Day 23-ish: Three Haiku

Poem(s):

Three Haiku

On clear, quiet nights

pinpoints in a slate black sky

universe peeks in

Muscles strain today,

push forward, move beastly load

‘round the carousel

Sunset, here again—

color streaks red, orange, purple,

yields again to black

Commentary:

These poems may be read together or in isolation.  A haiku is a short form of poetry that originated in Japan.  Traditionally, the poem contains seventeen syllables, divided into three lines, with five syllables, seven syllables, and five syllables, respectively, and focuses thematically in nature. 

The form, like most poetic forms, has been stretched outside these traditions over the years.  It should, though, say much with little.  In addition, a common element of haiku is juxtaposition, combining or shifting between two ideas that may be ambiguous or contradictory. 

Here, all three of the above haiku build from the idea of a cyclical world.  The first juxtaposes a quiet night with the appearance of an entire universe.  The second moves between the idea of big effort and that of a stationary carousel's grounded movement.  Finally, the third places the bright colors of a sunset in the context of the inevitable blackness that follows, while at the same time hinting that the color returns as inevitably as the black.

Day 22-ish: The Saturday Degenerates Club

Poem:

The Saturday Degenerates Club

From one to four they gather,

the same twelve grey heads

 

perched on bodies crammed together,

bent over two tiny tables

 

in the corner of the grocery store

right next to the liquor.

 

Fingers curl around red wine

in plastic cups, fifty cents a pour.

 

I’ve seen them in town,

where they shuffle, putter,

 

babble about grandkids,

disappear into themselves

 

from forty years ago.

But here they chuckle and hop,

 

jab elbows and swear,

exchange sex jokes and

 

complain about their kids.

One looks up and smirks,

 

winks at a twenty-something

who purses her lips and looks away

 

from the old men who refuse

to act their age.

 

I stand by my cart and watch,

smile and shake my head,

 

slip my phone in my pocket,

and sip my own escape.

 

Commentary:

 

I love seeing people act differently from what I expect of them.  Sometimes this means acting kindly when I expect a more directly selfish action.  Other times, it means seeing my expectations of age or gender or any -ism I didn't even realize I still had in me turned on its head.

 

In this poem, the manifestation is a group of elderly ladies and gentlemen who gather for every wine tasting at the local Kroger.  They seem to relish the moment, the escape from living as parents and grandparents to just enjoy the company of friends and wine.

 

I worked to frame the poem in a way that avoided judgment, positive or negative, focusing instead on the movement and images, both of the watchers and the watched.  The final couplets serve also to reveal the boundaries around my own time out there, using the cart and the phone as symbols of duty surrounding the moment.

Day 21-ish: Snapshot

Poem:

Snapshot

They stand in front of a bridge,

a nice connecting piece:

his world and hers, one.

Her head presses to his chest,

hair flowing over his shirt

like hair in love will do,

all wavy and happy,

the kind you can call tresses

and not laugh.

His hair is almost perfect,

a wisp in front curled up.

Even love gets windy.

Their eyes fix on the camera,

intense and distant at once,

happy or wistful or stoned—

who can tell, really?

No drug renders us

as vacuous as love can.

But the smiles…

Something feels amiss,

photographer-forced.

The noses don’t quite crinkle

as cutely as they ought.

The cheeks aren’t rosy;

the proper Glow is lacking,

just two pale people

who wear polite grins.

 

Did one of them stub a toe,

so the stretched mouths hide

a grimace and a smirk?

 

Maybe they came from the dentist,

a romantic Couples Root Canal

before paparazzi invaded.

An argument, perhaps:

strain of a day mouths forced

to curl against natural bent.

The ache of life on hold,

meetings and deadlines and coffee

waiting when they finish?

Or, just maybe, passion restrained,

a “We’ve been posing

for this damned picture

while we could be tangling limbs,

or rock climbing or reading or sleeping,

hurtling through a life too short

to waste on seventeen takes

standing in front of this bridge

for the likes of you.”

 

Commentary:

 

The concept of this poem is what we try to read into a single image, here a picture of an ostensibly happy couple.  The repetition of "love" comes with tongue planted in cheek, a word we use sincerely, but to cover many different situations and apply to people whose hearts we don't really know.

I played in this space with the idea of examining the way a couple looks, picking apart motivations and feelings from a single frozen frame.  We do so looking at accused criminals or lovers or kids squirming under inquisition, all attempting to use skills we believe we have to understand the inner workings of another's mind.

 

Day 20-ish: The River

Poem:

The River

The river rages and gushes,

carves its muddy banks,

 

pushes broken ice along,

bounces chunks on currents,

 

splashes and roars,

wet fury unfurled.

 

Only a week ago it sat,

a placid, frozen sheet,

 

held small feet up

while heat set in,

 

sank into serene surface

while water pushed up.

 

Outside and inside squeezed,

invisible, silent,

 

cracked the solid depth

till the surface shattered.

 

Commentary:

 

With spring comes new life: rain descends, trees blossom and bloom, animals wake and surge with nature's call to procreate.  With all of this comes a sense of surging emotions, and this poem works to use a spring scene to connect to anger.

 

The breaking into stanzas seems appropriate to reflect the breaking up of ice in a river.  The imagery is built around the concept of emotion that starts to build well before anyone can see or feel it, the burning and rising below an ostensibly serene surface, the quiet simmering before that surface breaks.  So much happens underneath what we see; this poem is an attempt to capture the underneath.

Day 19-ish: Words in the Wind

Poem:

Words in the Wind

It makes sense in my head,

a thought I sculpt for hours,

chisel, shape, unveil.

But the words leave my lips

and lift off,

blown dandelion seeds

that float, wiggle,

whorl on fickle winds.

They rise or drop,

split or hold together,

land in soft soil

or on concrete slabs

while I watch

and hold the empty stem.

Commentary:

This poem should strike a chord with anyone who has attempted to advise a child, an employee, a friend, or anyone else, only to watch helplessly while the advice dissipates as though never spoken at all. 

Thinking about the random ways dandelion seeds float, and the underlying connotation of wish-making as one blows, the image for me captured at once a picture of elegance and helplessness.  It is a very short piece, but within it I tried to blend hard sounds with soft (e.g., "whorl on fickle winds") to further capture that dichotomy, reflecting both the ease with which the words part and disappear and a note of bitterness watching it happen.

Day18-ish: Shootout at the Two A.M. Corral

Poem:

Shootout at the Two A.M. Corral

The sheep, long since counted,

lie dead in the pasture,

and someone must pay.

The usual suspects yell and strut;

the banker shouts down the office worker,

while the movie star shrieks at the doctor.

They kick up dirt and sod,

stomp and bellow around woolly carcasses,

till someone pulls a pistol

and the others jolt to action.

Shots echo from mind-corners

with grey puffs from black barrels;

synapses fire from all corners,

behind stuffed and brimming trash cans,

from tranquil beaches to corner offices,

an extended brainscape

behind wide-open eyes.

Chaos pushes hair out, stray shocks

on a head that pulls apart

while the clock ticks toward

another dust-cloud morning.

Commentary:

This poem peers inside a brain that refuses to sleep, something I and many about whom I care know all too well.  I start with the proverbial sheep but have them come in already killed off, letting the sheep play the role of Archduke Ferdinand for this particular war.

I let the characters and everything in the landscape reflect various concerns and desires that might flood a mind on any given night, an effort to give an allegorical feel to the action taking place while reflecting the chaotic feel in the mind of a person who just wants to shut it all off.

Day 17-ish: Boating in the Deep

Poem:

Boating in the Deep

We push off and start to row;

hard, steady strokes

ripple gently the quiet lake.

A bit of water pools,

tickles sandaled toes

and we laugh and flex,

proclaim our powerful rowing

will splash a whole lake

into our boat.

Farther and deeper

our strokes slow;

the laughter falters

while the pool rises.

We reach down,

find and cover the leak—

but another appears,

water bubbles in,

and we scramble.

Knees press wet metal;

fingers fumble over

patches and plugs and buckets.

We bail frantically the rocking hull,

shout competing instructions

while one oar floats

toward purple and red-streaked horizon

and the fading shore.

 

Commentary:

 

This poem reflects something most people have experienced at one point or another: the building up of concerns from something we can laugh off to a compilation that becomes overwhelming.  I worked to create a contrast between the idyllic scene and the human emotion within it, a reflection of an outside world moving quietly, steadily forward despite the human turmoil occurring within it.

 

In writing poetry, both this poem and more generally, I worked to avoid editorializing, letting emotional impact and any ideas emerge from the visual and auditory cues.  Hopefully this allows the poem to resonate very differently for different readers.