Category: Poetry

  • Where the In is Free

    I too will get up and go
    now first rest nine note
    scale will build acoustic
    not too loud evening is

    while I still have ear to hear
    nor do I want to live alone
    in some open space empty
    from you my love who loves

    my cricket tongue my choice
    voice and together we sing
    our own songs fashioned
    from what we found here

  • Schoenberg’s Cartoon Music

    Having installed Idagio, the all classical music app suggested by Alex Ross this week in his review of Apple Music Classical, I then turned to his book “The Rest is Noise” (2007) to search for some 20th Century music to test Idagio’s functions. I alighted on Schoenberg. I like “Twelve-Tone” music because it ignores mood. One of the features of Idagio that’s somewhat annoying is its suggestion that classical music can somehow be explained by moods, evoke mood, or dispel mood. Maybe it can and does, but the Idagio feature labeled “Play My Mood” asks the musician to be a magician. I’m reminded of the first stanza of Wallace Stevens’s “The Man with a Blue Guitar” (1937):

    The man bent over his guitar,
    A shearsman of sorts. The day was green.

    They said, “You have a blue guitar,
    You do not play things as they are.”

    The man replied, “Things as they are
    Are changed upon the blue guitar.”

    And they said then, “But play, you must,
    A tune beyond us, yet ourselves,

    A tune upon the blue guitar
    Of things exactly as they are.”

    By eliminating the listener’s expectations, Twelve-Tone music replaces mood with something new. It sends the elevator you might be riding through the roof. Somehow, I’m not sure if I found it first in Idagio or “The Rest is Music,” I was suddenly listening to Schoenberg’s “String Trio” op. 45 (1946). Alex Ross gives it this analysis:

    “The score is full of distortion and noise, with the players asked to execute such eerie [pun intended?] effects as sul ponticello (bowing the strings at the bridge) and col legno (bowing or tapping the strings with the wood of the bow). Yet the contrasting lyrical episodes radiate nostalgia for the former tonal world. By his own testimony [was he on trial?], Schoenberg was depicting in musical terms a severe asthma attack he experienced in the summer of 1946, during which his pulse temporarily stopped and he was given an injection to the heart. Some passages represented the injections, he said, others the male nurse who treated him. The composer Allen Shawn, in a book about Schoenberg, notes that the String Trio is a kind of fantastic autobiography, ‘as if in his delirium he had reviewed his life.’ The ending is soft and wistful.”

    324

    One problem with that analysis is that Ross has already mentioned “Scott Bradley’s inventive scores for Tom and Jerry cartoons in the forties, notably Puttin’ on the Dog and The Cat That Hated People” (324). Schoenberg’s attempts to introduce Twelve-Tone music into movies, Ross explains, came to disappointment, but then it was found to work well in cartoons. I then looked for “The Cat That Hated People” in Idagio. Not there. So I tried YouTube, and there it is, a classic from 1948:

    If you listen to only the music, separate the music from the cartoon, you’ll have the necessary introduction to Schoenberg’s “String Trio” of 1946. If you still don’t get it, just remember it has something to do with cats:

    XXV

    He held the world upon his nose
    And this-a-way he gave a fling.

    His robes and symbols, ai-yi-yi –
    And that-a-way he twirled the thing.

    Sombre as fir-trees, liquid cats
    Moved in the grass without a sound.

    They did not know the grass went round.
    The cats had cats and the grass turned gray

    And the world had worlds, ai, this-a-way:
    The grass turned green and the grass turned gray.

    And the nose is eternal, that-a-way.
    Things as they were, things as they are,

    Things as they will be by and by . . .
    A fat thumb beats out ai-yi-yi.

    Wallace Stevens, “The Man with the Blue Guitar,” Stanza XXV of XXXIII

  • Ten Questions to Ask When Reading a Poem

    1. An author brings words to a page, but he’s not necessarily the speaker of the poem, the I of the poem, who the poem is about. The speaker can be a fictional character the author has made up, like the narrator of a novel. And even if the poem is not written in the first person (I, me, we, our), there is still a speaker, a voice talking. The poem may be written in the second person (you, your) – here the speaker is like the writer of a letter. Who is the speaker talking to? Or a poem may be written in the third person: she, her, they. Or no person – the poem appears not to have a speaker. Consider the familiar corner Stop Sign. Who’s the speaker? Who’s the intended audience? White letters on a red background. Why red? Is the Stop Sign a poem? If we don’t ask questions of the obvious, we’ll soon have trouble reading poetry.

    2. A poem, even if published in a so-called reputable and credible publication, is not necessarily a good poem (Joyce Kilmore’s “Trees”, for example, first appeared in Poetry Magazine in 1913). Don’t sweat it. But a poem might be considered good if it achieves its purpose, and maybe it’s the poem’s purpose that seems bad. There are many different kinds of poetry and poets. You don’t owe them anything. Like music, art and architecture, TV shows and movies – there are wheels within wheels that bring them to our attention, and while we might enjoy one type, we might want to avoid others. But your likes and dislikes don’t determine the worth or value of a song, a movie, a house, a photograph, a poem. Don’t ask if the poem is good or bad. Ask if the poem achieves its purpose. What is the poem’s purpose? To make you laugh, cry, shout, run and hide, feel guilty, happy, or sad? To inform or disinform? To instruct or deconstruct? To sing and dance, to perform? To protest? To affirm? To question?

    3. Poets are like the Easter Bunny. They like to color and hide eggs. Reading a poem is like going on an Easter egg hunt. Take a dictionary along to hold the eggs you find. How many eggs are in your basket? But some poets are too good at hiding their eggs, and you don’t find any. Inside each egg is a secret.

    4. What appeals are made to your senses? Do you know what things smell like? Are the rushes of sound given names? Is there something there too fearful to touch? Can you taste the words when you chew them? Can you see what’s being described as if within your very eyes?

    5. Consider the layout of the letters and words. What’s the shape, the blueprint, the design? How many words and how many lines? Count them and write the numbers down. Any repetitions? How many syllables in each line? Are there patterns? Stepping stones? A path? Is this poem a rocky mountain to climb or a grassy hill to slide down? A wave to ride? An updraft to cruise?

    6. Is the poem serious or joking or sarcastic, maudlin or lugubrious, childish or elderly, obscure or everyday, difficult or easy? Is something being taken too seriously? Is no one listening? Is it hokey? Is the poem long, short, fat, skinny, bony, chewy, sinewy?

    7. Where is the speaker? At home, work, asleep? In the country, city, at the ballpark? In a church, a mall, about to jump off a pier? On a bus, in a rush, at home or far far away? In a classroom, at the front behind a podium? Or at a desk somewhere down one of the aisles. Standing in a pulpit? Sitting on a stool at the tavern? At home cooking dinner? Walking in a garden? In a garage, basement, or attic? On a mountain top, in a cave, walking on a beach. Is the time of day morning, noon, or night? The season spring, summer, fall, or winter? Are you still on planet Earth? Is the poem an animal, a plant, a virus? A sun, the moon? Water?

    8. What does reading the poem make you feel like? Informed, betrayed, loved, ignored? Is the speaker rash, anxious, angry, happy, tearful, mournful, gracious, patient, loving, kind, mean? Do her feelings rub off on you? Does she make you feel stupid or smart? Bored? Tired out? Afraid. Brave.

    9. Would you read this poem again? Recommend it to a friend? Tape it to your icebox door? Write it out and carry it around in your wallet or purse? Toss it? Shred it, frame it, post it? Would you memorize this poem? Where did you find this poem? Would you hide this poem in your most secret place? Would you staple this poem to a telephone pole?

    10. Does the poem ask you to do something? Go somewhere? Misbehave or pray? Listen or talk back? Repeat or move on? Sink or swim? Write your own poem? The field is open, never crowded. Whatever else you might do or ask, do not ask what it means.

  • This is a poem

    This is not
    a knotty poem

    not a problem
    to be solved

    not some sort
    of joke jest

    or just a blog
    post looking

    for a pic
    a prom corsage.

    What it is
    can’t be said

    without it
    disappearing

    like an old
    phone book entry

    EAstgate 3128
    for example

    back in the day
    before answering

    machines when
    comments off

    meant leaving
    the phone off

    the hook spoiling
    the party line.

    This is a poem
    you have a message.

  • On the Selfie Taped to the Icebox Door

    In every selfie 
    it must be told
    lies a tale
    of growing old.

    You may remember when
    into the booth with them
    a quarter and a whim
    you fit two to a frame.

    Now and then we look
    into an old book
    but nothing says us now
    like the smiling fun brows

    taped to the icebox door
    these 50 years or more
    when back in our heyday
    we posed stuck forever.
  • All A Draff

    All a draff 
    a draft
    raking thru
    the dregs
    adrift
    adrift

    I am not a robot
    Motorcycles
    Traffic Lights
    Buses Adrift
    No schedule
    No route map

    To the Dark
    Sidereal
    I am not
    Art I Fish All
    and dreg up
    cups bottom

    Cross Walks
    To & fro
    each cross
    its own horizon
    where the sky
    meets the water

    geometric requirements
    Social Skills
    (any skills
    for that matter)
    Marriage Classes
    Reading Glasses

    I had a friend
    Who had a friend
    I did
    befriend
    But that's not how
    I then met you

    They were discussing
    Punctuation &
    Grammar by which
    They meant
    To say nothing of
    The Endgame

    Which caused me
    To think of you
    Your dust at sea
    All along the edge
    Where things fall
    Off the way things go

    and pile up
    one thing
    on top of
    another
    akimbo
    a draff

    adrift
    nimble-fingered
    tho rathe
    rather nippy
    nimble
    masterly

    Anyway we
    We were talking
    About what
    Hard to know
    A flow
    Of pics & tics

    That's not true
    What I sd earlier
    When I sd I am
    Not "a machine resembling
    a human being and able
    to replicate certain human
    movements and functions
    automatically.

    'the robot closed the door behind us'"

    I am a robot
    Forced to crawl
    Adrift across
    Back and forth
    Sweeping up
    After you

    Pic after pic
    Falling
    Failing
    Fishing
    Adrift
    A draff draft

    A daff
    Salt water
    Taffy
    "she told me that my music
    was perfectly wonderful,
    and taffy like that"

    "according to R.U.R. management
    the robots
    do not 'like'anything."
    Are you are
    or Are you not
    a robot

    I'm not now
    Sure
    But years
    Have pissed
    And still
    I'm here a bit

    But true a
    Drift a draft
    Replaceable
    In War with the Nerds
    Dork and Dweeb
    Figure prominently

    Dwork wants
    To go Rome
    Deeb reminds
    They don't have
    Stars on their
    DL's

    Here a bit
    There a bot
    Everywhere
    A bit bot
    To boot
    To turn up

    A turnip
    In yr pocket
    Proves yr not
    A total android
    A mess on some
    Scientist's bench

    Turn on
    Tune in
    Drop out
    "During his last decade, Leary proclaimed the 'PC is the LSD of the 1990s' and re-worked the phrase into 'turn on, boot up, jack in' to suggest joining the cyberdelic counterculture."

    Drift on
    Draft in
    Draff out
    Right on
    Write stuff
    Write Off

  • I Want To Hold Your Hand

    I want to hold your hand
    rub your legs and feet
    pour you a cup of coffee
    after a long lonely sleep

    I want to hold your hand
    walk in shallow water
    in the wet sand sit
    in the hollow of your hand

    I want to hold your hand
    when we enter the tunnel
    and still hold your hand
    as our ride comes to end

    I want to comb your hair
    follow you where you dare
    rhyme your deepest stare
    to hide your serious side

    When we talk now of lives
    past it’s like we were
    not actually there each
    day a step closer further

    Which is why all I wanna
    do is reach out to you
    without an app in hand
    I want to hold your hand

    The heart can hold but one
    song a lifelong spinning
    wheel twists and turns
    what for hands are made

  • Susanna, Susanna

    In the morning when you wake up
    down by the open sea

    In the afternoon sleeping
    under the Standard Oil pier

    In the evening when you call me
    “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

    Drove my 56 Chevy into Playa del Rey
    up above Toes view of the Bay

    Walk through the park to St Anthony’s
    where the family says their I do

    The rest as they say is his story
    something always being rewritten

    Susanna, Susanna, I can’t say your name
    all I have to give you is more of the same.

  • My Monster

    My monster comes to get me
    dressed in poetry and prose,
    diacritics pierce his eyebrows,
    a cedilla hangs from his nose.

    He lives in the black hole
    beneath my buried bed,
    appears when the burning
    bushes line the Boulevards.

    His chivalry is notable,
    doors open automatically,
    I ride in his convertible,
    down to his sun full sea.

    Then with rhyme but why
    I can’t reason, half way there,
    he pulls over and yells, “Get
    out, you lout! Begone!”

  • One for the Money

    One for the money
    two for the shoe
    three to go steady

    Now that’s a waltz
    across Venice
    with Susan

    Then easy lounge
    on our dos-à-dos
    rear to gear

    Tipped over resembles
    the Los Angeles Basin
    but the Bay empty

    The rush and roll
    of a crushed sea
    as we run away

    To escape the beasts
    the biblical babble
    of Hollywood

    Wait – run too extreme
    we waltz off
    in closed position.

  • On a Bench Above the Beach

    benched no thing
    to do but think
    of you sitting too

    our about pages
    empty as lulled sails
    beached at low tide

    pools full of purple
    blue soft urchins
    pearly shells orange

    beaked tufted puffins
    burrowed in offshore
    seastack seagrass over

    this brackish backwash
    here sit out and wait
    out our night and day

    the path thru the grass
    lost there's an old
    beach towel taken aback

    foxes and pirates comb
    the beach nightly gliss
    in ocean moonglow

    that's what it was now
    you know again why we
    sit out in fog or sun

    it was a planning session
    your father failed to land
    his boat jilted broke up

    side down nothing
    we could do to help
    but worsen the storm

    dashed days of our
    swimming up this
    drift and I look

    at you asleep
    on our bench
    in a beach towel

    the war is on
    at El Porto Tavern
    smoke oil and grease

    and all along
    the strand in
    the beachfront

    pads on TVs
    and Miss Hermosa
    of 1942 awakes

    in her Southbay
    apartment and calls
    the National Guard

    to catch the kids
    who stole her towel
    a sole lifeguard...

    suddenly the film
    snaps and flaps
    the sound of flip

    flops walking away
    down the strand
    toward Redondo