Cacciatorepoetry.net

Calling Zephyrus

Sometimes it feels so good to just feel the breeze. When it hits you right, it seems like everything’s okay with the world. Dipped into Greek mythology for this one.

O’, long-winded Zephyrus —
Author of sweet, springtime breaths —
With a faint expansion of thy chest,
And a subtle rearing of thy neck,
Exhale and set thy billow free
Across the western skies to me;
So it might tease my flaccid hair,
Tickle the skin I have bared
(And like a good Elysian breeze),
Reprieve my earthliest of cares, —
Now, and for all taciturnity!

Dead of Winter

dead-of-winter1

Inspired by Thoreau’s “A Winter and Spring Scene.” Thought this style looked real easy to write. There’s even a reference to HDT in it.

Birches are bowed;
North winds do blow;
Snowdrifts do grow,
In purest Thoreau.

Bodies are chilled;
Hares do mill;
Ice sheets a-build,
O’er gasping rills.

Pond scum is froze;
Flowers do fold; lo,
The ferret knows,
Progress is slowed.

Industry is dulled;
Solitude is mulled;
Hibernations are lulled,
By spirits above,

Who evenly yield,
A quiet so real,
O’er the fields,
To peacefully heal.

My Secret Garden

my-secret-garden1

A stroll through an imaginary garden, which I use here to describe a beautiful woman. I’m fairly sure this poem was triggered by the word “bespangled.” I remember seeing it in a newspaper one day (a tennis column by Bud Collins in the Boston Globe, of all places) and thinking, “I’ve got to use that somewhere.”

Lissome is my lily, who
Midst a patch bespangled with pansies,
Willows aloft the violets and whites,
Of Queen Anne’s Lace, so delightfully frilly.

* * *

Fancy is my foxglove, who
Sweet William brightly beside,
Weaves jaunt’ly from tea cart to trellis,
Whilst my heart flits airily above.

* * *

Boundless is her bloom, which
In all its Morning Glory,
Fills the bee with smothered hum,
And like the rose, the wind with perfume.

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Needlepoint

needlepoint2

If you squint just right, a mountainside of evergreen trees, from afar, looks like a massive work of needlepoint. Try it sometime. (I love the play on words in the title.)

If the knotted trunk of a five-needled pine,
Seamlessly knits earth & sky
(Like the ornate hilt of an ancient blade
That catches the sun’s fiery cascade),
Then a mountainside of selfsame trees,
Is a more complex sylvan weave, —
A naturally sown tapestry, of
One million and one
Stitches in time.

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Pondskimming

pondskimming1

An eloquent way of expressing a common act: skipping a stone in a pond. I used pieces of King Arthur’s tale throughout.

Of all the fair landscapes I have seen,
None compared to the one I gleaned,
When I strode upon a Somerset tarn,
And found my way through
The cinnamon fern.

A water-flea circus peppered its surface,
Which kept the trees in perfect reverse; lo,
A mirror so deep it could conjure the stare,
Of a long-legged parched,
Arthurian mare.

With a sleepless full moon still out of its bed,
A childish thought beguiled my head:
Why not present what’s clearly absent —
A phonograph of ripples
To duly ornament.

Over forth I doubled for a rock at my feet,
Smooth and light and flat as a sheet;
With a crooked elbow I sidearm flung it,
And watch it five times,
Resist its plummet!

O’er the water it skipped like a pelican’s run,
And five circles it left where once there were none;
Ever widening the cirques did slowly connect,
Like an enchanter’s steel rings
With invisible clefts.

Whom do I owe for this priv’leged rite,
Of peeping a stone in gravitational spite,
And the union of wimples laid in its wake?
Is it you fair Vivien,
M’Lady of the Lake?

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Skelegance

skelegance1

My first conscious attempt to write like poet laureate Billy Collins — a rather large departure for me. Just write what you see and feel, and worry about the poetry aspect later. No muss, no fuss, very little rhyming. I found it incredibly freeing … and it kick-started an entire new catalog of works.

As I strolled past my bedroom window,
I couldn’t help but notice a
Wide band of pink off in the horizon,
Swaddling the white sky like
A felt swath might surround a fedora,
Or maybe a derby, or a top hat —
(Nevertheless, the point is that the pink
And the white quietly coalesced).

Then, as I stooped down to
Expand the view afforded me
By the window’s pane,
I spied a black, spindly web
Rising high above my neighbor’s fence
And into the upper sky.

Bare limbs and branches,
Twigs tipped with snow,
Darted in all conceivable directions
In a truly haphazard array,
Claiming ownership of all that lie beneath,
Like an open umbrella
Whose fabric had been ripped away
By a most violent gush of wind.

But this umbrella was more magnificent
Without its fabric.
In fact, it had a certain naked elegance,
A skeletal elegance, to be exact —
Or, maybe a “skelegance,”
If you’ll allow me a little latitude.

Yes, the trees displayed a definite skelegance.
(I like the sound of that, I do.)

But now, just moments
after I stopped to peer,
The pink band in the sky …
Why, it up and disappeared!
It was the very thing that attracted me to
The window in the first place, yet
I hardly noticed its freefall
Below my neighbor’s fence.

Perhaps I was too busy staring up
At the treetop silhouette,
Inventing the word skelegance.

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The Bitter Rind

bitter-rind1

A tribute to the orange tree. I found it ironic that a tree that bears such sweet fruit is known to have the hardest wood. One of my absolute favorites.

Hail to thee, orange tree,
Unflapping in the Florid’ wind;
Thy trunk of stone the envy of,
Locust to persimmon.

From thy meat man has hewn,
Railway ties that bind,
And flexile bows tautly drawn,
By Chickasaws with closed eye.

Yet this wood petrified,
Is bearer of a pleasing brood,
When whitish, waxy flowers,
Mature on leafy shoots

And summer rays incubate,
Fragrant bulbs of citrus wine —
Navel flesh and pulpy blood,
Sweet until the bitter rind.

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The Blanket

the-blanket1

My friend Kenny and I were hanging out one gray December day and the snow started to fall — first snow of the year. For some reason, it stopped us both dead in our tracks as we peered out the window. All we could do was stare in awe … we were imprisoned by the sight.

From the higher regions it falls,
A lazy flurry of icy fleece.
Forseen with bated wintry breath,
And leaping hearts —
Feathery is the offering on its maiden voyage.

* * *

Like a refreshing shower from a puffy otherworld,
Full of soft, fancy flakes;
Drifting, it heaps against the bare and forgotten,
A punctured pillow —
That colors the world cott’ny white.

* * *

A cleansing squall circling the upper air.
All’s calmed upon its arresting descent,
Whirling, it sheets the slate-grey sky entire,
Shackling the eye —
Then … breathless … we peacefully surrender.

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