My poem “Driving Home with Leonard” has been included in David L O’Nan’s anthology, ” Before I Turn Into Gold”, a collection of poems inspired by the work of Leonard Cohen. That’s the cover artwork above by Geoffrey Wren and the book contains some very fine poems and more wonderful illustrations by Geoffrey Wren.
Thanks to David for including me. The book is available here on Kindle and in Paperback. Check it out.
Also check out David’s Fevers of the Mind Poetry and Art Bloghere.
And your gravity fails and negativity don’t pull you through….Bob Dylan
Know your gym……Slim Volume
Gravity, Don’t Fail Me Now
two geezers pink and steaming towelling down after a shower discussing gravity how it is not fixed how it decreases with distance from the earth’s core how, if one was to climb to the top of Everest, since weight is the product of mass and gravity one would weigh less at the top of Everest and Slim’s thinking this is one fucking erudite conversation and he wants a piece of it so he points out that one would regain that weight on returning to sea level and one of the geezers replies yeah but you’d probably burn 10,000 calories climbing up and down the fucking mountain and a nearby jock encased in breathable fabric says shit, I’d burn that in 40 minutes on the rowing machine and Slim fires back wryly keep telling yourself that and the locker room erupts in laughter and in that moment basking in the unbearable lightness of banter Slim defies gravity and levitates above the bacterial swamp that is the locker room floor.
“A man who is tired of the gym, is a man who has been to the gym”. Slim Volume
Two Bros
Two bros on a mat one on his back hands clasped behind his head legs bicycling like a capsized fly; the other, the one with the green hair and the tattoos of a religious nature is grunting weights . Fly bro, it appears, is having girlfriend problems and is experiencing some kind of vague existential crisis, green hair bro listens carefully to his tale of woe and after some reflection says: It’s life, man, stop trying to understand it, no one can and then, as if startled by his own profundity, he repeats: no one can. Out of the mouths of bros….
in the background a bearded jock in a tight black T shirt his muscles packed with powdered whey his eyes a steroid yellow is down on his hunkers knees akimbo moving sideways across the floor like a slow motion crab across packed sand at evening.
I’m on the bedroom floor doing some stretches, above my head in the blue rectangle of the skylight an eagle soars.
I’m thinking about an article a friend sent about “solo polyamory”.
I start a poem: he was a sensitive guy he didn’t have the armory for solo polyamory he wanted to marry settle down maybe do a bit of farmery somewhere far away from the clamor, the goddamery of big city life.
Well, they can’t all soar like an eagle.
Apropos of nothing I think about my recent technology issues. Last week I spent an hour talking to a nice guy from Apple Help, he was in Arizona, temperature in the low sixties down where Fahrenheit still rules, I had iPhone issues which he did not resolve, he could not meet my iNeeds but as a result my IOS updated and every time I turn on the phone it asks me about my iPreferences my preference would be to turn on my phone and be left alone but call it coincidence, serendipity, synchronicity because of the update my Spotify app does not work so I decide to delete the app because every time I use it I think of Joe Rogan spouting bollocks about freedom and if, and it’s a big if, I ever meet Neil Young I want to be able to look him in the eye. Now I’m algorithm free and I’m listening to music on a chunky old iPod I found in a drawer and you know what? It sounds good and I picked all the songs myself.
I think of an opening to a poem: he walked into the room his eyes like fugitives looking for a window,
I think of a song title: Stuck in E Minor Again
I think of a song chorus: born in the wrong key there was always something different about me until you came along and changed my song now it’s all sweet harmony. Sappy, yes, but is it sappy enough?
I think of that eagle I think, what is that eagle thinking? I think he’s thinking this: Man, these thermals are good I could stay here all day. Hang on a minute is that a mouse on that garbage bin in the laneway north of King Edward east of Dunbar, they don’t call them eagle eyes for nothing. Forget the mouse, I’ve got soaring to do, soaring to do before the day is done.
In Brendan’s excellent post over at earthweal, he posits, among other things, that “our brains themselves have been disrupted by digital media.” He also says:
The mind must feed on wild sources; greening is both invitation and surrender. Dogen, again: “Are you going to improve yourself or are you going to let the universe improve you?”
The Trucker Convoy Protesting Vaccine Mandates Crosses Burrard Street Bridge
as seen from the park below the trucks look like toy trucks driven by children which is partly true given that the logic of their rhetoric resembles that of a petulant child and I’m being hard on petulant children
the blaring horns sound like the dying groans of white male supremacy the Canada geese look puzzled the crows go crazy in the trees.
Taking part in open link weekend over at earthweal
Sometimes driving by an empty field at evening on an island somewhere where we have gone to get away from whatever it all is I experience, out of nowhere, a primal longing and I imagine stopping the car and crossing that empty field to enter the forest beyond a forest that is shutting down for the evening all rustle, chirp and squeak and walking through that forest I encounter in a clearing a deer illuminated by a shaft of sunlight the deer stares at me doe-eyed as I pass but does not move, as I continue down the trail a ball of white gas darts between the trees keeping pace there’s a whiff of sulfur in the air in another clearing I come across a log cabin moss on the decaying cedar roof, a thin wisp of smoke exiting the chimney I walk across the slick green of the porch and open the door to a room smelling of mold and mouse shit there is no furniture except for a table, a chair, and an old fashioned typewriter I walk to the table, sit down and start to write this poem I get to the point in the poem where I sit down to write the poem and there’s a knock on the door I walk across the creaking floor and open the door to a tall stranger dressed in black, his wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes “I’m in your poem”, he says, in a voice that has travelled centuries, “I’m in your poem, what happens next?”
(apologies to Stephen King)
Over at earthweal, Brendan asks us to write about “wildness”, that’s what I started with!
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 as you can see from the photo above I’ve been a fan of the magazine for some time. They have now updated their website and it’s well worth a visit. They have featured poems from their latest issue and a selection from back issues plus a selection of the art from previous issues. They also have a search function where you can enter an author’s name and get a listing of the issues in which they have appeared. For example if you put in “Seamus Heaney”, you’ll find Seamus Heaney was an early contributor.
And…I too have been a contributor. (That is called “reflected glory”, it’s like describing, in the pub, after playing a game of soccer where you were on the field when the winning goal was scored and your part, usually minor, in the scoring of that goal.)
Anyway, Cyphers was one the first magazines to publish one of my poems and the one that made me think that perhaps I could write poetry, so I am thankful to them!
At one point back in the middle of the pandemic, or what he thought was the middle, Slim grew tired of the word pivot. He proclaimed to anyone who would listen that if heard that word again he would vomit. He became obsessed with lesser known words like spigot, argot, davit, grommet. But secretly he wished that he could, yes,
pivot
pick a life go out
live it.
Taking part in Open Link over at dverse and Open Link Weekend at earthweal.
irritable vowel syndrome
arrhythmia
pain in the assonance
acute enjambment
inflammation of the lower case
latinnittus
typographical dysfunction
fear of sonnets
halibunions
grammaroids
rhymetism
pundruff
the irrational fear
on entering a room
that someone is going to recite
The Lake Isle of Inisfree
in a plummy, orotund
stage Irish accent.
Taking part in Open Link Weekend over at earthweal.
Kenopsia, Minnesota is a pissant, little burg has been ever since that one horse died, only landmark is Mel’s Burgers on Main St, the only street. Try Mel’s Famous Burgers the sign on the outskirts of town says and some people do.
One day a stranger came to town dressed in black with a low brim hat and Lee Van Cleef eyes some say he hailed from Aphasia, Wisconsin others were past saying you know what I’m sayin’.
The stranger walks into Mel’s Burgers and Mel’s dog starts to howl a pitiful howl that could be heard in Amentalio, ten miles down the road. Give me one of your famous burgers he says to Mel, and Mel does ten minutes later the stranger is dead on the floor and all hopes the town had of appearing in a Stephen King novel or an episode of Fargo died with that stranger.
Thanks to Linda over at dverse for her excellent prompt, check it out here. The names of the towns in the poem were taking from the book The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows by John Koenig. All is explained in Linda’s post.
Your cell phone rings but you’re not listening because you left it in The Fox and Vixen behind the cistern in the last stall on the left next to the condom machine and now it’s 4 am your wife sleeps soundly beside you, in the corner of the room your hangover squats sorting a tray of instruments.
It all began with a few beers, some Christmas Cheer so how did it get from there to here?
Slowly you remember or think you remember….
Did you really poke your boss in the chest and tell him that you know better that you know best?
Did you really down three shots of scotch grab Mark from marketing by the shoulders and proclaim “I love you bro” over and over ‘till he begged you to stop to let go?
And why, why, why did you call that shy Dutch girl from accounting “sad-eyed lady of the lowlands” again, over and over?
You groan inwardly you groan outwardly
and just when you think it could not get worse your hangover stands up and crosses the room carrying what appears to be a small mallet Zooooosh, he enters your head and proceeds to knock on the inside of your skull with that same mallet all the time chanting this manic mantra “deck the halls with human folly Fa la la la la, la la la la”.
Four hours later your wife is shaking you Up you get, she chimes It’s time to do some Christmas shopping! Joe Fresh opens at 9!
he wants to retire back where all the spires conspire to show him the way.
2 (too much of a good thing)
summer evening the red sunset bleeds regret maturity lost.
3 (Why can’t I write like Rupi Kaur?)
my quinoa* quota was far from quotidian thanks! sunflower seeds! *’keen-wah
4 (Climate Change is Opening Windows)
rumours dropping from the eaves neighbours thick as thieves singing off key at three
o’clock in the morning.
The challenge from Laura over at dverse is to write a poem consisting of fragments:
“Either: a poem of several numbered stanzas. Each being complete in itself and having only a passing relationship to each other, if at all OR a poem of disjointed images (like listening to conversation in passing, repetitively switching between radio/tv station, random images across a screen, or paintings/photos seen in a gallery)
Rules: Your poem should NOT conform to any rhyme scheme Your poem MUST include Fragment(s) somewhere in the title”
The moon is waning gibbous the pollen count is low and yet another atmospheric river is on the way, all that warm moist air all that water vapour looking for a place to condense; based on anecdotal evidence this is either normal for the time of year or a signal that we should start building an ark but one thing is starkly clear the data with which the calculated risks are calculated is no longer valid is in need of an update the paradigm has not shifted but the perimeter has been breached like a dike in need of repair.
Taking part in Open Link at earthweal….it’s raining again in British Columbia.
We got off the train from Machu Picchu at the Ollantaytambo station, walked up the station road to the town square and came upon this: Mother’s Day in Ollantaytambo. It went on all day – entertainment, raffles, prizes, politicians’ speeches. The ladies seemed to enjoy themselves, although they never clapped once.
Later that evening, we had dinner in the restaurant down at the station and walking home we witnessed this haiku-worthy scene.
In a dystopian future there’s rioting in cities and towns all across the USA and anyone who cares to can own a semi-automatic weapon. One fateful night a seventeen year old baby-faced punk called Kole heads into town with his semi-automatic rifle to restore order on The Streets of Somewhere, by the end of the night three people are dead. Kole is arrested, tried and acquitted in The Court of the White Over Caste. He becomes a hero, an icon, an example and soon young punks all across the USA are starting to feel lucky. (Spoiler Alert: It’s not the Future).
Taking part in Open Link Weekend over at earthweal
not the kind of place for revelations, then boom! awooga! there it is, the unbearable flatness of beige pancakes in the morning.
Over at dverse , Grace’s challenge is to write a wayra incorporating onomatopoeia. What’s a wayra? I’ll let Grace explain:
“The Wayra (Quechua – wind) is a popular verse form of Peru and Bolivia. It appears it originated in an indigenous Quechua language but has found its way into Spanish literature. It is a short syllabic verse form found at Vole Central and some other sites around the internet.
The elements of the Wayra are:
1.a pentastich, a poem in 5 lines. 2.syllabic, 5-7-7-6-8 3.unrhymed.”
The sheriff disagreed He tried to make the distinction between death and extinction They stopped off at a place called Hamburger Heaven to grab a bite to eat But Helen had no appetite, she just drank a 7 Up while the sheriff tapped his coffee cup to a distant beat Kind of like Ooh ooh-ooh Ooh ooh-ooh It won’t look like those old frescoes, man, I don’t think so There will be no angels with swords, man, I don’t think so No jubilant beings in the sky above, man, I don’t think so And it won’t look like those old movies neither There will be no drag racing through the bombed out streets neither No shareholders will be orbiting the earth, man, neither It will be hard to recognize each other through our oxygen masks The successful sons of businessmen will set their desks on fire While 5-star generals of the free world weep in the oil choked tide It won’t sound like jazz Jazz, jazz, jazz Jazz on the Autobahn
Now isn’t that something to aim for…
The Felice Brothers are from New York City.
“The band has two main members, Ian and James Felice. Former members include their brother Simone Felice, their friend Josh “Christmas Clapton” Rawson, frequently described as a traveling dice player,[9] fiddle player Greg Farley, and drummer David Estabrook. At other times, they have featured a horn section in the band, composed of local Hudson Valley musicians. Ian is the main vocalist and plays the guitar and piano. James contributes vocals and plays the accordion, organ, and piano. Christmas plays the bass guitar. Dave Turbeville played the drums from 2009-2012, performing on Celebration, Florida, Poughkeepsie Princess, Mixtape, and God Bless You, Amigo. Simone Felice was the drummer as well as a vocalist and a guitarist. Simone is also an author, having released books entitled Goodbye Amelia, Hail Mary, Full of Holes and Black Jesus. Simone Felice left the Felice Brothers in 2009. He now leads his own band – The Duke & the King (named after the duo of con-artists in Mark Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn) with Robert “Chicken” Burke. They released their debut album – Nothing Gold Can Stay on Loose / Ramseur Records August 4, 2009, followed by Long Live the Duke & King in 2010. Simone released a self-titled album in 2012, followed that up with an album titled Strangers in 2014, and then released his third album titled The Projector in 2018.” ….from Wikipedia.