Day 07 – ordinary days (& extraordinary nights)

Open doorway

A fun little exercise whereby I describe the things I’ve done today in more abstract ways via unordinary day alchemy; ie, went to the shops & bought vegies might be unordinary day alchemised to hunted in the long cool aisles for prey that cannot outrun me. Fear not, the examples in the poems are better (I hope 😂)

on an unordinary day 

i now have

half a dozen doorways
to new nowhere rooms
if only i can get them home

two notebooks which float

more stories i own
but likely never know

two big volumes of all
the old words of once were

somewhere silky
to rest my migraine
& learn new dreams

plus a full tank to take me there

 


 

BONUS POEM: April 7, 2018

A poetic love fable. Inspired, this may come as no surprise, by the fact that Venezia has somewhat scrambled my otherwise fairly reasonable compass. Conceived on one bewildered journey; completed on several others when I set out to deliberately wander writing lines in my head as I went …

The poem so far I’m most pleased with 😁
[2019 edit: even more pleased with it following a few tweaks 😁😁]

*****

The 1000 Ways to San Marco Piazza

my love lives in Dorsoduro ; I, in Castello ; & every morning ; she promises to meet me ; in San Marco’s Piazza at sunset ; she says if we find each other there ; our love will last

if I had the talent ; I’d pen a postmodern novel ; telling of the thousand ways ; we never meet ; a short chapter ; a paragraph; even just a line, a single word ; about how my unerring ability ; to lose my way ; dooms me ; where every route I choose ; is wrong

the one where I see her on another Ponte, chase her, see her on other Pontes, but I never get closer ; the one where every Calle is a dead end ; the where I find a letter on the cobblestones from her to another ; the one where I fall in ; the one with a Calle so narrow my shoulders touch each wall, closer, closer, till I am wedged tight; the one where I meet another who might in fact be : the one true one

nights thick with the stink of summer tourists ; nights where the waters are still obsidian; nights when I don’t want to leave the house ; nights when I am dying to ; muggy shirts sticky nights ; wet winter nights ; nights where la Serenissima is a dream ; nights where only it is

& maybe ; one night ; when I least expect ; I will arrive ; & so will she ; & we ; will meet 

07b Calle

Day 09 – poem about damage

1

If I said I understood everything I wrote, I’d be lying. Today’s effort comes from a form of poetry-generation; a pome-making game I guess. The steps are simple.

1. Make a series of lists (using prompts).
2. Choose one element from each list.
3. Find a way to combine them in one pome.

Ergo, below…

surveying the damage

through the window
yellow leaves cover the lawn
on the table bread is dark
brown like chocolate
— the wind blew all night
forcing doors & knocking
knick-knacks from sills

too cold to emerge
from beneath blankets
so the water did what it must
— spend the morning
throwing all my books
into a pulping machine
they’re useless now

 

Day 24 – moving from a playwright to a poet

Been working on a poem about zero, but I like it too much to put on here (publishers/journals are so finicketty about what’s classed as ‘previously published’, & lots are saying even a little ol blog like this disqualifies it).

So instead, you get this other poem I’ve been toying with today. Less successful, but an okay first draft perhaps. Poems about writers on consecutive days, was unintentional … On the plus side, this was based on an idea/several articles from my To Do List, so little boom for that!

*****

much water, more salt
the last days of a great love poet

september 11’s,
have been occurring for centuries
americans do not have copyright
on the date though they might
like to think they do

one such,
sanctioned with behind-closed-doors CIA-backing
featured a right wing military coup
in a small South American country
where a democracy was taken down
& a dictator installed — within 12 days
three key opponents: the President, the Singer
& the Poet were all dead

naturally,
a cornucopia of conspiracy
theories abound, suspicions, coincidences
the official death certificate claims
advanced incurable cancer of the prostate
led to his malnutritious wasting away
yet his chauffeur (who conveniently doubled
as bodyguard) had a different, simpler take —
he was injected with something at the clinic
& died the day before he was preparing
to escape into Mexican exile
after allegedly having been full of life
railing against the chaotic first days
of Pinochet — & enjoying sex

so,
the Poet’s bones will be exhumed
from a grave near the sea
forensics experts will sift through
much water & more salt
to see if traces of poison
remain

whatever they find,
……………………………..or don’t,
it’s unlikely to satisfy
those who don’t want to be

*****

Neruda_by_anloyra

April 11 – Day Eleven: out of nowhere

Today (as it was, Friday) was a challenging day.  I had quite a few attempts at things, none seemed inspired or inspiring. I was more interested in reading rather than writing for most of the day. I had ideas, but they just weren’t flowing.  Finally, I had to call an end to it & begin to get ready to catch up with friends & go see a (as it turned, rather strange, bland) production of Dracula.

In the shower, however, the first lines of this poem (“i hear voices in the water, singing in the shower stream”) made themselves known to me.  Others came pretty rapidly as the wonderful pounding heat soothed my stress away.  The fact that these lines were later bumped into verse 2 & tweaked a bit is of no consequence. The fact that I was almost late to the play because of the need to finish the poem, perhaps is …

company

at my old house. 3 sets of footsteps
would run away. when you approached
the front door. stop. as you unlocked.
then race to the back room. temperature’s
changed. for no reason. the back bedroom
was always colder. no matter the weather.

here, i hear voices. in the water.
people talking. in the shower stream.
singing. where the drain turns a corner
down deep there. below the bath
& it always feels. someone is near
not too near. perhaps. but close by.

not always, a good thing
for those. who live. alone.

*****

films_about_ghosts_by_lneprz-d4izjmu

 

Image: films about ghosts by LNePrZ