2008.12.23 - Some Poetry

It began by accident.

I was invited to join an academic on-line poetry group. The language of the invite was clean and simple. There is history of doggerel buried in my closet, and the invite piqued a little my creative curiosity.

I accepted the invitation. And more, because for no logically explicable reason I made an aggressive suggestion to the group that the members submit Janus headed poems, poems that look at the past and future, given the time of year.

  

And here I would like to publicly thank Kimberly 'Kim' Keith for her enthusiastic acceptance of that suggestion, and for her beautifully crafted and thoughtful poem that truly fired up my rusty poetry synapses and sluggish neuro-networks. And they were sluggish and rusty, but I pushed ahead, surprised at both the stretch it was and where the poem took me — it refused to go where I thought it ought.

In an odd synchronicity-petite, while Googling something, I came across a delightful little blog called JUST POETRY:words of a feather flock together. I was delighted with the quality of this blogger's writing, which despite the Blog's title, does include some prose that is also excellent! And with that I here thank Ashley for putting herself out there, and for further inspiring me to take the poetry plunge.

 

I wrote two poems, over the last several days.  Here they are:

Ianus Solstice Poem

Our breath crackles to ice in the blue cold clear cold spit freezing cold day.

The dust dry snow squeaks under our thickly booted feet – no snowballs today.

Against my want I have been maternally dragged from Christmas games and toys,

To be Christmasy neighbourly.  

            And we actually were, I think.  Maybe.

I think we were, 

At least we were with one or two neighbours, the neighbourly ones.

And the walk in the cold blue cold clear blue air puffed my breath around my face

And iced it to it and to the ugly scarf

And had

                 Beauty

                               Peace

                                            Quietus. 

Wild blueberry pie baking wafts through the house.

Wild, wow wonderful Blueberry Pie baking dances up the nose into forever memory!

And I don't think once, I know not why not, 

Not once of long familial dog day summer hours

Picking tiny tiny blue bent-back-blue tiny gems from arduous shrubs

Not four inches above the quiet forest floor – so quiet! – into a bottomless 

       empty bottomless 

                    plink plink gallon plastic bottomless blue bucket plop plink plink.

"Remember to pick clean!" rings through the underbrush.

And never – 

         that night meticulous picking out tiny sticks and leafy and green minutia –

                           clean enough.

The smell untasted, haloes a promised aura of things yet to taste,

Tomorrow.

And tomorrow kin tongues wag food

         and politics

                 and booze

                         and gifts un-rapt

                                 and Christmases past

                                          and…

Now the ghost of Christmas past fills bespectacled eyes as 

I move through the kitchen, creating with hands from book the

             smells of shortbread – with a hint of lemon zest,

                 almond cherry Christmas cake

                                butter tarts – world's best!

                                         cookies

                                                   cranberry sauce, thick homemade

                                                                  with orange

                                                                          …

No blueberry pie.  Odd.

But free range turkey and bacon,

Homemade stuffing.

The winter's solstice embraces the sun and the days of remembrance are longer.

But is this the sum of all, that I am this clutch, gaggle, fraggle of food reveries?!

When'd that happen?  I don't wonder how.  Odd.

When did that happen, or maybe I simply missed my cauliflower calling me purée,

And I am adrift in my inertia

          a prisoner of inertia

                   comfortable in my inertia

                                   blithely blissfully unaware that my flailing is at heart inert

As days fumble rock-a-by inanity towards retirement and mortgage freedom and …

I am spinning out of control a web to keep me kept in words

         of rationale

              and logic

                      and frabjous mock turtle soup of the soul.

Oh joy.  I couldn't even manage to not use 'frabjous'?!

Even my words are prisoners of endless inertia. 

Joy to the word? Just pass me the gravy,

The grave rich gravy, dark and deep,

For I have place settings to prep,

And tables to set before I eat

And meals to eat before I sleep.

                                                              2008.12.21

And now for the second one, which I wrote to thank Ashley.  But, in keeping with the conceit of her blog, I chose to respond with a poem.  Here's that one:

just poetry is

a word or two to speak the universe

in order to keep alive the heart of Life being

trampled by revered flat faced leaders' hacks

plotting words like cudgels beating them into significance 

because they think

they really think,

that these words mean something important

are important because they make the earth groan. 

just poetry is

solstice night snow flakes

hip-hopping across the window

wrapping a pale rough peace within callouse handed hugs.

just poetry is

a hard way to express thanks in an age

that tosses thanks

like artificial franks on electric rollers

at a beefcake football game with piss water beer and long line-ups.

just poetry is

stepping out without a safety harness

into the world

                                             2008.12.22