Judson Mitcham: Before Prayer

(Judson Mitcham)

She curled up next to me on the Trailways,
clutching her cigarettes and change.
The light framed her face, while the bus
idled under a streetlight in Ringgold,
till it groaned on into the night,
headed south down the two lane.

I think of her often, this woman
who appeared in the aisle like a nightmare
somewhere in Tennessee, bits of weed
in wild hair matted on one side.
She lurched through the vacant bus
toward the one seat where, by accident,
she could touch someone.

When the light left her face, it came,
this ache I have felt all my life.
Whatever is within us, it is not enough.

                   --Judson Mitcham

Leo Tolstoy: Ivan Ilych

(Leo Tolstoy: Aug. 28/Sept. 9, 1828-Nov. 7/20, 1910)

I saw that today is the anniversary of Leo Tolstoy's death--but only if one ignores the fact that in Tolstoy's Russia time was calculated on a different calender than we use today. There is a thirteen day difference between the Gregorian and Julian calenders, so while Nov. 7th is the number assigned to his death, the actual day would be the 20th. Confused yet? The Russian Orthodox Church (and some other Orthodox churches) still use the old calendar for ecclesiastic purposes--if you really want to see the fur fly, get one Old Calenderist and one New Calenderist together in a room and let 'em go at it. Jesus, people, it's just an arbitrary number assigned to the passing of days! Anyway . . . I love this passage from Tolstoy's short story, "The Death of Ivan Ilych." It has nothing to do with calender issues, but everything to do with the passing of time.

Ivan Ilych saw that he was dying, and he was in continual despair. 

In the depth of his heart he knew he was dying, but not only was he not accustomed to the thought, he simply did not and could not grasp it. 

The syllogism he had learnt from Kiezewetter's Logic: "Caius is a man, men are mortal, therefore Caius is mortal," had always seemed to him correct as applied to Caius, but certainly not as applied to himself. That Caius--man in the abstract--was mortal, was perfectly correct, but he was not Caius, not an abstract man, but a creature quite, quite separate from all others. He had been little Vanya, with a mamma and a papa, with Mitya and Volodya, with the toys, a coachman and a nurse, afterwards with Katenka and with all the joys, griefs, and delights of childhood, boyhood, and youth. What did Caius know of the smell of that striped leather ball Vanya had been so fond of? Had Caius kissed his mother's hand like that, and did the silk of her dress rustle so for Caius? Had he rioted like that at school when the pastry was bad? Had Caius been in love like that? Could Caius preside at a session as he did? "Caius really was mortal, and it was right for him to die; but for me, little Vanya, Ivan Ilych, with all my thoughts and emotions, it's altogether a different matter. It cannot be that I ought to die. That would be too terrible."

Such was his feeling.

                   --Leo Tolstoy, from "The Death of Ivan Ilych," trans. Aylmer Maude and J. D. Duff

Stephen Crane: Black Riders XIII

(Stephen Crane: Nov. 1, 1871-June 5, 1900)

XIII

If there is a witness to my little life,
To my tiny throes and struggles,
He sees a fool;
And it is not fine for gods to menace
       Fools.

   --Stephen Crane, from Black Riders 
                               and Other Lines

Lonely Night

Lonely Night

“My solitary watch I keep,”

Bill Monroe sings high lonesome.

“So fare-thee-well I’d rather make

My home upon some icy lake

Where the southern sun refused to shine

Than to trust a love so false as thine.”

**

a pile of yellow

toenail clippings

thought I threw

those things

out

with the nonchalance

of god

**

Yet, why be so theatrical

in your desolation.

In this way

the floor

speaks to me.

I think it means

.

and I think it is

the floor

**

            Castaneda asks, What is going to happen now, don Juan?

            Nothing. You won your soul back. It was a good battle.

            You learned many things last night.

**

(So perhaps that’s where it stands.)

------------------------------------------------ 

Anna Chamberlain has us going to the edge of meaning and sanity for tonight’s dVerse prompt. Well, anyway, that’s how it seemed to me, as we discovered a variety of experimental poetry techniques. Take the time to read the article—Anna did a great service in providing all the information, and there’s really no good way to summarize it here.

I tried to write spontaneously, piecing together many disparate, jarring sources and images in service of a single theme; however, I think there may be more flow, or at least more noticeable meaning, than one would expect to find in experimental poetry. I couldn’t help it. Hopefully there is enough here to make it fit the prompt. (The quotations are from Bill Monroe’s song “Midnight on the Stormy Deep” and Carlos Castaneda’s book The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge.)

John Berryman: Dream Song 46

(John Berryman: Oct. 25, 1914-Jan. 7, 1972.
Image credit: www.english.illinois.edu )

I am, outside. Incredible panic rules.
People are blowing and beating each other without mercy.
Drinks are boiling. Iced
drinks are boiling. The worse anyone feels, the worse
treated he is. Fools elect fools.
A harmless man at an intersection said, under his breath: "Christ!"

                          --John Berryman, from The Dream Songs, 46

Shakespeare: A Tedious Life

Imogen: I see a man's life is a                             tedious one. 

                   --Shakespeare, Cymbeline 3.6.1

Wallace Stevens: Banal Sojourn

Today is the anniversary of the death of the American poet Wallace Stevens. His work, especially his earlier work, displays a remarkable command of descriptive language. Stevens is never ordinary in his descriptions, perhaps due to his belief that the Self is, in some real sense, a creator of reality—that is, the human observer, as a perceiver, defines the world for him or her self. Well, enough of that. Here is one of my favorite Stevens poems.

Banal Sojourn

Two wooden tubs of blue hydrangeas stand at the foot of the stone steps.

The sky is a blue gum streaked with rose. The trees are black.

The grackles crack their throats of bone in the smooth air.

Moisture and heat have swollen the garden into a slum of bloom.

Pardie! Summer is like a fat beast, sleepy in mildew,

Our old bane, green and bloated, serene, who cries,

“That bliss of stars, that princox of evening heaven!” reminding me of the seasons,

When radiance came running down, slim through the bareness.

And so it is one damns that green shade at the bottom of the land.

For who can care at the wigs despoiling the Satan ear?

And who does not seek the sky unfuzzed, soaring to the princox?

One has a malady, here, a malady. One feels a malady.

A Dead Deer Reminds Me of William Blake

A Dead Deer Reminds Me of William Blake

She hit it before she had time

to swerve or stomp on the brakes—

the deer wide-eyed in the windshield,

then stretched out on the roadside

as if placed there on purpose.

A tan and white mound of once-life

now dying, the round red intestines

exposed on the grass still

digesting the last meal of clover.

While the deer stubbornly died

she trembled at the curb

in helpless sorrow and cried,

and I couldn't help but think that her tears

were proof that sometimes we can

even comprehend Blake:

Every thing that lives is Holy.

But what about the dead? Blake again:

If thou art the food of worms,

how great thy blessing!

A day later the buzzards gathered,

nodding bald heads in agreement.

_______________________

Last October I wrote my first poem for dVerse, a marvelous online poetic community. It happened to be a Meeting the Bar prompt. So imagine my happiness to find that for tonight's Meeting the Bar Tony Maude has invited us to choose a prompt from the previous year to use as inspiration for a poem. I blended a few prompts together for this one--obviously, Victoria's Literary Allusion prompt. And Anna's prompt, The Unfathomable, which I didn't have opportunity to write for the first time around. One might also judge this poem as an example of Anna's High/Low Art prompt. At any rate, while it's been a fun year, I wish I could have been more consistent. A poet's family cannot live by words alone!

Parlor

Parlor

The room was kept dark,

funereal silence only broken

by the hum of the fish tank filter.

A few bookshelves, lined with

Encyclopedia Britannica

and the latest children’s

books, the kind one might find

in a hospital waiting room,

all pulled invitingly close

to each shelf lip.

In one corner

a piano, never played,

now that she’s gone,

and the water in the fish tank

constantly drips

like the tears that wrinkle

the unread pages of your book.

-----------------------

Submitted to dVerse OpenLinkNight. A lot of good poetry happens over there tonight--type a few lines and send them in! 

Bump

(Image credit: http://redwasp.net/)

Another dVerse OpenLinkNight, hosted by the illustrious Claudia Schoenfeld. Making connections. Here, I make a connection with a red wasp. We are not so different after all. Post your poem and join in!

Bump

In my pickup waiting,

window open to the day,

a red wasp lands

on the dusty dashboard

to clean her legs, rubbing

them earnestly on her

heart-shaped head.

Bump Bump Bump

She tries to take off,

lifting her cinnamon body

upward only to bounce

off the windshield. Again,  

Bump. She pauses, puzzled,

seeing the same blue sky

above, the familiar yellow

pine dust floating, the ordinary

soft air just overhead.

Bump.

With something akin to rage

her stinger pulses, in and out;

and I, with utter gentleness, lift

her to the open window,

knowing what it is

to go Bump.

Alone

Tonight at dVerse, our hostess, Victoria Slotto, invites us to write something with voice, passion--something about which we are motivated, inspired, excited, or outraged. This one is not really up to those standards, but it is about an event that held deep feeling for me at that time of my childhood. And I think it does ring with my voice, such as it is (that is, I think it's typical of the kind of stuff I usually write!). Come share with us!

Alone

That blazing afternoon

when I chased an ill-thrown ball

into the front yard, and saw

your shoes beside our car’s

open door, your upturned

purse, and you were nowhere,

and what can you expect

from a boy weaned on

Armageddon and the Imminent

Return of Almighty Christ?

In the twinkling of an eye,

we were told, and the blood

rushed to my hair-tips, and I looked

for you, would not be comforted.

And later, you came home and told us

how you saw little Randy

running across the street, careless,

and the black low-slung sports car

screeching, flinging him into the air,

and before he came tumbling down

you had dropped your purse, run out

of your shoes, and he would be

all right, just a few broken bones,

but I thought you were gone

to be with Jesus, one taken

and the other one left,

and never again have I felt

so alone.

Western Dreams

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words iconic, lithe, edgy. Also submitted to dVerse OpenLinkNight. I offer my apologies to both communities for linking when I am not sure how much I'll be around this week to read and comment on others' submissions. Overtime, sick kids, you know how it is sometimes. But this just rushed out of me in response to the 3WW prompt, and it had been so long since my last writing. 

Western Dreams

Dad followed a dream

out west, the iconic west,

to do better for us,

success as sure as the sun

rising. I had my own dreams

of cowboy hats and hitching posts,

of lithe flames of midnight

campfires licking the darkness,

but we lived in a house

much like our old house, and I went

to a school where the cocksure kids still

pointed fingers like blue-steel barrels.

So much the same,

yet the soil smelled different,

even the sun felt different

on the skin, like wearing

a stranger’s shirt, and Dad

grew edgy, hitting me

when the zipper of my winter coat

stuck hard in the fabric, frustration

not directed toward me, per se,

but toward life in general

and I happened to be nearest.

Unrecoverable

Karin Gustafson, hosting the latest prompt over at dVerse, offers us the chance to write about war, peace, and like topics. I just pulled an all-night shift, so I can't tell how jumbled up this is, but I'm sending it along anyway. 

Unrecoverable

As the dew falls, easing down

on the new-mown meadow

like a gentle morning kiss,

she wanders over the wet

grass and weeps. Her son is

not coming home. His body, toughened

by boot camp and sent to the desert,

is blown into red fragments by

some other mother’s boy,

unrecoverable, like a

memory erased.

The government men who

brought her the news told her she

should be proud, but on this morning,

crossing the pathless field

where her boy played away

his childhood, she cannot

escape her loss. Her mind travels

across miles, thinking of

all he must have suffered—

and she wonders just now if

across some scorched dune another

mother wanders and weeps

her loss. She knows she

should return to the house;

her work awaits. The dew lifts,

and she walks on

without leaving a trace.

Wild Onions, (edited for dVerse)

[I don't like to start with disclaimers or explanations, but I feel the need this time to introduce this poem. Some of you have read this one before--I wrote it a few weeks ago for a different poetry prompt community. Forgive me for reposting (I have, hopefully, made a few edits that improved the piece), but one of my friends commented on the original post that she enjoyed my use of enjambment. Since enjambment is what we are after here in this prompt, I automatically thought of this poem. And I also think it meets the criterion of including disparate subjects. Anyway, here goes, for my new friends at dVerse. Join in!]

Wild Onions

Traveling south down the interstate

I passed the mowers mowing,

laying low the overgrowth

along the shoulder of the road.

The sweet smell of cut

grass was mixed with wild onion

which grows in patches here.

Strange how memory resides

in our bodies, not only in our minds;

our very senses pave a road

into the past. I remembered

how, as a kid, I loved

to find these patches,

would crush the thin

leaves in my teeth and wince

at the bitter-ripe taste. But mostly

I remembered a later time,

when I would crank up

the old red Massey Ferguson

to mow the church yard,

twenty sloping acres of grass

and wild onion patches. And you

would come along to ride

beside me, standing on the sideboard

with the dignity of a sentry,

proud to be with me

and I with you. We went

up and down in long

passes, the roar of the rattling

diesel making speech impossible.

Now, for other reasons

speech is impossible,

and I know the meaning

of the words cried out

by David the brokenhearted:

“My son! My son!”

* The last stanza makes use of a story from the Judeo-Christian tradition concerning the Israelite prophet/king David and his son, Absalom. Absalom revolted against his father, and ended up being killed in battle by one of David’s generals. When David heard the news of Absalom’s death, he “wept; and as he went, thus he said, ‘O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!’” 

Wild Onions

For Three Word Wednesday. Prompt words dignity, lacerate, ripe. 

Wild Onions

Traveling south down the interstate

I passed the mowers mowing,

laying down the overgrowth

along the shoulder of the road.

The sweet smell of cut

grass was mixed with wild onion,

which grows in patches here.

Strange how memory resides

in our bodies, not only in our minds;

our very senses pave a road

into the past. I remembered

how, as a kid, I loved

to find these patches,

would crush the thin

leaves in my teeth and wince

at the bitter-ripe taste. But mostly

I remembered a later time,

when I would crank up

the old red Massey Ferguson

to mow the church yard,

twenty sloping acres of grass

and wild onion patches. And you

would come along to ride

beside me, standing on the sideboard

with the dignity of a sentry,

proud to be with me

and I with you. We went

up and down in long

passes, the roar of the rattling

diesel making speech impossible.

Now, for other reasons, speech

is impossible. The thought

lacerates my deepest self, and

I know the meaning of the

words cried out by

David the brokenhearted:

“My son! My son!”

* The last stanza makes use of a story from the Judeo-Christian tradition concerning the Israelite prophet/king David and his son, Absalom. Absalom revolted against his father, and ended up being killed in battle by one of David’s generals. When David heard the news of Absalom’s death, he “wept; and as he went, thus he said, ‘O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!’" 

Stephen Crane: A Learned Man

XX

A learned man came to me once.
He said, "I know the way,--come."
And I was overjoyed at this.
Together we hastened.
Soon, too soon, were we
Where my eyes were useless,
And I knew not the ways of my feet.
I clung to the hand of my friend;
But at last he cried, "I am lost."

--Stephen Crane, The Black Riders and Other Lines

Milton and Blake--Expulsion from Paradise

(image by the incomparable William Blake)

In either hand the hastening Angel caught
Our lingering parents, and to the eastern gate
Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast
To the subjected plain; then disappeared.
They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld
Of Paradise, so late their happy seat,
Waved over by that flaming brand, the gate
With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms.
Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon;
The world was all before them, where to choose
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide.
They hand in hand with wandering steps and slow,
Through Eden took their solitary way.

--John Milton, from Paradise Lost (12.641-649)
 

At St. Joseph's

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words are amuse, excite, sincere. 

At St. Joseph’s

Everything is white, glaring

Like the noon sun off

Of silent snow-clad hills.

Boxes full of moving parts

Startle and beep while

Robed attendants chat—

There is no quiet here. With

Amused knowing nods

They approach

The mystery as if

It makes no difference,

As if life and death

Do not excite since

Both pay the same.

It is time. Ready

Or not, permission unasked,

She’s wrenched from all

She’s ever known.

With one earnest

Gasp she finally adds

Her sincere cry.

We do not come

Laughing into the world.

Old Friend

Three Word Wednesday, prompt words were blink, kind, and occasion.

Old Friend

I didn’t recognize you.
A shy, drawling “Hey” sparked
a recent memory which face
and figure didn’t match. Staring,
blinking, I tried to place
you, but only the eyes looked
familiar. Deep within their sunken
pools reflections of what you were
still remained. Why did you do it?
What kind of driving need
caused you to pursue such
deceptive self-destruction,
your mind and body blasted
by repeated momentary pleasure?
The will to die I can understand,
but the will to live such
a life, raging for the next
fix, comes from a place
I cannot know. This should have
been one happy occasion, lively talk
about work and kids and hard-earned
success. But like a boy caught
in a lie I could only mumble,
look aside, and wish there
was more I could say.