Springtime... and new beginnings...

Having just arrived in New York City I feel a sense of re-birth. Leaving my father's recent death behind me, though he is always on my mind, I have come here to jump start my life. The little writing I set down today is a tribute to my daughter's birth some fourteen years ago. She was only eleven weeks old, like a new-born, springtime flower, when I wrote this with her in mind;


Lena Poem (1)
December, 1995

You...
Unfurled...uncurled, squeezed out
from mommy's belly
on an early October morning.
Furrowed, so tiny-- quivering--
we inspect..., dissect
you;

(life's little interrogations beginning).
And now, this but a little more than eleven weeks,
we have watched the smiles,
sustained the barbaric 'yawps' of youngness;
trying to soothe the growing pains in
you.

This your first Christmas,
with all its unmeaning.
Our gift, a simple one-- a quilt of cloth
made by hands unknown, in a place unknown
passed down from hands unknown.
It has come to be in our hands
and we wrap its warmth-- the plain sense of its design--
around...
which is the self-same sense of our love for
you...

A road leading to the imagination...

This will be my last posting from my location in West Palm Beach, Florida. After 82 little writings, I am heading to the Big Apple to try my turn in that big town. I look forward to the challenges that await me. This little writing below talks about a road filled with challenges, detours, bends and turns;

An Old, Long-Winding Road

There’s an old, long-winding road
behind my house, seldom used anymore
except for the occasional walk
or the contadino who herds his sheep
or the hunters off to hunt.
The road, like the young poet’s unpaved imagination
is congested, is cluttered
with overgrowth from under-use.
Nature, herself, has become the re-creator;
slowly, with unfathomable patience, she has distorted
the road, she has determined the scene– the manner in which the snow impedes,
the way in which the moss proceeds
to grow on the stone embankments.

As I walk, ducking and bending through the brush,
a slap of branch at cheek,
a trip of weeds at foot,
attempting to keep balance and thought intact– pense me–
Has the original purpose of the road altered?
Were the first builders solely interested
to quicken distances between podere to podere? Or indeed,
did they too seek the detoured tranquility, the serenity,
of a meditative walk where their imagination
tangled with the Supreme Imaginator?
For sure, if shortening distance was their prime concern
the road should be straighter–
(for reason tells us the shortest distance between two point is...).

So each curve in this road,
each bend, each turn,
represents the imagination in the act of imagining.
And these first builders saw in this road
a form, simple and utilitarian as it be,
that required shaping and molding
so as to reflect its truer purpose;
that of the mind in its curious,
circuitous course to understand
itself and potential.

Ain't nothing we can do about the heat...

This little writing goes back to a summer that I remember in New York City that was just exceptional in its sweltering heat and humidity. I would remember having a suit on and by the time that I got to and from different appointments I was just soaked through with perspiration. My little tribute to New York's heat;


HEAT

Slow,
slow summer’s
heat hangs...
hangs,
like the tired, orphaned child
lumped,
slumped
on the woman’s slouching back.

She lingers, ...
lingers long,
long
into the day; draws–
draws pores of sweat.

New York’s humid, August character
claws,
claws like the lean, hungry, black
back-alley cat
hunting for its prey.

Through the swelter
the cries,
the cries,
fly,
fly through the deep thick of night–
no rest in sight...

A harlot’s baby, sleepless plight,
sleepless,
in this asphalt jungle’s slow,
slow summer’s
slow,
seething heat...

The beauty of resilience and fortitude...

I return to provide this little writing below after several days from being out of commission. It seems my body just gave out on me and I needed some refeuling. As I regain my strength, I hope the muse continues to visit me and encourages me to write. The writing below is in response to the need for resilience no matter the climate or circumstances;

Love, Like the Resilience of a Tuscan Weed

You can see them everywhere
prospering in this arid land
where rainfall is sacrosanct.
A neophyte to this farming life
learns almost overnight
the plant suited to survive
in such environment.

Varied in form
establishing its dominion;
germinating, multiplying and proliferating.
The ever-present wind– gusting
seeds to sow in some other
part of the garden.

The soil rips, buckles and bursts
like sore, parched lips– in need of water.
But the tenacious weed, scoffs
almost laughs, brazens, as its produces a flower
in defiance to the climate
and its natural persecutors.

This weed will not relent.
It does not know such sentiment.
With manacle roots deep
it anchors itself, bonds itself to the soil;
ready to be pulled at by a naive gardener–
who thinks he’s cleared his plot so clean–
snaps midway so as to grow again
stronger from this most recent assault.

Were I to have one wish for us,
it would be that our love
could in such climate
display the resilience
of these damn Tuscan weeds...

He would say, "you cannot kill a mountain..."

My father, my Papa Jean passed away this morning at 5:ooam eastern time. He went gently, and with dignity-- just as he had led his life. There are not words that I can string together to convey the love and respect that I have for him. He was from such a different time and place both generationally and geographically. He taught me humility and perserverance and the deep respect for my cultural roots. The writing below is the one request he asked of me;


In My Time of Dyin’
(for Papa Jean)
(b. November 29th, 1921– d. April 22nd, 2010)

In my time of dyin’
don’t want nobody to mourn.
All I want for you to do
Is take my body home.
So I can die easy, yeah...yeah...yeah...
so I can die easy, yeah...yeah...yeah...
(African-American Spiritual)

Papa said that when he died
he wanted to be cremated.
He was adamant about this request.
Entrusting me, to carry this out
he asked that his ashes
be spread over his parents’ grave
in Rives, Isere, France –
the hamlet where he was born.
I told him plain– I would.
Papa also said he would prefer
if we did not mourn his death;
for he had, had an abundant life.
In his provincial humility
he asked only that we enjoy
"a good bistro", and savour
a memorable meal in his honour;
(great French chefs think this way)...

...Jesus gonna make it
to my dyin’ bed.
And if these wings should fail me Lord
won’t you meet me with another pair.
So I can die easy, yeah... yeah... yeah...
so I can die easy, yeah...yeah...yeah...

What's in a name?...

I have always held an interest in the origins of words and their meanings.In the bible one gets a sense of these great charaters in the Old Testament. So I have chosen a little writing about the biblical name of Catherine;


Musings

Of Beauty– like poetry– the old, old
pragmatic Biblical scribes
understood its position.
In the simple, clean lines of their language;
magnitudes conveyed.
The millennia cannot change you
C a t h e r i n e.
Roots of your namesake deep, well dug.
Orientation cannot alter
implication, impartation of the name
(infinitely...contained).
The envy of Helen and Hera to remain.
You have been a fourth-century Christian martyr of Alexandria;
an Empress of Russia (twice);
and a Queen of England.
From the myth of you
modern civilization took ground.
You are the stone foundation–
the allegorical anchor–
that Jason, on a bobbing, wind-beaten Argo,
sailed and sailed to secure
his frail ship
to the shore of you.

Tradition and the individual talent...

As a student of literature I leaned towards the modernists; T.S. Eliot, Ezra Pound and Marianne Moore. It was in their poetry that I immersed myself. I have often walked through the subway station at Rockefeller Plaza in New York City. It is a maze of underground tunnels used by commuters to get to work. So this little writing below touchs on these two aspects;

The Modernists
(for Eliot, Pound & Moore)

Hair combed neat, still damp.
Clothes pressed– she with stockings,
he with cravat.
We are the routine ones;

moving through these steamy,
‘wet, blackish boughs’...
made to ease our arrivals
and departures.

"Like the crowd on London Bridge
heads bent towards their feet."
Movement a slow, silent
procession towards separate
destinations.

There is little laughter in such faces;
but the myriad of frowns palpable
from excessiveness. "I too, dislike it..."

Yet, we are no different
from classicist’s passed,
nor avant-gardist’s to come.
Perhaps, this is the collective denouement
the wise men foretold;
just more subtle.

Wasted ones in a hollow land.

'Speak in small bursts of truth...'

I want to start by paraphrasing the great writer, Saul Bellows, who said; 'No one will be heard in the future if they do not speak in small bursts of truth.' The little writing below is my way of expressing Mr. Bellows sentiment;

In Memoriam To
William Earl Anderson
(d. September, 1988)

...And it took aim again, this time
‘deep in the heart’s core.”
I lost my friend.
When will it end? This death,
this scourge, this utter sadness
that knows no (AIDS).

Whose instrument has wrought
this menace? Whose bow has plucked
this wicked tune?

A virus– methodical, brilliant
in the eyes of the scientist.
Yet, virtuous men & women
fallen to its cunning.

Howling, ‘I see the best minds
of my generation’,
reduced to nothingness...

This is my sad song sung
to a hard head wind
that blows no pity, but dirt in my face.

I miss you, William.
Rest in peace my good friend...

A metropolis the Greeks never knew...

The writing below is about my favorite city, New York City. It has an energy one has to experience to really understand it. I have been a walker in this city for as long as I can remember. Each time I take a stroll I always see something new. The little writing below is just a snippet of what I perceive about New York City;


The City-Scape

The city wears itself well.
Rain-soaked leaves–
fallen embers, amber hued–
lend to this season’s canopy.

The city wears its dampness well.
Moisture strewed about these street;
water wets the pavement deeper grey.

The city wears its people well.
Clothed in winter’s chosen wools,
random lives compose these walks–
the harlot, the homeless, the rich
that must share these blocks.

The city wears its music well.
The caustic cacophony; rapped-
packed, or the slow, smooth-cool
jazz, the roll-flow of sound never-ending...

the city wears all its rhythms well.
The edifices unperceivable sway
to the drone which is the bass,
the city’s beat to avoid the country-side sleep.

A continuance of time and place merge...

I return to my Tuscan days and found a poem I had left uncompleted. The sense of daily life as a repetition and the beauty one can find in the everyday chores inspired this work. I hold much respect for the Tuscan farmers and this writing is for them;

an ordinary day in Toscana

...sunlight silhouette
sets over Pienza. Embers
of the ordinary day,
cool terra-cotta crimson–
fall on these ordinary people.
It is January.
It will be dark soon.
The contadino works with hurried purpose
to complete diurnal chores;
manure is cleared from the stalls,
the pigs are fed,
the goats are milked,
dry wood is brought inside
for the long night ahead

There is a stillness to the landscape.
A return to the plain sense of order–
(or perhaps, only the sunlight playing tricks?)
The endless columns of vineyard
stripped of their leave-coated armor
slump stoic, like frozen troops
in their amazing, uniform march to nowhere.
The grain fields of spring
wait laconic and fallow.
Deciduous trees now bare,
a certain chill chides the air.
The mind of winter is the contadino’s,
who knows the season, as always...
Time for the land to repose,
to quench its thirst, catch its breathe.

Chimney smoke dissipates
in the waning din.
The little towns set on these hills
soon undistinguishable in the night.
Tomorrow will come,
the rooster will call
a simple ordinary repetition will begin anew...
a continuance of time and place merge
a player upon his stage.

To know each other there can be no fakery...

This poem was written on the occasion of my parent's 30th wedding anniversary. On February 11th 2010 they just completed their 50th anniversary. I marvel at their fortitude. Given the grave situation of my father's health I thought it would be meaningful to post this poem out of respect to them both;


Diamonds & Pearls
(February 11th 1960 -February 11th 1990)
(Jean Ulysse Vergnes & Pauline Jacqueline Cordeau)

Of two like no others.
From separate places you came
to rendezvous – and catch one another’s eye.

Thirty years have brought you here;
a menagerie of attic memories,
slightly dusted, sometimes forgotten...

But time can never alter
what lured and lulled you together;
the encounter, the attraction,
the courting and the love.
From a place called La Shangrila
une amour a commencer.

Thirty years, and a little less hair
a wrinkle here & there
a certain fatigue now.
Though time has marked the facade
love’s strength, its subtle visage
shines, unaffected by the years.

To know each other
There can be no fakery,
no act sub-rosa.
All that is, between you, appears
in its bare truth – naked.

Theses words want only to say
What three decades together conveys;
You have shown your strength by example.
Love is swayed by more than diamonds & pearls...

To storytellers and their stories...

The poem below is a type of vignette about an art form that is dying. The oral tradition of storytelling and the characters who would tell the stories. There is nothing quite like hearing a musician or a poet live on center stage articulating their chosen work. So this little writing is dedicated to the art of the storyteller;

For Him To Be Remembered
(the town’s storyteller)

Now mortality was setting in.
He was rocking-chair rolling in recollection
of things he had thought and said.

Then, seemed so long, long ago.
He hadn’t realized now
could creep up so fast.

Now seemed so alone-like.
He had out-lived all friends.
His present was the recompense of the past.

With deliberateness he took his labor-wrinkled hand
and put it in his pocket pulling
out a tattered handkerchief. With his other lined
hand he removed his metal framed spectacles
and cleaned the lenses methodic.
A routine honed through the years.

He took note of me watching him,
and with the same worn cloth
he patted the beads of sweat
from is forehead as he said to me;

"son, I have but one wish after I am buried–
like all men–
to be quoted on occasion..."

In tribute of chiseled forms...

I have always held a fascination with sculpture. I can remember seeing Michelangelo's Slaves at the Academie in Florence, for the first time. I can also remember seeing Botticelli's David at the Ufizzi Museum in Florence. These works left a strong impression on me as true masterpieces from the Old Masters. The little writing below pays tribute to the chiseled form;


The Stone Carver

Bit – by bit – by bit – is chip-
ped to reveal, perhaps?,
what was always
there sub-rosa.

Granite poet, etcher of stone sonnets.
You set down in slabs
what no pen
can pour on paper.

Mortal maker of, near, immortal artifice.
Your sculptured poetry, your chiseled forms,
stand, for some time to echo...
your place with the old masters.

Your calloused hands without effort,
labor to give character to your work.
As with Mogiri’s gargoyles–
(twenty-eight years to complete)–
On Washington’s National Cathedral.
They appear to smile and laugh, with us–
amazed that a (man)
could wrought such smooth beauty from stone...

Life is not hard edges...

I have often walked along the shore whether here in West Palm Beach or in East Hampton, Long Island just staring at all the myriad of shell and stone forms that wash up on the beach. It made me think about the power of the ocean and the vulnerability of the shells and stones. The little writing is a reflections of such walks along the beach;


Soft-hearted Stone
(found along the endless beach)

It is not the hardness
of stone that impresses.
It is the suppleness
of its core
that allows it to be shaped
by the ebb and flow
of the endless sea....
into such forms.

Life is not hard edges,
but, more often, soft curves,
sadness and beauty;
as that which I see in you–
And such stones of rare
subtleness...

In the Fields of Elysium...

My uncle Frank died in July of 1986 from a cancerous tumor in his lungs. He was a great uncle. The kind of man you couldn't wait to see as a young boy because he would participate in all sorts of activities with my brother and me. I think his wake was the first one that I ever went to and the writing touches on my impression of the event;

The Wake
(For Uncle Frank Tobiasson)

It’s rather odd
how we dress up the dead.
Death has no bias
towards its next guest’s attire.

Yet, the ladies and men whisper–
in praise of the mortician,
as if some magician,
for creating the illusion
of life in death.

Kneeling to view uncle Frank one last time.
Up close, I see through
the cosmetic veneer
of the under-taker’s skill.

He is an emaciated ninety-six pounds.
His cancerous bones protrude from the casket
as fresh tombs in soil.
He has not gone ‘gentle into that good night’
as the Charon now ferries him along.

Rising now, in the calm contemplation
that Hades lets him roam painless
in the Fields of Elysium...

You cannot be changed...

I have watch for almost a year now my mother tend to my father's worsening condition. After fifty-two years of being together you can still sense the love she has for him. I came to this little writing as a way to pay tribute for all that she does as a wife, mother and grandmother;


Maman

...Of strong stock, yet soft-souled
the frigid cold
of Montreal’s long, long winters
never changed you.

The Church which formed
your fleeting youth– (the Sisters)
in their black & white robes,
under their strange hooded caps
and conservative cloaks–
never changed you.

Your father, sick and weak,
who, perhaps, wanted a boy;
his laconic love
came late in life
never changed you.

The man you married
the family you raised–
two sons, and grandchildren–
to praise and hold dear
never changed you.

All these things
of nature & time
cannot change you,
will not change you, you of
strong stock & ever so, soft-souled...

The Chain of Command...

When I took my first publishing job in New York City I quickly learned the enormous bureaucracy that needed to be confronted each day. This little piece comes from gaining a sense of the powerplay involved in surviving in such an environment. It's serves as a reminder to those who wish to be individuals in corporate environs;



A Chain Needing Oil


A mere cog within

this chain of command.

Mettlesome as I am,

my movement is linked

to other hands.

Whether this shackle is wrought

from pure metal?

Or by chance coupled

by human ingenuity,

or both – remains a mystery?

Indeed it is a bond

to be bro-

ken.

For it makes us paltry leaden creatures;
laconic kinks whose mettle hue rusts...

Words sent with just paper and pen...

This little writing began as a letter and when I looked at the draft I had made I wanted to turn it into a poem. It's fairly straight forward and I will let it convey itself;



Preferring to Convey with Paper&Pen

There is still something raw
when paper is touched by pen.
I care not to blog,
tweet nor twitter,
trick nor treat, nor
Facebook, nor read Redbook.
my space– is this the place
where I plot and plod pad with pen.

A long, slow slog
with no disguise,
nor username...
a stamp-licked letter
is something to be said.
Within this form
the words conform
to express in colloquialism
the idiom of their maker.

To jot, spot, splotch and stain
this broadside
with plainness and germaneness
so it could be said,
‘he never left one thing behind...’
just this paper touched by pen...
just these words sent...

"Music, sweet music"...

There's a place in New York City where I've been going to catch different artists playing their music. It's a real small space and it fills up quite quickly at night. The venue is cool because you get five different musicians playing 45 minute sets. You get a nice mix of music. This little writing is about the place;


Rockwood Hall

Just tell the cabby,
Allen Street between
Houston and Rivington,
as I recall.

“Music, sweet music...
I wish I could caress with a kiss”...

The room unassuming,
no place to move nor hide...
Once inside these lower
East Village walls.
Just you, your stamina,
the sound and the subway
boxcar of space.

The bar cumbersome,
the crowd funnels in–
from, (I) don’t know where.
These proud and astute
musicians play acoustic–
lyrics and melody–
to the captivated throng
that gathers... and
gathers...
within.

Within these spaces that we reside...

It's been two weeks since my last posting. I have been away and did not have access to the computer on a consistent basis. The writing below touches on the value we place as New Yorkers on the small spaces we are afforded to live in. Living space is an issue on a island like Manhattan. I once lived in a small flat on West 85th Street between Columbus Avenue and Amsterdam Avenue on the upper west side. This writing is in memory of that space on 85th Street;

West 85th Street Flat
(or, spaces we dwell in...)

In this autumn light
a mere fraction of the city’s
silhouetted, skylined, sky-scaped
landscape appears
from where I sit, on balcony.
The day’s near end.

One returns
to find empty rooms
as we left them so in hurry
in the morning’s brutal light rising...
Last night’s clothes tangled
in odd forms, dangles
and linger on the disheveled bed.
The coffee pot with unfinished liquid...
A letter half-opened waiting to be a voice...
Still life(s) of our urbane
existence.

Now, within sanctuary of home
however small.
Space measured by footage.
Like being within ourselves
these walls of wood and sheet rock
express us to those who may enter
such narrow hallways.

Within this space we make–
the thrills and downfalls
of every day echo
and find some resolution.

Here in this cockpit
I plot my course;
pilot-like, wanting to touch down
in what will tomorrow bring
with sleep’s landing strip approach...

For some, life can be that last game played....

For some, life can be that last game played....
I have the honor of being inducted this weekend into my high school's soccer hall of fame. I am humbled by the invitation and the recognition. It has been 29 years since I played soccer for this high school. I began work on this piece of writing not too long ago, and it seems appropriate to release it now. I never touched a soccer ball thinking more than as a young boy's pure pleasure of running after something and chasing a mere ball. I have much respect for the game of football as it is said in Europe. I leave you these words;


The Amateur Athlete


There will always be the last game.
Whether played
to the roar of the arena
filled with spectators,
and athletes of keen skill.


Or that lesser game
played throughout this land–
the outcome all or nothing–
(inconsequential really)–
but integral to those within it.
Who will speak
of it in later days on stools
sipping their drinks,
rolling in the reverie
of that last game;
of how it should
have been played or won.
The re-analysis honed
through liquor and time.


We live for the game.
Whatever the chosen sport.
Men and women of little recognition
confronting the reality of winning, losing
and playing well. Or how might it have been
had they been a little faster, a bit taller
perhaps quicker...

Something to savor in Bien Hoa, Vietnam...

This is a very recent writing. I was introduced to a pickled item found in a jar with calligraphy I could not read. But when I tried it, it proved pleasing to the palate. The placing of goods in jars for long periods of time is very common in a country like Vietnam because of the lack of electricity and refrigeration. The writing below is just a reflection on being introduced to the flavor;


She Came From Bien Hoa, Vietnam

Have you ever met someone for Bien Hoa?
Have you ever been to Saigon?
Well, just northwest lies the town
where you can taste strands
of pickled, papaya fruit
mixed with slices of lotus root.

It comes in mason jars,
in which the labeled words
is calligraphy you and I don’t understand,
but trust once your palate
has been brushed
by such perk(y)ness.
I’ve even been taught (by her)
to wrap it in spring rolls.

With these simple,
epicurean pleasures,
we come to see
why cultures rise
and thrive
and sustain in all
their cannery forms.

Without refrigeration
the women of many past generations
understood well how to preserve
their culinary treasures
in all their tartness, and now
display to fervent foreign curiosity...

The beauty in the printing press

When I first came to work in New York in 1981, I worked as a poduction assistant for the Cambridge Book Company. It was here that I met vendors in lithography and offset printing. On occasions when they would invite me to their facilities I would always be impressed by the pressmen and the printing presses. This work is a reflection of my reverence;

The Driving Run Through the Graveyard Shift...
(an homage to the pressman and the printing press)

Gutenberg knew well the sound;

the running press, the making ready.

The driving run through

the graveyard shift. The paper

makes its blanket roll– (‘round) –

the pressman hones his inky skills.

This vehicle of speech;

driving through the graveyard shift.

It cannot run dry. It cannot be silenced.

The pressman eyes his early sheets;

ups the black– the paper makes

its graveyard run... (through the dark of night).

The clanking and cacophony

of the working press– will not be denied –

in its urgency to tell of itself

and its (offset)...

How close we all are to the precipice...

This is the last in a trilogy of poems that I wrote about people that I would see in New York City on my daily walks to work. My sense was that they were homeless or certainly had experienced living on the street and in the shelters of New York City. They would catch my attention and this is a work they inspired in me;


A Hand Held Out...

We are the scuffle-shuffle
clean-cravats, stainless-shoe ones.
A silent procession.
And, he is there as always.
A hand held out– suspended–
not so much asking, (but waiting...)
to assist if we too, should stumble.
And those eyes. Like none I’ve seen before.
Penetrate deep into the soul
as we pass by.

There is no need to express
in words what he needs.
The hand held out, as the seasons pass,
the stoic pride, as he leans on his cane;
the soiled clothing is his language.
And audible it is, these words with no sound
this language of those muted
by the indifferent world.

He receives so little
from us, a paltry sum at best.
But he is that reminder to us– fresh
from our morning showers,
indomitable in our chosen attire–
life is a hand held out waiting;
taciturn, waiting to grab us
when our mettle fabric
shows signs of wear and tear...

Bring me your weary...

When I would walk to work I would pass Saint Bartholemew Church on the corner of 48th Street and Park Avenue. Upon the steps of the church a homeless man would be emerging from his cardboard-like shelter. I would watch him for a litlle while and then get on my way. However, he left an impression with me and I share it with you below;

"...a repetition in a repetitiousness...", observed
"of men and flies"...

Emerging once again from his cardboard manger
the slouched, heavy-eyed beast
rises to his kingdom’s rising cacophony.
He tries to rub the weariness
from his eyes. In his tattered robes
he leans against the Church’s massive doors,
out of scale against such backdrop.

Three wise men pass,
and many more will pass,
(both wise and unwise)
as the day moves to night.
No one seems to see this man.
No one seems to hear his call.

Day’s dawn forgotten dauphin.
He wears his poverty–
his crown of thorns. Homeless,
shoeless, mumbling passages
and parables of his plight.

His rants fall on sullen ears
the laics have places to go
meetings to meet– scurry by in curious neglect.

Frustrated, epithets will spill
from his mouth. He curses the world
and Saint Peters deemed rock
on which he stands. The day will draw
to yet another close.

The night’s coolness will cool him, (somewhat)
and slogging towards his Bethlehem–
this sad life, this sad birth– like death;
will seek solace within his corrugated,
cardboard box.

And tomorrow will bring...

The Beauty in That Photograph...

There is a family photograph that I keep in my room which is an outtake from a Time/Life Magazine article that was done about the famous 1965 clambake on Gardiner's Island. My father was one of the chefs cooking and being profiled in the piece. One of the photographers gave us one of his outtakes that he took of the family, and that image has been with me ever since;


August, 1965
(from a photograph of the family at the
famous Time/Life Magazine clambake)

Can you remember
that time?

In that summer of ‘65?
A youthful inebriety

of food and song
in the sand-soil

of Gardiner’s August.
The plain simplicity

to it all– a clambake.
The bay’s breeze balmy.

Us, (the four of us in full center)
this black and white of us.

Feasting le grand bouffe.
A timeless, caesura –

Life is our mots, the moments
and our memories...

...To mendicants, and those of lesser fortunes...

I have always held a guarded fascination with street people. Those that seem to make out some kind of an existance living in the streets of New York City. I have written several pieces on these street people and this is one of them;



Contemporary Forms

Propped upon the Church’s steps
turret-like
in Rodin’s sculpted pose. Armed,
within ruminations of what has gone wrong–
of what could have been.
His dark skin glistens,
(not a sole listens) as
twilight’s light burns
terra-cotta red.

He has chosen his covenanted plot
arbitrarily. The Church’s backdrop
signifying nothing– to him.
His white eyes watch all
that passes by.

A late afternoon repose,
repeated, and repeated...
Sweat pores forth,
little water beads collect–
The myriad of thoughts,
perhaps, in his head.

There is no pity exchanged
between us. He has his lot
and he seems to know mine.
The walk light turns in my favor
and I ford the street
as the cars subside.

There's something about a woodpile...

This is a poem taken from the time I spent in Tuscany. By the side of the house where we lived was this old woodpile, a gate and a bench. All basically unused but aesthetically quite pleasing to look at and wonder about. This little writing comes from these items;




The Woodpile


There is a woodpile somewhere in Toscana,
composed of the debris the present house’s
former self has shed,
that leans on cypresses– old wood like old bones
need buttresses.

There is a gate at the entrance to the woodpile,
somewhere in Toscana,
that leads to no where.

And, there is a bench by the gate, at the entrance
to the woodpile where few have sat,
over the years, now
over-wrought by weeds.

Yet, all this had to be imagined.
An old ingenuity was involved.
The maker did not have to place these objects there.
His intention was not one of pure function–

save the purpose to stir the mind
as the wind stirs all things...
and the cypresses leaned...

A Feline for a Lifetime...

This is the second poem in recent days about my favorite cat named T.S. (milkstain) Eliot. He happened to be killed four days after our return from Italy. I assume he was out wandering and checking out his new surrounding as he had done in Italy. I miss him. This is an homage to him;


T. S. (milkstain) Eliot
(D. April 15, 1992)

April can prove to be the cruelest month.
A black lab found him –
stiff and gutted– amongst the beach grasses
of the marshes in Accabonac Harbour.

His eyes nonchalant,
his fur brittle.
A cat so keen, what could
have caught him? A predator
with cunning and mean.

His sister, Corin, waits at the window,
spawning glass, at her widow’s watch;
her vigil will go on...

Stolen by jowls;
a cat for a lifetime,
only four years, now gone.

The ground where he lays is marked.
He will decompose
like all dead things.
But a brief
life remembered,
a spirit transcended–
in his epitaph–

A king among cats...

To one who makes me melt...

The poems talks about the power of attaction and how attactions can feel like forces of nature. I feel this way towards a certain woman who doesn't want to see me anymore. So I will write about her from time to time to reveal the difficult feelings I have not being able to communicate directly;



In A Time of Melting...

...and so much, Time would not allow them to know
about one another, They had encountered in mid-
stream, when gray skies provide backdrop
to the plain sense that is every coming New York’s winter.

He had grown weary of dank cold, hard snow under-
foot & the wet whipping wind.
He was frost; Frozen in Time.

She had campfires eyes.
He, frail– a mere snowman of a man–
perceived a loss in mass with her every gaze.

Though her coals were his deplete
he could not keep from their soft, keen heat.
She was that early spring thaw in mid-
winter, gradually reducing him
to the water that he really was...

Sloppy Scrawlings and such....

The work below examines the relationship between art and the bleakness that is confronted by the artist. The work in its creation serves as a reminder to the artist; his/hers confrontation to the absurdity of this given life;


Scrawl

In my sloppy scrawl
I scratch these words
that help to convey
my position in this absurdity.

Beckett knew, as did
Magritte, to confront
the bleakness
there is art and humor
coinciding on the chosen
canvas.

So that we
may come to see ourselves–
the thinness, transparency–
like a woman’s subtle
stocking that hides no leg
and reveals the intimate
vulnerability...

Words written in the Rain...

I had started this poem some to ago and found these last days to complete it. It is simple in its form but contains so much of what I wish to convey. It's satisfying in this form to set her off on her own;



Words just Written
(prior to being washed away by the rain)


The rain,
rains in its usual,
unusual, slanted
way. Seeping into
the slightest of window cracks
and, ... too, ... the mind
continues... and, throughout....
almost transparent in the dank,
dark uncertain night. No moon,
nor stars, nor a sole in sight. Pelting
beads of mere water– pelting its drone
like sweat – like old, old memories, haunted
against a house of shingled consequence.
(Inside the listener listens). Seeing more in such
darkness of flight, his troubled life...

The Cat I had was a King...

When T.S.(milkstain) Eliot moved with me to a private house in Tuscany, Italy he would check out the property as if was it was his own private hunting grounds. he was a most particular cat and I loved all his of idiosyncrasies. The poem pays tribute to this king among cats;




T.S.(milkstain) Eliot

He was T. in the morning
announcing the reverie at his
prescribed purrs.

He was T.S. in the day
hunting and sleeping
With feline nonchalance.

He was T.S. Eliot
with a trademark milk stain
to break otherwise perfect lines.

And so shall he remain...

Nor' easters, the wind and the rain...

The poem goes back to my childhood. There was always much drama to witnessing the impending storms that would gather over Gardiner's Bay on the east end of long island. The work should speak for itself;



Gardiner’s Bay

November’s grey mood
had poised itself
over this sea-splashed scape.
Gardiner’s Bay is deep in its
green hue. Swells of tide
slide and ply and we glimpse
the white insides,
so quick they hide.

The poet’s raging rhythm
and ancient rhyme, the mariner knows–
has heard so close the sea’s ceaseless song.

Off Montauk an ornery nor’easter
forms; brings ominous cumuli gathering.
An autumnal storm bears down
you can smell its briny breath
the plain sense that Stevens knows
is the season of pending death.

Upon a knoll a cottage sits
A fire of driftwood from within burns,
embers warm those inside...

The Peace Within a Child's Sleep...

When my daughter was just a baby I would put her in her crib at night, and during these moments I would find songs to sing to her to ease her to sleep. I would repeat the songs(about six in total) night after night. The trick seemed to work because she drifted off to sleep without much fuss. One night I even recall that I started to sing John and Paul's "Blackbird" and she began to sing right along with me. It was a special moment between a parent and a child. This poem is in memory of these ephemeral moments;



To Boo...

Do you remember
those off-key, night-songs
sung?
There were untold attempts
at “Sugar Mountain”
by Mr. Young.

And you like a nestled bird,
I had to try to sing
John and Paul’s “Blackbird.”
I’m sorry for you
that I was born tone deaf.

Sunken in cradled crib,
your scent irresistible.
Eyes, once so ocean-wide blue–
(I gave you the nickname Boo)–
closing shut, now night
waits;

for that succulent, silent sleep
a place of peace ‘dropping slow’
only a child knows..

No Rewards for the Reluctant Ones...

Having read Joyce's Dubliner's as a young man I was always struck by the character of Little Chandler in the short story "A Little Cloud." There was something pathetic and sad about him as he is described by Joyce. I began to think about artists who never materialize because of their reluctance towards failure or even worse their fear of greatness;



How Ever small
(or Little Chandler’s Lament)

Within him was that apparent relentlessness,
yet reluctance, and yearning
to capture life in the written word–
as the Old Masters he read and devoured.

A little cloud within a vast sky...

With shaking hands and spectacles
through Dublin’s dank night, pub mood,
his night-light burned. Perhaps all in vain?

Distraught by that which he had wrought
he sought the songs of Byron.
What was the genius within their thoughts?

Distracted again, by the cries of his son
he re-entered the mundane.
Peering down he read night’s production–
as a solitary tear appeared
he re-read the only line;

"A little cloud within a vast sky"...

Of Human Will and Endurance...

This writing came out of quote about 'vulnerability' that I happen to read in Time magazine while seated at a doctor's office during one of the many appointments for my aging parents;

...of Will
(Vulnerability: is like that moment when you
see your father catching his breath on the stair
and you realize that someday he will die...)

Will the lapse of a Man
be known prior to his self-inflicted
collapse?
Will a Man know when his bell
has toll?
Will he hear its knell?
Will he endure to listen
to its sonant ring?
Will a Man know to lean
before his cane–
before his crutch–
is made palpable to him?
Or, will he just fall into his chair
that’s wheeled, (his chariot with wings)
assign to him,
by some nurse in charge...

A Cold Front in the air...

The poem speaks for itself. It is a writing that comes more from feeling that any concrete labeling or event. It is a paysage moralize poem and I share it with you;


A Cold Front Forecasted

A cold front should arrive,
as the individual fronts his demise
his cold reception--his not providing
enough for her.
In the post-Emerson world of
self-reliance. Thoreau I dreamt on Walden
Pond and in delight.
We still depend upon the rain,
upon the snow. Upon the sun– nature–
To comply and to feed our furtile ground.
Feeling sun unleashed, like ocean waves
That pound and thrash upon the shore,
The wind that moves the grand cypress trees.
And the sleet sheets that sprawl silent
and fall and can destroy all things...
Why? Why? Why? Does the postman
carry his chosen chores though all of this....
Obligation to his given demise.

The Interminable Stillness in Waiting...

The work below grew out a of desire I had to articulate the feeling of something one wants that seems so far away. I had the chance to see someone close to me after some seven weeks apart. The waiting for those seven weeks to pass proved difficult, and the writing touches on this;



Waitings...

In the reclusive forbearance
of longing,
there have been long, long
nights waiting...
when even the air
does not seem to move
and the room is so still–
(almost foreboding)–
and still thoughts of you;
as if the air is moving,
as if the room is full of movement,
as if you are near.

Within these sheets quiet,
echos distant
the hungry wolf’s howl
inside growls
a heavy heart’s beat, waiting...
waiting...
the interminable (stillness)
in such long,
waitings...

"Let it snow, let it snow..."

I had the good pleasure to enjoy the child-like pleasure of watching a good snowfall. On February 26th, New York City had nearly 21" of accumulated snow. During the day this writing came to me and I wish to share it now;


February 26,2010
New York City Snowfall...

...and she falls, and swirls from the unknown
sky... flakes, fly and frown
from all around, like little children
all upon their own.

Now, silent in the dead of night,
slicing in wind-gusted slantings,
succulent in the day's dulled, defracted light...

Snowflakes, snowflakes fall... who
will recall all this; when two feet
fell upon our feet? And, we tromped
through it, in gladness and disgust...

A Tribute to Old Houses...

Yesterday was the first day in forty-one consecutive days that I did not blog. I realize I can't post everyday since I don't have nearly the material to do so, and nor would I want to. The piece below was conceived from a post card that I bought many years ago. The photograph of the old house on the card serves as a metaphor as you will now see;


The Old House That Leans

The old house leans
a little, intact-- (but a bit to the left).
The roof leaks water
when the heavy rains come.
And sure, the joints
don't fit just right
as they once had--
but your style is unalterable.
The old house-- the plain sense of you--
remains;
you my father,
a bit older,
but still standing,
perhaps leaning just a little
to the left...

A Man of Certain Intergrity...

Perhaps, I dwell on him too much? He is my Papa, and he is laying in hospital. I wrote this piece orginally in 1991, for him. I have revised it recently, and want to release it again. I love him so, and think of him now-- my Papa Jean;

Pour Papa

De le vieux e'cole.
By ship-- from Rives, Isere-- il arrive'.
Un homme, de'ja, who had seen and survived
the gaunt, blood-shot facade
de le grand guerre.

Sauce' by trade, of le haute cuisine.
He was soon to see
the fruition of his dreams--
a family, une maison.

I, of first generation,
no longer on foreign shores
pense, que c'est le pouvoir
of this man?

He distilled and entire culture
and language in me.

Pu je le continuer en mes enfants?

"Today is your birthday..."

This is a personal blog. It is for her that I hold dear. She has shown me so much and taught me so much that I wanted to try to give a little back in return. She once wrote something to me that was so simple yet so profound; "Morning. May the clouds go away and sun fills your day. A good day is not too far away". I wish her only good things, always... and this is for her:

Perhaps...

Words need not rhyme
to be poetic...
Words need not be poetic
to inspire love...
Words need – perhaps– the sincerity
of their maker;
and then all their meaning
will speak in silent
tribute for feelings,
all too often,
lost through convention.

The things people do...

This little writing is recent. I happened to catch a couple at a restaurant and it appeared they we more consumed by the crossword puzzle than the food that they had ordered. So this piece goes out to all you crossword lovers...

Crossword Junkies

I watched, from a good distance,
a couple that appeared to be
crossword junkies.
They were pretending to be dining
but their dishes were placed
to the side– almost untouched.
It was the crossword puzzle
that they were eating.
It was placed center of table,
and they were nibbling at the squares.
With clues obscure–
long ago, hidden words, archaic and laic
usages and such. Engrossed in conversation
of many years with dialogue silent; pens in hand–
understanding only words. As they filled in those
New York Times crossword boxes,
I could only imagine what Sunday brunch
meant to them?

A rare man indeed, mon Papa Jean

The writing speaks for itself. My father is getting older and has certain health issues. I wanted to write something with him in mind and this is what I came up with;



Mon Papa

Images of you; silent sagas spoken.
The black-and-white photographs;
running through Les Tuilleries in pre-occupied Paris,
mud kicked up from your strides covers your shorts;
or in Rives, a Sunday walk on the unpaved road
with grand-pere and grand-mere– your mischievous smile;
and as chef-apprentice in Grenoble,
dressed in all-whites, toes protruding
from a hole in your shoe–
images fixed in my mind.
It is then that I can hear you say,
in your rich-accented English,
“My son you cannot understand those times.”
Hard I do try though, in vain you will remind me.
I know... I know...
“my son, I have been through the war.”

And now, when I find you deep in afternoon sleep,
snoring as only you can– a colorful cacophony–
I watch you not wanting to disturb or wake you.
You have earned these cat naps.
Your work is complete.
These are the quiet years, when time’s clock slows,
and you can note the change
in seasons; the peculiar smell that low tide brings;
the everyday thrill of making birdie.
A man moderne in an un-modern time.
Stringing your own bow, your arrows unwavering.
Former soldier, sage centaurian, socialist to the end.
You have earned your keep
and these deep afternoon sleeps.

I look again at the black-and whites;
Your visage holds such promise,
though much misery to come– athletic, confident,
French, such a joie de vie.
Hard I do try to understand that past.
I know... I know...
“my son, I have been through the war.”

Of Old Structures and Traditions...

La Saracina was the name of the farmhouse I lived in for three years in Tuscany, Italy. It was a dilapidated shell of a structure when I first saw it, but it had character and a story to tell. When the renovation was completed this writing came to me and this is what I want to tell;


The Work Complete, the Old Farmhouse Restored...
(La Saracina)

Thirty-some odd years the house withstood
alone,
unable to tell a soul
its misery with the wind.
The scars are there
the open wounds,
fissures in cotta– a house well-suited for Poe’s Usher.

Built with Tuscan stubbornness
crafted in old, old
mason ways.
The choking weeds have been cleared
(once again)
broken beams–
a structures bones– replaced.
The sense of self– untouched.

In whirling wind, whistling
it sings itself
and howls at the moon...
an old, old story of the region;
its stoic people
that live atop these supple wind-swept hills.

Architecture organic,
a form so pure, so complete and of itself
it has a proper name.

The piercing glare that refracts
from the new copper gutters
will soon dull, and
so too soon, the terra-cotta rooftop
tiles will lose their bright orange hue.
The oak beams restored
will themselves need replacement.

But this structure will remain
its idiosyncrasies intact;
the fireplace will always spew smoke,
just enough to sting the eyes;
the bedroom doors will never close just right
for lovers trying to hide;
The floors will always lean– a little–
after many souls have come and gone.

Casa colonica, standing firm
on your sacred ground, like a Tuscan contadino–
resilient–
the wind may seep through you;
lizards, insects and birds may nest
with your crevasses;
the hunters may use you again
come some winter or when abandoned, again.

But your structure standing erect,
the plain sense of you,
cannot be diminished, cannot be broken.
You will sing of yourself
and howl at the moon...
an old, old story of this...

The Cutler and his Craft

This work was inspired by a local craftsman in the town of Pienza, Italy. He had rigged a bicycle and used it to power his sandstone to sharpen his customer's cutlery. It was quite clever, and I wrote this for him;

The Honer

With the bare tools of his trade;
a converted bike as his motor; a sandstone; some water;
old, skilled hand with a keen sense for acuteness;
he set about his local trade of sharpening his patrons’ wares.
His was a particular passion for knives.
He enjoyed most about his craft
the humble pleasure of taking a dull knife,
one that had lost its sheer edge,
its purpose to cut
through and make the ignorant bleed,
and honing it for days...
During that period of time,
Like Lowell in the act of revising,
as the night-light burned,
he honed the instrument for a finer, yet finer
even finer edge,
Each stroke on sandstone
he would pass the knife’s edge over his often-used hand,
no longer able to bleed,
to gauge how much farther he could go.
Tonight though seemed different.
He had always felt he delivered fair product for his price.
True, his patrons did bring back the same knives
he had sharpened before– but this was common in his trade.
He wanted to be remembered for more.
He knew the Old Masters never got back their poems.
In his way, he too wanted to whet a knife
that would never dull, lose its cut
and ability to make bleed.
Pedaling with unknown power, he worked the steel over sandstone
and with hardened hands he wrought his metal music.
He seemed to grow delirious as he felt himself nearing
the precipice of all his years as a cutler.
Then he heard a sound he had never before
plucked from the steel-stone instrument;
the knife has reached it point,
it had severed him.
He bled for the first time in his life.
He died, with quiet, almost anonymous.

The Traditions of the Tuscan Farmers

I return to one of the poems from the Tuscan series. The writing is about the day I experienced the collecting of the grapes from the vineyards. It was hard work but all the men would set out to the rows of grapes and the chatter would begin. The whole scene reminded me of a folk art painting. I leave you this vignette;



La Vendemmia

In this autumn of rain,
after long, long days in dry season
timing being all–
October sempre– somewhere
mid-way,
early morning when the dew still
drips silent drops, slow,
from these vines;
a ritual begins anew
in a land of rituals.

Mire grips to boot, the rows heavy;
the vineyard, the methodically plotted lines,
ready to be picked, to be stripped
bare of its precious fruit.

Method unchanged, Old men
tutored in the old ways. This labour of hand,
old hands, hard-worked hands– knees twisted, knuckles knotted–
mimic the vines they pick.

Chatter commences, stories told before
unfold, embroidered slightly, And,
like some off-stage event
the women, sharing their mother’s
mother’s recipes, prepare the traditional meal
gossip alike while waiting to feed the men.
Like Randsig’s painting, the perspective encompassing–
jubilation fills the scene, the year has been good,
the harvest abundant.

The table already set. Unsalted Tuscan bread is broken,
last year’s wine is raised– salute– the toast is made.
The vignette of vigna glimpsed...

Traditional yet Moderne, graceful as a Lady...

This writing is for the lady I hold most dear. I need not name her, she knows who she is. I have never met a woman who has moved me so. She has grace, humor, intellect and style. I just want to be with her all the while I am alive. This is my message to her;

Portrait of a Lady
(inspired by a John Singer Sargent painting)

The night’s autumn coolness
brings thoughts of her in recline–
supple, full of mood–
susurrant, in her re-pose;
as if, an absolute ablative.
Like an archaic Latin construct,
your form, your grammar,
your entire idiom distinguishes
itself in a mere phrase,
spoken by a poet...
This phrase in recollective
breezes, moves about the room–
rimy
in September’s
dank
light
waning.
Shadows surround your every move... Indeed,
we live within such small vignettes
with great consequences...
and...

with sun rising...
night falls...

The beauty of sleep...

This is a little writing about coming home from a long day and yearning to sleep in one's bed with your lover. There is something beautiful to finding your lover asleep. This poem is just a sneak peak at that feeling;


Arriving home to finding you sleeping


I turn the front door key.

Words tip-toe from my tongue

as my weary feet, like drums

make the old, oak floor boards creak.


I try to sneak

my way home, to this bed that

awaits so patient in New York’s

late light.


Sleep is so near. The pillows piled right

To take rest my head in this– yet another night.

I have journeyed far my day’s flight;

now is thoughts of you– dreams sweet and good night...

To watch young children sleep...

The writing belows relates to the wonderful experience of watching children fall to sleep. I have a son, Luca, who is now 8 years old, and I have a daughter, Lena, who is now 14 years old. As young babies I can remember the beautiful ease they had, once in bed, to close their eyes and go to the world of sleep and dreams. This writing is for those moments I will always cherish;



Watching You Fall Asleep
(To Lena and Luca)

With this late light
that leans lower, and
the moon-lit sky, I swoon
and say good night...

With tomorrow’s shining sun
rising, I sigh and reply,
dreams sweet in repose;
stay tucked in as
within the restful, gentle
arms the newborn baby craves
as she rocks crib-like
towards silent, succulent sleep...

Beauty, Grace, and The Gentleman...

Today, is the 50th wedding anniversary of my Maman and Papa. Their names are Pauline and Jean Vergnes. They are 82 years old and 88 years old respectively. They have had an extraordinary life together. Today I will make them a simple dinner in honor of their simple but real life together. The writing is from a photograph taken at their wedding;



Still Life
(to Maman and Papa on the occasion
of their 50th wedding anniversary)

The photograph does not lie (in this instance). It cannot
hide your smiles nor the body language;
that tells you were made to be together (as one).
February 11th, 1960– way back then–
is, almost, just yesterday in the mind’s
snapshot of time...
A simple wedding, a simple reception
and yet such a wealth of life and love.
The moments, those voyages and the sheer adventures;
oh, to turn back the clock and start
once again...

Accabonac Harbour a place of harmony...

This is the second poem in series about Accabonac Harbour on the east end of Long Island. This writing deals with the sense of harmony and balance that I often envisioned as I made extended walks on the roadside next to the harbour. A very special and serene place it was for me;


Black & White on a bed of green embers

By the verdant marshes
of Accabonac Harbour
I caught a white seagull
landing–
near the soft-

edged,
un-
dulating
shore–

not far
from a few nestled, black wrens.
It was there
in the plain, flat light
that
slanted.
against a beach grass burning green fires
that nature’s splendor reared
its simple wonders;
Black & White on a bed on green embers...

With my Mother in mind...

This is a piece that I wrote for my mother on Mother's Day back in 1995. I've revised it a little bit, but for most part it has remained intact. She has been on my mind lately, and her health has been in decline. This is my way to tell her I love her;

Reflections of my Mother

Selfless to a fault.
The rock, the mooring, the anchor–
of three men’s lives– on which we cast
our flailing, selfish selves.

You are always there– a lighthouse–
illuminating the way for vessels, (mere hulls of men
vacuous and dull) pointing the direction,
charting the proper course.

The years have done what years
only know to do; they pass and create change.
But you have defied the years. Stoic, strong
you have held, unmoved by the wind, the rain, the passing seasons.

We grow old all around you.
We are the coming winter weary, you are the eternal-ever spring.
The family grows, extends and takes on new faces.
And you with your lighthouse glow,
remain planted, always fixed– indefatigable, unflappable.

A Drinkin' Life...

Although I'm French descent, this poem is for the Irish, Celtic and Norman blood that runs through my veins. France was once called Gaul and it was conquered by the Normans. I believe this is why I am fascinated with pubs, taverns and bars. I like the idea of a good bar stool and good conversation. I've had the pleasure of meeting some of the most interesting characters in my lifetime just sittin' in a bar and drinkin';


Drinkin’

I’m self-taught at this thing.
The not-so-subtle art
of self-absorbing, self-destruction
in drinkin’.
The smell of mens’ breathes
in the bawdy, dingy dive bar rooms.
Holding one’s own upon stool
chairs that seldom level– see
his crooked, red-eyed stare?
A drinkin’ man knows to arrive
and call his order...now to leave
in polite disorder, before all hell
breaks loose within his frame
wrought from the years of a drinkin’ brain...

The issues that must be spoken about as well...

I believe that as writers we must address issues that are sensitive otherwise, we are not writing. To avoid is to conceal, and to write is to liberate. The issue of clinical depression has long been in my family. Recently, I have watched it ravage my mother's core as she sees the man-- my father-- she has been married to for 50 years slowly nearing his last days. The stress and strain that his impending ending puts on her is unbearable at times to witness. I just want to leave this little writing as a means to address the issue:

When in Depression

(Contained), as in a
cubicle, even in the open air.
Roofed, squared, seemingly
extant within the mind’s
intangible dilemmas. Exas-
perated, like from every
common cold;
yet, somehow– colder.

The way some of us handle loss...

This works comes from the the curiosity I had with a neighbor friend of my parents whose wife had died several months early and he just chose to tell no one. It was in a passing conversation while walking his dog that he matter-of-factly mentioned to my mother that his wife had passed on. I didn't think much of it since I knew his wife was sick, but my mother was besides herself that he had made no announcement to the community. This writing touches on this incident;



The old man across the street
(A contemporary sonnet)

In these senior communities
there is a code to the way
of the old
(so my maman tells me).
Some adhere to it,
while others choose not.
The old man across the street
lost his precious wife
on November 25th, 2009.
He chose not to tell a soul. He did not report
his anguish to any of us.
For him perhaps, it was like
walking his dog each day– you do it,
you clean up after– and mind your own.

A sense of old New England barns...

This writing was inspired by a christmas card that I saw in a store. I thought about the barn in the picture and how it reminded me of an anchor or lighthouse. It was a bit dilapidated from the winter's she had endured, but there was still majesty about the plain sense that she conveyed.This is my homage to her;


The Old, Red Barn
(An Homage)

There is an old, red barn,

somewhere–

amongst drifts deep– along

those winding, snow-buried, poet Frost’s roads;

usually in Vermont, traveled less,

that makes no claim to greatness.

In ‘the plain sense ‘of her– the burnt-brushed

wooden redness of her hues–

she speaks of times, some time ago.

Stoic upon a hill– woodshed not far off–

She sits, (anchored) perched with a view

a proud, taciturn farmer knows.

She invites those who may be cold

to come inside. She is the barn,

the farm, the wood-burning hearth

that keeps all things warm

in her rudolf-red rusting

New England glow.

Making sense of this world through words...

I have decided to let this little writing go. I have been working on it for some time, and now it is time to let her stand on her own. There is often the writer who cannot let his/her work go and the piece languishes in a revision mode. I have opted today to let this one free;



Words...

In the poverty
of the poor–
those not so well-to-do;
their sparse words pour
forth
leaning (still)
towards poetry.

In this most salient form;
hapless men and women torn,
conjoin (still)
to pen the circumstance of woman and man.
The poet; harbinger
of this collective condition,
as the robin foretells spring...

The simplicity of the bookmark...

This writing was inspired by the idea that the writer and the reader have a continuous, interactive relationship throughout any type of storybook reading. It is simple in its approach but then again, there's nothing wrong with simple;


The Bookmark

This is the mark

I spot and set.

night-weary eyes

no longer able

to keep keen pace

As the poet’s words

rage & race across

this page--

in vain.

The night-light

wanes...

Sleep is now here.

The good book

placed near--

for the reader

(the listener)--

to resume the quest

where this mark

has been set.

A certain Blues Musician that inspires...

For almost twenty-two years I have watched and listened to Michael Powers play the Blues in New York City. He has had a profound effect on me because although, he has gained in influence to this day he remains a musician who plays in small venues with no cover charges. But if you listen to his music and his words, you can learn an aweful lot about the world around us. This writing is for Michael Powers;


The Prodical Son
(inspired by Michael Powers
a blues musician from NYC)

The prodical son,
with slower steps,
steeps
back inside ‘their’retirement home.
Oh, the days– lined– spent, stupid
in stupor,
alone. . .
vapid, vacuous in such vain.
The false mph’s&rpm’s un-gained,
in cocaine rooms
not built for such high velocity
in The City.
Often wishing for that allusive,
original, old home (‘the plain sense of it’);
the bed slept in with soft, sheets white,
made linen sweet from maman’s constant chores
and her relentless up-keeps.

When in a February state of mind...

There is a term in French poetics called paysage moralise. And it is a technique used by writers that want the landscape to mimic or echo the piece they are writing. It is a commonly used practice and with the writing below I share the sense of paysage moralise;


February, or waiting for something like February to pass

...as the day’s late,
night light
leans long,
longer than before
into seemingless
tomorrow...
We begin
now– today–
to come to terms
or, perhaps, just display
who we are

all
– alone–.

(Within sheets) not so white,
sheets not so soft,
dulled, yellowed and stained;
made coarse by the physical need
to express our singular pallor
through our little body jostles.

Yet, within such masterings
there is no abatement towards
our collective contemplation
of the soft, curvaceous lines
of lovers, who
twist and turn
and conform to the discomfort
of the moments,
for such moments.

Tuscany: and the lay of the land...

This is a third poem about my particular experiences in Tuscany, Italy. During the early 1990's there was a growing concern on the part of the local farmers that foreigners were gradually buying up the precious land. Tuscany had become a desired vacation destination and many of the foreigners didn't know, nor care to know, how to cultivate their properties. This writing speaks to this issue;


To The Last Contadini
(Sempre Lavoro)

"Sempre lavoro..." always work...
wakes with the rool of the rooster’s rhyme.
Stoic fissures on their faces,
reflections of the toil with terra
under a sun unrelenting.

In these supple Tuscan hills
the farmer’s skills
have culled the land, cajoled her and
cared for her. Anonymous names– blown in the wind–
Fosco... Alba...Sarafino...
have formed their plots
in olive, vineyard and grainy lots.

...As countless years before; this was the way,
to work the land, the aroma of manure,
the distant echo of a tractor, the organized
dishevelment of the working farm.

There is a smell of change
in the wind that has no season,
that knows nothing of the seasons.

Unlike any pest or virus that the contadino
can confront, this foreign intrusion is swiping
their land, not to cultivate–
but to manicure and postulate.

These sweet hills are in danger, and may
sour– turn bitter– like fruit that goes unpicked,
a rooster’s crow that no one rises to,
even become brittle;
a sunburnt tractor in an unturned, weed-choked field,
a shrine and antique to some,
in reality– a sad anacronum.

The Soil -Turner and his essential attar...

This writing again comes from my experience of living in Tuscany, Italy. I took it upon myself to work with some of the local farmer's, Fosco, Alba, and Serafino as they taught me some of the tricks to taking care of the olive and fruit trees that were on our property.These contadini worked at a tireless rate throughout the day. The writing below is one of the many things they taught me while I lived there;



The Soil-Turner

He waits, and waits... with taciturn patience,
wrought by the years of his solitary labour.
He knows the season
beyond its name and apparent beauty.
And he will wait
to commence his task,
‘til a good rain falls, and the soil is right.

Then he will set out to the olive grove,
nine rows there, of eighty trees,
as he has for years past recompense.
Nostalgia playing no part in his game.
The soil is soft now–
ready to be turned.

The zappa his tool to break
ground, round each trunk.
He thwarts the weeds that breed
at foot, and with laconic effort
lets each tree breathe,
as he breathes with heaviness.

Too old is now to see the young trees bare fruit.
Still, he knows with a contadino’s sense
this work need be done if the oil of these trees,
this precious nectar– this essential attar–
is to have the bite;
that sharp virgin taste, that marks
one has turned his soil at moment’s right.

Writing as an act of gardening...

I had the good fortune to live in Pienza, Italy from 1990-1993. I was working at a family-owned bed&breakfast in the Tuscan hillside. I began to write a collection of poems during my experience there. I have chosen this writing below because of the correlation that I find between the Tuscan farmers and the work they perform, and the act of writing;



The Work of Hand
(for Fosco, Alba and Serafino)

The difficult to let it go.
To set it down, this task of hand,
and then leave it–
to be.

As the gardino planted each primavera
that is tended to, mended to,
all summer’s long.

The contadino spreads his seeds,
creates his patterned plots,
then cleans his lines, weeds his rows.

To make the delicious from the ordinary,
he will say; there are myriad,
myriad anonymous hours that pass

alone.
In this silence, in this sound of life,
the poet, solitary– with pen and paper–

plays the part of a gardener;
honing, hoeing, honing, hoeing...
for he is the maker-responsible

solely,
for the succor in his fruits.

The imagination and Monarch butterflies...

I have always been fascinated with butterflies and the collective spirit they exude. I see them as metaphors to our imagination or ideas of spontaneity. I think of Gerald Manley Hopkins in his poem "The Windhover", and this is the writing I wish to impart;



The Monarch
(or, the imagination as a butterfly)

):( Is there such a thing
as unabashed
spontaneity?
The monarch, her arched,
almost inebriate, fragile yet
agile wings flutter
with seeming uncertainty...
She draws, climbs&glides
scooping mountainous–‘steady air below’–
without apparent care (nor despair).
Within the moment–She Is–
silent,
in winged contentment.
What possesses this splendor,
this savoir d’etre?
To be only, unspoiled,
a butterfly... ):(

Giacometti; Hands that sculpted man's gaze...

I have always been fascinated with the work of the sculptor, Alberto Giacometti. On the occasions as a young man I would go the the MOMA in New York City just to see his work specifically. There was a gauntness and bareness to his work. He seemed to illustrate the post-WWII individual that I identified with. Yet if you look at his overall work closely he was showing us the elegant and elan gaze of man;

Homage to Alberto Giacometti

He understood well
the collective
gaze.
Wrought from hands keen;
stoic forms
intimating
man made,
almost mad,
amid the haze
of post-WWII...
Emaciated lines
of humane
kind–ness.
In the
gauntness
of his work
bare
witness
the grandeur
of man;
diminutive–
humbled, hurt,
torn&worn–
he
prevails to rise
and brave morning’s
mourning, often brutal
sun.
Battered– most laic–
made thin
from far-flung
battles. Gandhi-like
staff in hand,
his objects
bespeak with grace
the elongated,
elegant&elan
gaze of man...

To timepieces and pocket watches...

I have long held a fascination for timepieces-- their precision and sublties. The sheer craftmanship alone that goes into making a single hand-made piece. The inspiration for the little writing below comes from my fondness for them;


Ode To Olde Time
(An homage to timepieces)

...as olde time, ticks and twists
and turns,
it’s thin hands tock
working ‘round the clock’
never pausing nor waiting
for us; she moves along
her prescribed path, and as she passes,
records– the seconds, the minutes,
the hours of our collective
finality.
Whose, mere, mortal hands before
have stirred this crystalline face?
Winding her ever-forward–
no remorse.
Within movements, jeweled,
only the Swiss can craft. Precision
becomes precise... A Ferris wheel
she turns, marking time,
before the circus barker
implores the moment, (to disgruntled children)
time is now come, to disembark...

When in these winter days...

There's something about the plain sense to winter that I find inspires me to write about her. As Steven's has noted about this season; we come to see the thing itself not the idea of the thing. I offer you this broadside;


Winter’s Leaves
(preface)

When winter’s wind
whistles wild-white
and December’s dank,
early, dark cold
combs all forms
in the snowman’s frost;
there is a house so still,
upon a country knoll,
inviting those who may be cold,
to come inside. Kept keen
with warmth by firelight–
rest your bones, your weary eyes...
then listen to the sound
of the wind, the self-same
sound of the land...
Inside these leaves
the gentle rustle
of firewood sparks, and we
in child-like wonder transfixed
In the glow.
Come inside, and hear a voice
mingled within the wind,
these words– like dust–
these winter leaves,
the warm house so still,
upon a country knoll.

A Woman of Strong Stock...Maman

I have watched my mother's gradual descent into the throws of dementia. It is a devastating disease. I have witnessed a woman who had so much vigor and zest for life succumb to the memory disorder she now confronts.There are good days and then there are explosively bad days. I hurt inside for her-- beautiful, soft-souled, my maman...


When Maman calls out for him...

Searching throughout the mere two-bedroom house
each day&night– as he sneaks
to pee and hide– a while.
The constant calling out,
fifty-one years, now
in their years golden;
sunset nears
one can still hear,
Maman call out for him; “Papa... Papa Jean...
Ou’es tu?...”
he seldom responds.
He plays a mischievous game,
in his laconic, learned retreat.
She was the head of the household
and raised two sons almost alone.
He would visit all that he made
in the late mid-night hours– after work.
A chef is a trade of men. Raising children
the trade&love of a maman... calling out
for him...for him...”Ou’es tu?

A witness to disaster

In the past week the events that have unfolded in Haiti and the destruction caused by a natural event has been painful to watch. It also seems to illustrate the lack of infrastructure this poor country in the caribe has endured for some time making it all the more susceptible to such a disaster. I make a parallel with the country of Cuba, a place I visited many times between 1996-1999. This is the writing I extend;





Cuba
(The one that I saw)

The common sun
melts in the distance
like some fallen ember
from a larger vision–
your bright red star fading
(Another day closes).

Darkness surrounds you
even on your sun-filled days,
and the wicked stench of rot
&decay overcome even those
hard-pressed in want to olfactor
such unpleasantry.

Why?– Why?– Why?–
has so much gone
to being so paltry, so particular.

The futile days that still lay ahead
and the slow-steady pace,
of keen failure and delapidated grandeur
enmeshed in your perplexity.

And, your indomitable people,
ever-patient; ever-economic;
waiting, and waiting, and waiting...
For the new sun to rise
and the island winds to bring prevailing change.

Putting Words to Paper...

This writing was accepted into publication in a poetry anthology back in 1996. It's hard for me to believe that was some fourteen years ago. The writing deals with the process that goes into creating a little picture of words. All writing to me is ultimately a continuum, and it goes like this;

Words on Parchment

The quest is always
the same; the task of hand.
Brows beaten thin,
infinite caesurae,
...between thoughts;

The song of my life
sung to the rhythms of our Time–
syncopated, rap-packed or in
slow, smooth-cool Jazz–
words roll-flow
in continuum to define
what and who we are.

And, in the end
black ink poured on white
vellum(a language contained)
blocked, margined and flushed
we come to see our paper thinness
and the inky stains
of a mere humanity..

Sag Harbour & Sea Captains

When I was a young boy I lived not far from the old whaling village of Sag Harbour, New York. It is a unique town and the old homes there are well perserved. As you walked nearer to the port there were all these sea captains' houses with there distinct widow's walk balconies. I got to thinking one day about a sea captain returning from many months on a whaling adventure and finding his home empty. This is the writing that was spawned:


Puddles
(Ode to Sea Captains)

From his widow’s walk window
he watched the rain-splashed-
slashing, wet scars collect
in midnight’s heavy streets.
Unable to sleep, restless;
the thoughts– like puddles–
reflecting the past;
muddy, murky, muddled
water-gatherings, consumed him.
In these scattered pools
pods of memories lurk– no rhyme,
no reason, no resolve–
refracting her pure form
only to be dissolved
by morning’s brutal-bright sunlight.

Winter Words with Mr. Stevens in mind...

I have long been an admirer of Mr. Wallace Stevens work. His sense of symbols and minimalism in his work is somthing I have long been drawn to, and the plain sense quality to his work.The writing below is an attempt to get into the mind of the snowman's possible point of view from his poem; "The Snowman."



Winter Words
(Homage to Mr. Wallace Stevens)

Soon, the sky will slide its winter-white
clouds into place; casting a dull, clay-like, pallor light
on all things.
Night will prolong... shadows will prevail,
through barren streets & alleyways,
plying their wares– to nowhere.
The sad, gray season has begun.
And, snow will come in its usual way – silent,
in the dearth of night – burying some forsaken
soul in its drift-like wakes.
And, upon a leafless tree, a thrush will sing
the muse of the ‘mind of winter;’
stoic, cold, swept by the wind it will ring – this
the snowman’s song...

The Imagination and Poetry

I have often thought about Faulkner's Nobel Prize for Literature acceptance speech which I reread from time to time. What strikes me about the speech is near the ending when he says 'That man will not only endure, he will prevail.' This has been my curiosity towards writing and the imagination. It is this optimistic sense that mankind will always find a language to reveal his imagination. The writing contained is an expression of this;

...need i say more?

...and as we approach the unsaid–
the darkness cooler than black,
the truth beyond white,
the sound still stiller than all silences;
a language must hold; a vocabulary–
with strange vowels & odd consonants must be
to evoke the imagination. And
within the closed casket there is such sound–
a murmur, perhaps, a small stirring.
The continuum of the human cry, the shrill– poetry–
to penetrate...and the human need, the want,
to say more, say more, say more, still...

The translator's difficult chore

The following writing is something I have struggled with since childhood. The writing is partly about the task of translating works from one language to another language. I used to translate French into English as a favor to my French-speaking father. And obviously, the other aspect of the writing is the difficulty to express beauty in words;

The Translator’s Attempt

You can only be an impression.
Like a poem written in a foreign tongue;
the translation fragmentary.
In transcribing your whole
the rich, closely woven fabric
of your language is lost, perished– forever.
I can read you–
yes, I can read you; Indeed
I have read you.
But to ink the depth of your beauty
and pen the texture of your humility
I am un-able,
incapable.
You have your own idiom.

Although my whole life has been spent
reproducing ‘the sound and the fury’
of the Old Masters,
this hand and these lips can never resonate
the grace these eyes do read in you.
You emanate all that is somehow,
left unsaid... with not quite words.
Yet, in this essay, in this sad effort,
within a world as meditation,
I always see you; the mind’s mirror
freezing your reflection–
perhaps, the reader sees?