats do we have? Is it vain to take to the skies? Vain to scan upwards for messages and deeds? Tough to take direction (or evasion) when there are errands to do.

Beasts of the field spend all their heartbeats doing their duty, consuming, sleeping, excreting.

Beasts of the field do not look to the skies, or take to the skies, from compulsion.

Eating, Poetry, Writing

Valentine’s Day new-timey sweetness

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In ancient Rome during middle February they feasted quite deeply during pagan Lupercalia. To slit the throats of a dog and a goat then eat them would cure what ailed ya.

Then ladies’d stand naked in line, and while blitzed on wine the fellas all’d hit them.

Later on ladies’ names were drawn by men in a game to determine who later would schtup ’em.

Couples might bond, other times not gel, in either case they’d end up sticky.

While rollicking and violent, horrid and wrong, somehow that all ended as this edible Mickey.

The Valentine’s cookie was sweet, decorated neat, and blended to smooth consistency.

Eating it made me sluggish and slow, hardly rarin’ to go, and in the wild my rivals would pass me.

Would I end up behind down the Lupercalian line slapping laggard asses that didn’t quite suit me?

I’d probably stay back, plan a selective attack based on hair, guessed-at smarts, self-esteem.

Or would I have thought “Sod it all. Ave, Venus!” and hope my card would lead to love at first sight?

All this mulling now and then while with a ravenous grin I chomped down on this corporate copyright.

Art, Pop Culture, Writing

Gore Vidal on writing & moral judgment

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While on a plane, I watched an old CSPAN-2 Book TV episode of “In Depth” with Gore Vidal. It’s three hours, and I’ve watched it several times. Many layers of “nerrrrrd” to unpack, but do not be fooled – the amount of pop culture junk food I binge on would destroy the liver and kidneys of a typical person.

His statement in this excerpt struck me, as I’d been on a fiction writing jag that’s probably not for public consumption, a spin off from my main project very much about creatively processing some ideas rolling around trying to figure out where my thoughts are:

“Generally, I find one writes to find out what one thinks. I find that if I don’t write, I don’t think. I just sensate.”

As posted before, I am worried about Vidal dying soon. His interview above was 11 years ago.