Cacciatorepoetry.net » 2009

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.

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.

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.

Back to top

A Perfect Waste of Sheets

On the morning of my sister’s wedding, my brother, mother and I watched a fleet of hot-air balloons ascend over Napa Valley. I remember thinking, “If only I had a camera.” This will have to do.

From the half-light inside the dell,
And Napa’s early morning chill,
Dirigibles with wicker rims,
O’ershadowed by quilted Harlequin,
Enter the thick, obscuring mist
As fumarolic pillows
Flecked with amethyst.
Then like celestial orbs off course
From their accustomed universe,
Above the fogbank they protrude —
Darkened by the altitude.
Still the expanding helium,
Uplifts them to the upper wind,
Where higher yet they ascend …
Floating,
Floating,

Till on the ground a child’s thumb,
Can full eclipse all but the sun.

Back to top

Mountain Caviar

There’s nothing quite like blueberry pancakes on a Sunday morning. The expression “mountain caviar” came to me in a dream.

Two pours of batter,
tipped by a steady hand,
round into perfect plump circles,
yet still they demand

a fistful of hand-picked,
mountain caviar —
tiny black dots scooped and sprinkled,
from six inches afar.

Back to top

Write What You Know

write-what-you-know

Not exactly groundbreaking existentialism, but still fun. (I’m writing a poem about writing a poem … then before you know it … boom! … a poem). Like a Charlie Kaufman–written movie, it kind of sneaks up on you.

Whenever I’m at a loss,
For what I want to write,
For a subject matter that invites
My brain, my heart,
My fingertips,
To orchestrate a concert with my lips,
I always recall the rule,
That so many writers hold:
Simply …
“Write what you know!”

And if ever there was a thing,
That I know beyond a doubt,
It’s the feeling that I feel
When trying to figure out …
What the hell I want to write about!

Back to top

Overarching Beauty

I was flipping through the dictionary one night, through the P’s, and I saw a picture of a “lacquered paper parasol” in the left-hand margin. I thought it really rolled off the tongue nicely. Presto! “Overarching Beauty” was born.

Never did I imagine,
An object that could enthrall,
Like the keeper of the inn’s,
Lacquered paper parasol.
With intersecting lines,
And subtle traceries,
‘Twas more a Gothic window,
Than human canopy!
Yet when the sun came beating,
Its rays were still displaced, by
The overarching beauty,
Composed upon its face.
Oh, and when she twirled it,
When she flickt her supple wrist,
Could a more hypnotic top,
In the world ever exist?—

A kaleidoscope of colors,
In symmetrical design,
Revolved with blazing speed,
Above her dainty glide.

Back to top

The Stroke of 7

Absolutely love this title … but it just as easily could’ve been called, “Ode to the Signmaker.” It’s a tribute to the artists we all appreciate on a daily basis.

The art that I appreciate on a daily basis
isn’t found in a museum or painted on a cathedral wall.
It doesn’t come from the hand of Cezanne.
It isn’t a cloudless night immortalized by Van Gogh.
And it most certainly isn’t a monstrous Italian fresco,
paying homage to some 12th century recluse.

Nope, the art that I appreciate on a daily basis
is far more mundane, and its maker far more boring.
He doesn’t live a hermit’s life.
He’s not repulsed by the sins of rampant vice.
And his confidence doesn’t sag
when inspiration fails to swing by for tea.

He is the signmaker: King of Digits, Lord of Letters.
And his art is the roadside marker tipped in royal blue,
announcing the presence of a stuccoed insurance building.

My favorite is a bright white sign at 76 State Street.
The numbers are so full of life, so regal.
The seven’s post, strappingly tall,
angles ever-so-slightly and broadens at the bottom
to provide a more dependable base
for its top-heavy, unbalanced brim.
And the six, undeniably female,
with all her curves and loops,
swoops back around deep into herself, then
tries to brush her backside against the
object of her affection, pining for a little love.

But the seven just looks stoically away,
shunning her advances.
Of course, he’s no fool: His act only ensures
the flirtation will continue long into the night,
long after the headlights have all whizzed by.

To this day, every time I drive by that sign,
I still look at those two,
still playing their games on their polyvinyl chloride canvas,
and wonder if the signmaker knows he
created something far more emotional to me
than a giant monk on a wall.

Back to top

X-Ray Eyes

My very first poem. Back in 1987, I entered the annual poetry contest at Merrimack College … first prize: $50. I had no interest in poetry, but I needed the money. While my motives weren’t pure, my strategy was a success. (Think I spent the $50 on a couple of KISS albums.)

I want a white shirt,

Baggy,

With buttons down the front.

Pinched at the waist,

It casts off shadows,

Into a natural splendor of impossible angles.

I want a white shirt,

Clean,

With an upright collar hidden by hair.

Illuminating in the light,

It smells like a rose,

Picked by a girl in May.

It takes X-ray eyes

To find a real white shirt

In this world of designer clothes.

Back to top

Chessman

Long after the family was asleep, my father would put on his eyeglasses and mimic the moves made by grandmasters Bobby Fischer and Garry Kasparov on his own chess set so he could study their strategies. My father never finished ninth grade.

In gray and leathered eld,
The carpenter’s day is spelled,
By the brilliance of the crackling hearth,
And the sixty-four squares,
He tries with might to chart.

Back to top

Compassion

We all have memories of small events or scenes that inexplicably loom large in our consciousness. Maybe that’s for a reason. Maybe they help shape who we are as individuals.

If you’ve ever seen a fly
seconds after it’s been sprayed,
struggling on the sill
in an irreversible daze —

that’s where you’ll find me.

I’ll burn the scene into your mind,
then I’ll make you hit rewind, —
so deep it’s carved in your memory,
so it haunts you when you sleep.

For I am swift and hell-bent,
before I can be kind,
and never shall I relent
until the time arrives,
when Anger my enemy
and his bedfellow Hate
within your heart evaporate,
and you can’t even harm a fly.

Back to top

From King to King (The Rodney King Story)

A friend asked me to help her with a school assignment: Write a poem in the style of e.e. cummings. For some reason, I chose Rodney King as my subject. (She got an A.)

Bloods.
Crips.
Fighting for an identity on the streets,
Fighting for a leader long lost.

Ruling their turf with sticks and stones,
Yearning for that society, to them, unknown,
Raging, hating, set to explode.

Pigs.
Cops.
Upholding law in the asphalt jungle?
Crucifying justice at a baton’s whim.

Lying, twitching, a victim to The Man,
Unknowing, persecuted because of his tan,
Now the new King, thanks to an amateur’s hand.

Back to top

Oak of Faith

I saw a picture in a magazine of a scowling old man holding a transistor radio up to his ear. He was sitting on a porch in a beat-up chair with a flag behind him. My interpretation: He’s a diehard baseball fan.

From April to autumn his team has erred,
Yet little from his threshold has he stirred;
A charge of static pressed to his ear —
An oak of faith in his rickety chair —
Across the way he still doth stir.

Back to top

The Apprentice

Not sure how I arrived at this topic — a young sculptor must create a favorable likeness of an overweight king — but I’m glad I did. I’ve always loved the opening line: “O’er the marble, his wedge doth wend.”

O’er the marble his wedge doth wend,
Scudding by the force of his mallet;
‘Round his blade his fingers doth bend —
(Calloused the grip of an artisan’s hands,
Who eschews the oils of the palette.)

On this semblance keyed for the throne,
Set asunder by his Master,
Slaveth he for fairness in stone —
(Concealed the King’s unflatt’ring folds,
Encased in a tunic of white alabaster.)

Back to top

The Figure Skater

Had the privilege of seeing Olympian Paul Wylie about an hour before a performance. He was alone, deep in concentration, and not nearly as happy as he appeared on the ice a few minutes later. That got me thinking …

I
Shrouded in secrecy — alone,
Atop the hall.
All a-hush;
A time to withdraw.

Cloaked in darkness — watching,
The crowd filter.
A murmured hush;
A time to envision.

Draped in silence — list’ning,
For the cue.
A hushed voice;
A time for greatness.

II
Bathed in light — holding,
A dancer’s pose.
A pipe’s tone;
A time for poetry.

Steeped in motion — churning,
In-the-round.
A cello’s song;
A time for grace.

Doused in speed — slashing,
The snowy stage.
A trumpet’s blare;
A time for flight.

III
Soaked in sweat — awaiting,
The critic’s hand.
All a-rush;
A time for judgment.

Show’red in praise — basking,
Midst the crowd.
A rush of flowers;
A time for joy.

Wrapped in ice — hidden,
Behind the curtain.
A rush of pain;
A time for reflection.

Back to top