Cyphers magazine has published my poem – “Zlatan”– in their Issue 93. I am really pleased as always to be published in Cyphers . Thanks to Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin, for accepting my poem.
…Jim Feeney
Cyphers is a Dublin based print only magazine which has been in existence since 1975. They publish poets from all over the world, both new and established and this issue features a number of translated poems.
Cyphers can be found at http://www.cyphers.ie
Hiram
Hiram likes to drink water
direct from the spigot
on the front wall of his house;
he hasn’t had to connect a hose
to that darn spigot
since he converted the lawn to artificial.
Good times.
In the evening,
he sits on his porch
staring out at the Christmas tree green of the lawn
drinking lite beer
and polishing his assault rifle,
this gives him comfort.
Not that he’s afraid,
he ain’t afraid of nuthin’,
he ain’t afraid of AOC
he ain’t afraid of Antifa
he ain’t afraid of that girl from Sweden
the one that never smiles
he’s vigilant, that’s all;
vigilance is of the essence.
He likes the sound of that,
maybe get a T shirt made
put that on the front,
‘G.I. – God Incarnate’ on the back.
No, he ain’t afraid of nuthin’,
but sometimes
in the early hours of the morning
he lies awake
his gut gurgling like a drain
as it processes
the Outback appetizer
of deep fried onion rings
that the waitress
piled high on his plate
like a jumble sale
of used Olympic symbols;
he lies awake
stalked by a fear
he will not name
the fear of being left behind,
left in the dust,
by the twenty first century.
This week I’m hosting the weekly challenge over at Earthweal (Title “Fiction? Don’t be a Stranger”). So head on over there and prepare to be challenged.
Also taking part in Open Link over at dverse
Kitsilano Take-out Tanka
a late May evening
a take-out from Akbar’s Own
lamb vindaloo, mild
low muslin- filtered sunlight
couples stroll home from the beach
High Plains Sushi
This bar’s insured by Smith and Wesson
Says the sign upon the wall
Vern studies his empty beer glass
Time slows down to a crawl
Audrey, the lank-haired waitress
Watches from the bar
Order something soon, she yells
Or get the hell out of here.
There’s a special on at Wanda’s Ranch
Tuesday night 2 for one
But Vern doesn’t have the appetite
He doesn’t have the wherewithal
There’s only one thing that he wants
And he’s going to get it soon
High Plains Sushi
High Plains Sushi
Hot Sake in a cup
Five thousand feet above the ocean
And he just can’t get enough
Two guys from the goldmine
Old Arsenic and Rock Face
Have journeyed up from the centre of the Earth
To join the human race
But no matter how hard they try
No matter what they do
In the glow from the pool table
They’ve still got that subterranean hue.
Something’s warming beneath a heat lamp
Looks like deep fried road kill
Beside a tub of mashed potatoes
It’s making Vern feel ill
There’s only one thing that he wants
And he’s going to get it soon
High Plains Sushi
High Plains Sushi
Hot Sake in a cup
Five thousand feet above the ocean
And he just can’t get enough.
I spent a little time once in Elko, Nevada. There was a sushi restaurant in the town which served individual portions large enough to feed a small Japanese village. Elko hosts an annual Cowboy Poetry Festival. Interesting place. The theme over at dverse is food poetry.
This version of this poem appeared before as a dizain, one of those poems that keeps changing shape.
Rapiers and Pistols and the Sequencing of (Whiskey In The Jar – A Deconstruction )
I have often wondered why
when he encounters Captain Farrell
while going over the Cork and Kerry Mountains*
the protagonist first produces his pistol
and then produces his rapier.
Surely the rapier is redundant
once the pistol is produced.
(*In the Dubliners version, it’s “the far-famed Kerry Mountains)
Whack fall the daddy o.
Apparently people occasionally wonder what “whack fall the daddy o” means. Well it does not mean anything, it’s kind of like Irish scatting, what singers do when they run out of words.
I once wrote a sea shanty in which I used a variation on whack fall the daddy o. Here it is :
Sea Shanty
Oh. the herring were running wild and fast
as we sailed out from St. John
and the cod were plump as Mary’s arse
on a Sunday morning after early mass
with sausages on the griddle-o
and rashers in the pan
whack fall de diddle dairy oh
whack fall de diddle dan.
Take it away, Phil….
Scenes from a Restaurant in the Time Between Variants
the guys from finance
hold their wine glasses by the stem
and every now and again
they do that swirl and sniff thing
the girl in the tight dress
is two drinks away
from feeling comfortable
a couple out on their first date
have discovered too late
that they have nothing to say to each other
the long evening yawns before them
the bathroom door bursts open
two bros wearing dark suits
and built like refrigerators
emerge, their eyes pulsing
with guilty energy
it’s happy hour
cocktails are fifty per cent off
and all the cocktails have jokey names
Insane Moose
Milantini
Rogue Zamboni
nothing on the menu escapes description
the Market Crashin’ IPA
has a dry hopped finish with a touch of citrus
the Failed Priest Sauvignon Blanc
is full bodied with gooseberry and melon grace notes
and that beet and feta salad we’ve ordered
just happens to be a personal favorite of our waitress
she loves that hint of sourness
the cheese brings to the dish
she’s a dancer, by the way,
lived for a while in Saskatoon.
Taking part in Open Link over at dverse.
Bucket List (a ghazal)
mountain climbing in County Meath
put it on my bucket list
fly fishing in the Sahara
put it on my bucket list
snow shoeing in the Serengeti
put it on my bucket list
surfing in Saskatchewan
put it on my bucket list
stop hiding behind a shield of sarcasm
Really? Put that on my bucket list?
write a ghazal about everlasting love
aw fuck it, put it on my bucket list
stop peppering my poems with profanity
that’s a prohibition, it has no place on the list.
Snow by John Banville.
This book, on the surface, is a standard murder- in –the- big- house whodunit but underneath it’s a commentary on the state of the nation, the Irish Nation in 1957. Ireland (the 26 counties at least), has been free of British rule since 1921 and the Catholic majority now rule the roost. The sleuth, Detective Inspector St. John Strafford, is a the son of protestant landed gentry, burdened by the curses of his class – good manners, left handedness and hemophilia. He’s an outsider now that the caste system has been turned on its head and Banville, like the good writer he is, shows this in a variety of subtle and amusing ways.
Archbishop Mc Quaid, the archbishop of Dublin, is one of the characters in the book and his long and sanctimonious arm reaches into every aspect of Irish society. He serves as a reminder that the Irish traded one oppressor, the English, for another more subtle oppressor, the Catholic Church. There is a chilling chapter about abuse in Irish residential industrial schools which brings to mind what happened to indigenous children in Canadian residential schools.
On top of all that there’s a dead priest, an intricate plot and sex scenes you will not find in Agatha Christie.
Verdict:
Read it, recommend it to a friend!
Why I have difficulty writing haiku
problem with haiku
definite article is
first casualty
next casualty
indefinite article
makes me sound little
like Japanese guard
in prison camp in movie
world war two movie
who for some reason
is speaking English (how? why?)
with staccato voice
or perhaps I am
po-faced guru on mountain
dispensing bromides:
crow flies at midnight
in front of luminous moon
affair ends badly
all because I am
in service to, at mercy
of, syllable count.
Sound Heard While Replacing The Basement Toilet
a ghostly whoosh
echoes down the open pipe
a toilet flushing
in a neighbor’s house uphill
yes, we are all connected.
I hardly ever do this but here’s a challenge to all you poets out there: write a poem about plumbing. There are no rules, write about anything – an ode to your favourite plunger, a sonnet about a dripping tap, a haiku about flexible hoses!
Link back to this post if you like, so I can read your poems.
Savannah
At night, the rotund tourists
roam the street below
drinking light beer from plastic cups
and watching the river flow.
And Chuck, he’s in a restaurant
playing his guitar
for the plaid shorts and polo shirts
and salesmen at the bar.
And life is neither good nor bad
it’s somewhere in between
Chuck thinks that one day
he should leave this river scene.
Time’s a slowly burning fuse
time’s a disappearing muse
in time you feel every wound
time’s a slowly burning fuse.
Karla’s in the house again
trying to catch his eye
her hair is blond and crinkled
makes Chuck think of frozen fries
and when he hits another chorus
she stands upon her chair
chugs back her mojito
and punches the empty air
and he knows that in this deck of cards
we all can’t be the ace
and if you’re going to take a fall
then try and fall with grace.
Time’s a slowly burning fuse
time’s a disappearing muse
in time you feel every wound
time’s a slowly burning fuse.
Jane, the late shift waitress
her husband’s out of town
Chuck thinks that later
he might ask her around
and he’ll forget about alimony
and the rent that he owes
he’ll forget just about every thing
if Jane comes around.
Time’s a slowly burning fuse
time’s a disappearing muse
in time you heal every wound
time’s a slowly burning fuse.
This is based on a short poem I had published in Cyphers magazine. There are other versions of it, even a sonnet, but I think it’s finally settled down.
Taking part in OpenLinkNight over at dverse.
Closed For Some Time Now (tanka)
on Spy Wednesday
passing the mildewed awning
of Dunbar Produce
I sense an apple vacuum
a vegetable absence.
A Lai for Bob
adenoidal snarl
it’s about a girl
mostly
but sometimes, the world
and how it turns, or
maybe
it’s a frantic swirl
of images, words
let fly
with venom and spite
an angry prophet
raging
but he’s more than that:
clown, joker, poet,
snide sage
in a feathered hat
an imp at sunset
dancing.
I thought I would give this poem yet another outing, as an excuse to post this excellent version of Tangled Up In Blue by KT Tunstall
(Taking part in OPen Link Weekend over at Earthweal)
Sun Damage (tanka)
and who would have thought
that elusive Irish sun
could do such damage
but look now, I have more moles
than a le Carré novel
The Sun God
Myron volunteered once
as a caretaker on an island
in the middle of a lake
in the High Andes, North of Puno,
the Altiplano.
The top of the island
was as flat as an anvil
and every day he would climb up there
from his lake side cottage
to study the funerary towers
of Silustani over on the mainland,
using his large binoculars.
It was never quite clear to Myron
what exactly he was taking care of.
He had a house,
a dread-locked alpaca
and three guinea pigs.
The guinea pigs were housed in a wired compound,
inside the compound was a miniature mud hut
with a thatched roof
and three open doorways which the guinea pigs retreated through
every time he approached.
He thought that,
perhaps he was supposed to eat the guinea pigs
it was clear that they thought this also.
Located close to the funerary towers
were the remains of an Inca temple
worshipping the Sun God,
at that time in his life
Myron was losing faith in atheism
and the Inca worship of the sun god
had a certain logic to it.
Without the sun where are we?
Where are we, indeed!
He wasn’t overly keen on human sacrifice
but he had to admit that the Incas
dealt with the blood well,
channels and drainage being an Inca thing,
knowledge they acquired along the way.
Subjugate, assimilate,
and so it goes forever.
Myron thought he would use this time to write
but mostly he sat looking at a blank page
listening to the tinnitus in his left ear roar
and in the absence of his fellow human beings
he began to think that the alpaca was judging him,
the way it stared at him from under its matted fringe
and down its long nose.
One night he found himself shouting abuse at the alpaca.
The next day he left for Puno
and got drunk on gassy lager
in a pizzeria on the ragged, dusty town square
not far from the shores of Lake Titicaca.
This poem was previously published in The Galway Review. and also was posted over at earthweal.
Taking part in Open Link over at dverse.
When Poets Fall Out
I know something’s up
you’re sending mixed metaphors
your rhythm’s way off.
NaPoWriMoan (Day 11)
NaPoWriMo
eleven days in
and I have nothing to show
last night I rummaged through abandoned shoeboxes
in the dusty attic of my mind
(I apologize for those last two lines)
and there’s nothing there, bro
there’s nothing there………bro
I’m moving in slow mo
I’ve lost my mojo
my get up and go
I have met my Alamo
or is it Waterloo?
I’m running on empty
no quid pro quo
NaPoWriMo
NaPoWriMo
nineteen days to go
nineteen days to go.
Couple rushing from a Parked Car carrying Yellow Yoga Mats
late for yoga class
I’m like, how stressful is that?
stop panting, breathe, breathe.
One Swallow
one swallow does not
one tries to swallow one’s pride
one swallow does not
when it comes to (what else?) Spring
one swallow does not do it.
Animal Magnetism
he had no animal magnetism
he was the kind of guy
who would have a hard time
getting a dog to hump his leg
then one fall day it happened
in a leaf-strewn park
a cocker spaniel
love at first bark
they’ve been together ever since.
The Light Ekphrastic
pierless, a king tide,
a log boom loses its grip
erasure, dim wit
a slow walk in the March sun
tripping the light ekphrastic
Taking part in open link over at earthweal.
Of Fish and War
In the city of Nha Trang, Vietnam
at the National Oceanographic Institute
among tanks cramped with
circling neurotic fish
(Hit the glass. Stop. Turn around)
there is a multi-colored specimen
whose toxin,
according to the description,
renders its victims
“unconspicuous or even dead”.
Conspicuous behind glass
further north
in the Hanoi War museum
lie the dog tags of dead American soldiers
to a man
young, buzzcut and hopeful.
This poem was written a number of years ago, after a visit to Vietnam. The news out of Ukraine this week, for some reason, made me think of that visit and what happens to a whole generation on either side of a conflict when leaders decide to go to war.
It appeared in Open Link weekend over at earthweal.
Now also in Open Link over at dverse
Photo taken outside The Hanoi War Museum
Existential Boogie
I’m sitting in a café
smoking a Gitane
yes, I’m sitting in a café
smoking a Gitane
I’m reading Jean Paul Sartre
and wondering who I am.
Existential boogie
do that existential thing
you can do it in your armchair
summer, autumn, winter, spring.
If you’re looking for an answer
don’t ask Albert Camus
yes, if you’re looking for an answer
don’t ask Albert Camus
that dude’s been dead a long time
he can’t tell you what to do
Existential boogie
do that existential thing
you can do it in your armchair
summer, autumn, winter, spring
And don’t talk to me
about Immanuel Kant
yes, don’t talk to me
about Immanuel Kant
well I know that you want to
but you can’t
Existential boogie
do that existential thing
you can do it in your armchair
summer, autumn, winter, spring
and some people like to quote
Martin Heidegger
yes, some people like to quote
Martin Heidegger
well, all I can say is
go figure
Existential boogie
do that existential thing
you can do it in your armchair
summer, autumn, winter, spring
Rene Descartes said
I think therefore I am
yes, old Rene, he said
I think therefore I am
well, I call that a beginning
I sure don’t call that a plan.
Existential boogie
do that existential thing
you can do it in your armchair
summer,
autumn,
winter,
spring.
Taking part in Open Link Night over at dverse
This is classic laconic Tom from his Highway Companion album. The song was produced by Jeff Lynne of ELO and that’s Mike Campbell of the Heartbreakers on guitar. It’s an uncluttered production and a simple enough song, but ,of course , “simple” is hard to do well. What makes it for me is the lyric.
The first line of each verse ends with the phrase “down south” and the next three lines rhyme with each other. It’s what Tom Petty does with those rhymes that makes the song stand out. For example:
Create myself down south
Impress all the women
Pretend I’m Samuel Clemens
Wear seersucker and white linens
Women, Clemens, linen…..that’s about as witty and clever as lyric writing gets. Or this:
Spanish moss down south
Spirits cross the dead fields
Mosquitoes hit the windshield
All document remain sealed
So take a listen and look out as well for Mike Campell’s tremolo guitar figure
Stopdraggingthepanda 