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Ode to Joy

Old monk drunk walk garden
olive way moon path nude
blue light strain powder pouring
bare feet stains red muscatel.

On his rock sits Jesus eyes clear
tell him of your life sans joy
brave Brother Anhidonus oh
fun monk too but without joy.

Hung over herbs your Jesus praying
not an only child was he
resting for the weak of passion
who find no joy in silent being

feel no peace no happiness
no light of joy no sound of joy
for the ears no touch of joy no
raised goosebumps on the skin

no taste of joy sweet salty bitter
no sour bites teeth the tongue
no smell of joy stirs memories
no prayer saturates the temperate.

No joy found in going silent
sing for your soup of certitude
what has brought you not to
here certainly cannot help now.

“The cut worm forgives the plow”
Blake sang now you at least may
forgive yourself and drink to joy
lost to joy abstained all these years.

Walk out of this garden leave
transcend all plants and animals
there above where the angels sing
awaits the turn of your perfect being.

This bud was for you

Across the street from the Estate Sale,
there’s talk if it’s a teardown,
while a couple of bushtits build
a hanging nest in a paperbark maple,
coming and going through the perfect
hole at the top of the sack woven
with string, spider web, tiny twigs
and grassy strands yarned around.

“Go easy,” she yearned. “Go around.”
Then came the night she won’t spring back.
Some do not come back,
even as the buds rise in the rows
heatly lubricated by the bees;
not all the plants pull through
that inscrutable winter stare.

But to turn under? Finished now.
Not to worry, the sun is the poshest one.
His light goes shallow, into the soil,
as easily as through fish water,
a clean singing glow.
The days are gone
this bud was for you.

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Notes: The One They Call the Seventh Poet

They look like anyone, these poets and writers, intellectuals and artists, editors and publishers – filling and milling about the Oregon Convention Center for AWP19, sauntering though the book fair and scurrying off to panels and readings and private receptions. The fact of a book must say something about their ability to write, to argue and persuade, to think and entertain, to talk and listen. But which one is the one, the seventh poet of a seventh poet, the one who can “make your heart feel glad,” “heal the sick and even raise the dead,” “make your flesh quiver”? You know when you meet the one who thinks they’re the one, but how do you know the one who is the one, “in the whole round world, the only one”?

I met the poet Calliope Michail at the Berfrois table. She has a book out, “Along Mosaic Roads,” (2018, 87 Press, UK). She also appears in “Queen Mob’s Teahouse: Teh Book,” in the form of an interview conducted by the inimitable Vlad Savich. Calliope is refreshingly fresh, able to speak of poetry in clear and concise terms. She gracefully dances around Vlad’s often idiosyncratic questions:

“I think it’s a coy dance with writing. You choose it and it chooses you, but sometimes the feelings aren’t mutual” (126).

She describes with clarity the writing process:

“I tend to see each poem as a pattern. This pattern consists of layers and links, connections to things in various realms – the personal, the political, the aesthetic, the literary, the linguistic and so on. For me, it’s more of a process that may begin with a line, a concept, or some other preoccupation, that then gets built on” (127).

“Along Mosaic Roads” contains five sections, each beginning with a threaded poem, “Standing in the Sun,” Roman numerals I through V following. There are 17 poems in all. The titles of the poems sound like those of classical music tone poems. The book is a movement through time and place and person. Again we find the theme of wandering, “Going.” I’ll be spending more time in Calliope’s book in a later post, after AWP19 and Portland returns to its normal weirdness.

I also met at the Berfrois table veteran poet Dorothy Chan, a 2014 finalist for the Ruth Lilly and Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Fellowship. Dorothy has a book just out, “Revenge of the Asian Woman” (Diode Editions, 2019). Dorothy is obviously a capable writer and speaker and advocate for poetry as a means toward understanding one’s place in popular culture and how to take control of a picture others may have of you (probably very different from the picture you have of yourself), as was evidenced in my brief conversation with her amid the distractions at the table, but also as evidenced in her essay written for “Queen Mob’s Teahouse: Teh Book, “Asian Princesses: Fetishisation, Sexiness, Anime Girls and Poetry” (95).

“The very thing that makes you fetishised, such as ‘Asian girl cuteness’ or kawaii fashion can be turned on its head and become a thing of power” (101).

I’ll also be spending more time with “Revenge of the Asian Woman,” in a future post. The essay is erudite, but the theory behind it is very clearly explained.

“I wonder a lot about the way we command ourselves through how we dress, and how these thoughts can be translated to poetry, since fashion is poetry” (98).

This is the seventh in a series with notes on AWP19 and the concurrent publication of the Berfrois and QM’sT books. I’m reading through the Berfrois anthologies this week and commenting on the writing and the conference as the week wears on.

Rubbing Amber

The new monks like moths gather to the light
scree falls into the folds of their feathered skin
robes amid foul screens callous bawls
window shades pulled down
the game glows with electric flames warm
and hand wrapped wireless controllers
fingers jostle the joysticks.

An Impure Primer

A beastly catechism
dog eared brown cat 
drenched frozen
green halo.

I just kwikzilver
looked.

Mighty nice
mice nook.

Opening opinion pending
please query
queue quorum.

Run straight
toward universe
vast wobbly.

Exit your zero.

Song at a Border Crossing

If this be your love
come away with us
come away.

If this be your love
steal away with us
steal away.

If this be your love
come free with us
come free.

And if this be your fear
songs smiling ear to ear
songs that give no take –
unhinge the gate of your heart
and you too go free.


Feast of Epiphany

Epiphany

In the straw burrow farm mice.
Get a little closer and you’ll see
Nits in baby Jesus’s hair, lice,
And a house snake in the olive tree.

There’s beer on the breath of the three
Sage men sitting under the olive tree,
Playing games of cribbage,
Ushering in a new age.

The pieces are swaddled in wool.
Mary’s breast-feeding the baby Jesus.
Joseph takes out his tools
To build a bed before the night freezes.

Mary wipes Joseph’s brow,
The wise men questioning how,
Talking to Joseph about what he did,
And what in the end might be in the crib.

From an East Side Bus

The lurching bus crowds forward,
dogs away from the curb broken under
the plum tree overarching the shelter.

The bus thrashes on, wobbling
in a fit of leaf blowing, phlegmatic coughing.
The young, motley couple

(we see them every day lately),
their rusted stroller full
of plastic blankets,

empty bottles, and crushed cans,
sleeps on the bench in the bus shelter
covered with plums and damp purple leaves.

“Epiphany” appeared in Rocinante, Spring 2009, Vol. 8

The two poems for Epiphany were previously posted at the Toads on December 25, 2011.

2018 Christmas card by my sister Barbara.

Drizzle Rain

A trip of plovers paused wading
in the wet sand of an ebb
tide each one after another
across the sloping beach
stopped and pecked and ran on.

Up on 101 a swarm of workers
on a wet sidewalk in winter
huddled at the bus stop waiting
and each one hopped aboard
and nipped and gripped.

They feed with their eyes
and only pretend to be
where they are,
falsely brooding,
but amusing, all the same. 

Epiphanic Cat

A kin of kindly
epiphany, unblinding, 
not whiskey aflame
in your raw throat,
a mud dog’s bouche
to your uncupped
groin, but the silent
soft brush of a cat
rub against your leg
to say hello
and please
pay attention
to her.