Category Archives: Happenings

Selecting A Reader

The poetry of selecting a reader: First I would have him be tired but happy (as days are full & life is good) He will trip on my poems left lying like lost shoe on a dim staircase, catching railing to right himself, he will pick up the book open to a random page read onetwomaybethree poems. He will start to smile & stop to yawn. Now I should go to sleep he will say. And does (only to dream a beautiful poem against all odds).


Birthdays

The poetry of birthdays is poetry of kaleidoscope. Earth falls into an elaborate series of patterns. Sun lights the far hills like candles love swells clouds like balloons. All that moves smiles. In the whirling radius of your life a gorgeous logic blazes forth. Everything makes sudden vivid temporary sense. Nothing left to hold back but tears. Nothing left to do save kneelĀ and touch the feet of this perfect world


Drift

The poetry of drift is the poetry of journey and separation by slow degrees. Notice how the arrow swift sharpness of rift is decelerated by the letter d that trips forward, snags on the r and is sharply caught. Like stray wool of sweater on nail. A distance between things that unravels in slow motion — an unmaking, nameless and unstoppable as dark veil of clouds traveling across a radiant moon.


Leaning

The poetry of leaning begins with the relationship of ladders to walls. A thing of angles and equilibrium loaned like sugar to a neighbor, sans hesitation or account. From there it glides into the romance and flourish of ballroom dip, gains ambition and daring (think white marble tower leaning carelessly into Italian air). Ripens into sturdy, instinctive grace. Think tall field of sunflowers slanting into the sun.


Unfolding

The poetry of unfolding lives in starched white handkerchiefs, the Sunday newspaper and jasmine buds. Also in the pleated elegance of hand painted Japanese fans, Persian carpets and the hundred-eyed shimmer of a peacock’s tail. Not to mention the unfolding of a hummingbird’s wings, lawn chairs and pale blue aerograms. When considering an approach to your own unfolding, consider these things. And also red umbrellas.


Being Dumbfounded

The poetry of being dumbfounded is the poetry of being abandoned by your own vocabulary. Words take the air like a flock of migratory birds rising from tree. A swift, choreographed departure that leaves you rooted to the ground, unable to cry out anything. Not even “Stop!” Because that bright-winged, imperious bird too like all the others has flown south. For the brief and sudden winter of your surprise.


A Particular Bus Ride

The poetry of a particular bus ride was a mountain strong woman swearing cheerfully in the back. Profanity’s bride, tossing colorful words like floral bouquets into the air around her. The rest of us timidly strain our ears to catch while pretending not to. What truth would we each speak I wonder, if we were fearless and unabashed?


The Unexpected

The poetry of the unexpected finds you. Whoever you are. Found me yesterday. Low voice of cello floats down cold corridor wraps like warm cat around ankles. In a subway station Time and I stand still. Young musician in jeans and scruffy white t-shirt. Fingers releasing notes, so many deep-throated birds, from a cage. His gift the surprise of his scruffiness. Reminder: Dignity has never needed to dress up.


Certain Sundays

The poetry of certain Sundays is drizzled like honey on toast. Deep gold, slow-moving and sweet. Stray drops licked off fingers. It behooves me to stop talking now. Because on days like these only the birds have anything important to say.