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
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 Blog here.
And your gravity fails and negativity don’t pull you through….Bob Dylan
Know your gym……Slim Volume
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.
Wild Mind
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?”
Well, that’s where I started.
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
No anagrams have been harmed in the making of this poem
when Loren
enrolled in Lawrence
she got a Rolex
a Rolodex
and a Grecian urn
from her uncle Lorne
a longshoreman
who lived by the shore.
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!
The link to the website is here. Check it out!
Jim Feeney
A Scarecrow looks back on his Life
Before Oz
I had control of my life
I had a purpose
a reason for existence
a modus operandi:
stand in a field
and scare crows
that’s it, that’s all.
It was lonely at times,
I admit, particularly
at night, but occasionally
a farmer returning
drunk across the fields
would stop and tell me his life story
then fall asleep, snoring
and farting at my feet
and yes, oh yes
I listened in on
acts of intimacy
on hot summer nights
and heard sounds
that made my straw curl;
then Oz occurred
and it was no longer
about presence
it was about absence
the absence of a brain;
children would circle me
and sing that stupid song
suddenly I was pathetic, forlorn;
what got me most was the
sheer illogicality of it all –
to yearn for a brain, one must
have a brain to begin with,
sometimes, I think the sole function
of a brain is to yearn…..
hang on a minute
I’m sure I saw that same crow yesterday
Look! He won’t come within twenty feet of me!
I’ve still got it! I’ve still got it!
Taking part in Open Link Weekend over at earthweal.
Pivot
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.
The Poet’s Circle Holds a Haiku Evening
an evening of
syllable counts, cured meats, cheese,
wine – haikuterie.
(photo taken at Vancouver Folk Festival in the time before the time)
Poetic Ailments
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.
That Smell from the Fridge
that smell from the fridge
yes, it was the Camembert
noisome, and then some
wet dog, feet sweat, camel’s breath
a washroom door opening.
Two Bros at the Art Gallery
v- necked, buffed, burnished
pumped, pectoral, and puzzled,
aerobatic hair.
Americano Misto
the girl in Starbucks
fails to praise my awesome choice
nor does she inquire
’bout the progress of my day
I feel oddly unaffirmed.
The Evangelista
my local Starbucks
has an evangelista
she quotes the bible
while serving cappuccino
the old testament, mostly.
Stopdraggingthepanda 