NaPoWriMo 2020

a poem about a favorite bird

A parrot, an African Grey named Chico,
Lived in captivity in Amalia’s kitchen
For eight years before her death.

Still in the cage, twenty years later,
now chained to his perch, Chico continues
his life in the kitchen of his home
that has become a house museum.

I stood next to the cage and hummed
a few bars of Cancao do Mar.
Chico turned his head. He tugged at his chain.
Perhaps he recognized the tune.

Maybe he remembered Amalia singing
as she prepared bacalhau com natas
or frango cafriela in her kitchen.

 

The prompt: a self-portrait poem in which you make a specific action a metaphor for your life

I measure the chilled, filtered water.
I grind the beans manually for consistency
Then place the coffee in the upper chamber.
I add three grains of Portuguese sea salt
(Because everything loves the sea
And the sea is in everything).
I turn the gas flame down low.
While I wait, I check my email.

When the pot gurgles and sputters
The coffee is ready to be served.
I add a teaspoon of raw honey (Trader
Joe’s is best) to dull the bitterness,
And one dollop of half and half
for presentation.

To the Peace Corps Director

Cosmic reset is exactly what it is!
Everything normal has come to a crashing halt.
We are OK, folks in NC, Lisbon and Bissau OK.
Just this strangeness. Can’t quite put my finger on it.
Yesterday I tried some retail therapy.
Orvis. Amazon. New clothes for what?
More books for what? I’m in a quandary.

Well, I’ve been in quandaries before,
one piece in a 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle.
I’ll write-bad-poetry myself through it.
But I do think about the families overseas
and I recall the disorientation
of uprooting, of sudden displacement
during normal times. Thoughts are with you all.

 

My nightmare is always the same –
I am working in a hot, noisy engine room
And I have to pee. But the watertight hatch,
For some reason, is closed and locked.
So I pee in the bilge. Then, when I go
To pump the bilge, the pump breaks –
So I have to fix the pump. But the parts
I need are on the other side of the hatch.
It’s a centrifugal pump with close clearances.
Who the hell came up with that design?
Soon it starts to stink (because I’m not
The only one peeing in the bilge – it could be
Worse. Let’s not even go there.)
My nightmare always ends unresolved.

 

This poem has short lines.
It is optimized for Twitter
And your cell phone screen.

Your face still haunts me.
It second guesses my actions
And double checks all I say.

We live in lockdown.
I miss the freedom to travel,
Occasional lunch with friends.

But things could be worse.
It could be death by fire
Or flooding without an ark.

Happy Birthday Booker T!
“You can’t hold a man down
Without staying down with him.”

These lines are getting longer.
It’s a natural progression.
And I overran the 14-line limit:
It cannot be a sonnet.

 

(take the tour here: https://archief.ntr.nl/tuinderlusten/en.html)

My body is missing that uphill walk
Each day from the Metro to the Mecca.
Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights
affords me reprieve as I start the week.

The dragon tree – a plant that heals and dyes
A crimson red – is my first stop. I drink
Her blood and feel at once her curing power.
Reptiles seek terra firm where they can.

The owl is a nighttime bird of prey
Always watching, eyes wide open, spirit
Beast of the gods. A lion devours
A deer without compunction. His nature

Dictates relieving hunger pangs. So what?
A serpent wraps himself around a tree
That bears sweet fruit – tree of good and evil.
The pink fountain no doubt is feminine:

Her dotted eggs await incoming seed.
The darkened Moors below also await.

 

How to Wear Face Masks Without Fogging Up Your Glasses

https://www.huffpost.com/entry/how-to-wear-face-masks-without-fogging-glasses-coronavirus_l_5e8bd866c5b6e1d10a68988f

I have this problem – this is important to me.
Once a week I brave the invisible threat
And go food shopping in the neighborhood,
Carefully practicing social distancing.
My anti-viral mask makes me feel safe –
But my glasses soon fog up.

Washing the lenses with soapy water
Before going out seems to be a useful trick –
If it works – the soap film prevents the moisture
Of your breath from condensing on the glass.

A better solution is one I may actually try:
Insert a rolled up tissue just inside
The top of the mask to pre-absorb
Any of your breath’s escaping moisture.

 

From Odes of Pindar, Olympian II

For Bill Withers and John Prine

Ye hymns that rule the lyre,
What gods, what heroes shall we celebrate?
This week we lost two men I never met
But truly adored. Songwriters whose lyrics filled
My life, at various times, with sweetened thoughts
Transferred from their words and melodies.
Both served their countries first –
Non sibi sed patriae –
Both discovered in mid life they had a song
To sing, and thankfully, to share.
Both refused to sell out to the white ghost
Who peddles fame and fortune in exchange
For one’s soul. Bill Withers and John Prine.
Rest you both in peace down by life’s river.

 

NaPoWriMo #9 – Not a concrete poem

This poem defies the concept of concreteness.
It bubbles over the top of the walls
Of its container, like a boiling liquid –
Then flashes to steam, releasing its perfume.

Would that that were its final material state.
The perfume gets distilled into haiku,
Then changes state to sound, to melody,
Seeking eager and open noses and ears

Simultaneously in asynchronous effect.
It is still not at its end. Invisible
Atoms infiltrate the blood-brain barrier
And find a resting place. There it awaits

Retrieval as an oral combination, a word,
A passing thought, a feeling unexpressed.

 

I can do haiku.
But hay (na) ku might not be
my choice cup of tea.

These days corona
rules the schedule of our lives –
lockdown – stay at home.

Let’s flatten the curve,
keep corona from spreading –
keep the hounds at bay.

Record this crisis!
Tell stories of daily life.
Archive each event.

The really cool thing
is that haiku fits so well
And lives on Twitter.

 

African marigolds are beautiful.
Google just gave me a screen full of images,
Which is good since DC regulations
Only allow us essential travel
During this lockdown. Thank God for Google –
We can view assorted images of beauty
In Retina display on our iMacs
In the comfort of our living rooms.

Some folks say Jesus died on Friday night.
I mean no disrespect, but I’m not buying it –
the whole cross story just doesn’t add up.
Let’s work backwards. If Jesus rose the third day,
Wouldn’t that be Monday? Three days later?
But isn’t Easter Sunday, the second day?

 

a triolet

It is so hard to separate facts
From lies, to know what’s concrete
When surrounded by so many abstracts.
It is so hard to separate facts.
When it’s always a lie that attracts,
The plain truth can barely compete.
It is so hard to separate facts
From the garbage and all the deceit.

 

We have entered the mid-month long slog,
The third week when all bets are off
And anything may present itself
As poetry of crisis. Let the giants
Fall and die a fitting death. Let big banks
Fail. What do we care? A few billionaires
Become millionaires. How about the poor,
who lose jobs, and houses, and life savings?
How about a plan to bail out Main Street?
You shared your time with me for free.
I took it, stole it like a thief in the night.
We were two ships sailing, two starts crossing
In the distant night sky, passing port to port,
trading resilience for efficiency.

 

A poet who used be a swimmer
And a chess player showed me her sonnets.
It didn’t take long for me to try one.
Fourteen lines and it was love at first sight.

She swam on a precision team. She played
Chess with homeless men in Dupont Circle.
In her day job she analyzed and crunched
Complex numbers at a government bank.

We sent letters with sonnets we’d compose
Back and forth for several years before
The spell broke. We went our separate ways,
Our poetry paradise forsaken.

Could it have ended any other way?
What is an end? Sonnets still fill the space.

**********

a bitter pill
is neither red nor blue –
Just hard to swallow
When you know its taste
Might not agree with
What you know is true,
Or think you know, or
wish you never knew.

A spirit quest
That will not be contained –
It calls us gently
From sleep’s dormant state.
We rise embued with purpose
And a mission preordained
And leave a life constrained
Before by darkened memories.

There’s music hiding
In between the lines
and spaces of the words
the pages hold.
A secret message unwinds
The latent magic
And the sacred music
that resides deep within.

Everything is infinitely praiseworthy
In its own unique and special way –
The sunrise, the sunset, filtered water’s
Taste, the coffee the water produces.

And even overlooked external things.
I’ve read so many perfect poems,
And heard so much wonderful music
During my limited sojourn on Earth.

Didn’t I grow up with Motown and Stax
And the Philadelphia Sound? And played
viola and recorder? And awoke
To my father’s recitation of verse

From the masters? And the coolest teachers
And mentors? And the best shipmates ever?

 

Obsolete Technologies

I am surrounded
By ancient sacred texts
Preserved on technologies
That no longer exist.

How will I extract
The wisdom they contain?

It might as well
Be stones, pebbles,
Grains of sand on the beach –

Objects on display
In an alien museum,
Words memorized
In a drunkened brain,
Recited by slobbering lips.

 

Remembering Bob Kaufman

All the letters I never sent

All the letters I never sent,
Poems written but only shared
With special friends who dig
the cut of my jib –
I warehouse them (most but not all)
On blogs stashed across the internets.

All the morning walks I stopped
Taking after my fall,
From fear, misplaced perhaps,
That I might get stuck
Somewhere off a beaten path
Where no one could hear
my pleas and groans.

All the lies I never told
Because I didn’t feel the need
To misrepresent, to be
Anybody or anything other
Than my own true self.

I still fall in love too easily
So I’m told – but there’s always
A link, a connection
Worth tracing, a node
In a complex network
Where we can meet.

And yes, I still get seasick –
The surface is no place
For lovers to hang out. Once we reach
The dive point and submerge
the ride gets smoother.
I’m too old to make excuses,
And dead men don’t have birthdays.

 

Fences – Act Two, Scene Four

In the denouement our classic warrior
(Such is the tragedy that was his life)
Loses all that was once near and dear.

The cherished love of his wife is broken
After her decision to not refuse
The result of his infidelity.

He loses the respect of his son,
So long assumed, compelled by fear,
Never inspired by true affection.

His best friend doesn’t come around
Any more, not even for a Friday drink
That once satisfied a parched thirst.

Finally, abandoned by his own sense
of taste (Yes! A multiple metaphor!),
He is left to swing aimlessly at all
Those fast balls on life’s outside corners.

 

To my favorite Turkish librarian, Gozde Torun

A lovely homemade thing
From a far off distant land,
Woven with yarn and lace:
A cushion steadies my coffee cup
A pad where the mouse can rest.
How’d you know it’d be so useful?
A treasured gift of grace –
A token that holds a place –
Folded carefully in the liquor bar drawer
between the shot glasses and candles,
the napkins and cork replacements.
Woven with yarn and lace –
A lovely homemade thing,
From a far off distant land.

 

Reflections on listening to a podcast about Afropessimism
(because the author’s book tour was cancelled)

Can I tell you something? A deep secret?
I am exhausted by your shallowness
And as of this morning at 7AM
I will no longer give a good goddamn
What you think about my talent and skill
As a bureaucrat. What about yours?
Where is your tact? Your sense of fairness?
Your appreciation for the art form?
I have a fairly good, if wicked notion
What you are thinking when you see my face –
My black face that does not apologize
When undermining your hypocrisy.
Fuck all this. I’m going to work TODAY.
Keep six feet away from me. Wash your hands.

 

“Coracao de manteiga”

Coracao de manteiga –
The African girls said of me
In my youth: a soft heart,
too soft a heart, goodhearted,
Maybe. Heart of butter.

They keep butter at room
temperature in that country –
A hot knife sizzles through it,
A cold knife is best for spreading.

Butter gives bread a good taste,
And it’s good sprinkled with salt
On popcorn. A heart of stone
Would not be a nice thing
To say to a person.

We keep butter refrigerated here.
Makes it last longer, but hard
And difficult to spread. And it
Absorbs other all the other smells
In the refrigerator.

 

A Thursday Sonnet

It might be time for a shape shift moment.
This kernel of time, wedged between the walls
Of two more standardized realities
Only points us backwards on the path
Of forward growth. You can write your own poem –
This one holds out hope for a revival
And a different direction for our dreams.

Old ways benefited the chosen few.
Their poets and prophets sing of better
Days to come. They have playwrights and Netflix
Producers on the job around the clock,
Promising to protect the status quo.
I can’t say I wish them ill. Their vision
Is a museum object, best preserved, mute.

 

Cashew Fruit

Most people don’t know
About the cashew fruit.
Juicy, sweet, succulent,
Too perishable to ship
In crates to foreign lands.

We know the cashew nut.
It grows inside the seed
That grows outside the fruit.
Was it engineered to grow
That way? I don’t know.

But what I do know is that
The juice of the sweet fruit
Turns to wine quickly, and if
You don’t drink the wine soon
It becomes vinegar.

To can and preserve the fruit
Is an art and a secret knowledge
Passed down from mother
To daughter. Lucky those
With access to it.

To all the folks I’ve wronged

I’ve made some crucial errors in this life.
But often times when I go back in time
And try to make it right, I learn
The sin, the crime was mainly in my head
And had no strong or weak effect at all
On those I may have wronged without relief.
Who wants or plans to harm their fellowman?
But what greater harm in life is there
Than doing wrong against your own self’s soul?
I say to my soul: I deeply apologize,
Please point to the path of your forgiveness.
My soul responds: O silly man, I am
Your soul, I know your every deed.
But please stop by and visit when you please.

poets are mechanics who know this truth

I run a quite unique distillery
And take it with me everywhere I go –
I feed it all the garbage and the trash
From life experience. It processes junk
And outputs poems to read and share with friends
and foes alike. Moonshine for the soul.

One thing about the distillation act:
it does not destroy matter – Newton’s law
Is in effect – what’s not refined from life
At length concentrates to a detritus
That must be channeled outward, overboard.
And if the output pipings cross-connect,
It mixes gunk with truth for ill effect.

 

To Filomena

my wife is watching

My wife says she can tell
When I’m writing poetry.
She says she sees me moving
In and out of space and time
And she wonders where it is I go.

I tell her I cross a mighty river
Again and again. One that separates
The temples of life’s renewal,
On the west coast facing east,
catching the first rays of sunrise –
From the tombs that guard the past,
On the east coast facing west,
basking in sunset’s glow.

Both a library and an archive,
A moving feast inside my mind.
Crossing back and forth between
Those two worlds creates an energy
source and a drug for my addiction.

She does that thing where she
Points two fingers at her eyes
And then at me. She’s watching.

Loss of innocence/Rite of passage

She said, “I’ll be your lover if you wish.”
That forwardness was new to me. I paused,
But dared not respond, fearing I’d foreclose
My hope for a happy ending. She spoke,
“I’m a hippie, it won’t mean much to me.”
That’s odd, I thought, it’d mean so much to me.

A sudden death for my virginity
Was averted. I still recall it, clear
as day, perhaps, well, clear as yesterday.
All good things must end, and my time would come
To cross the line, to break the sacred plane,
To taste the fruit of the tree of knowledge
Of good and evil. The time, soon enough,
Would arrive and my soul would be prepared.

 

To my shipmate, Wendy

Some might say this work/life has given us
A warped sense of humor. We cast a glance
At each other and smile. Yes, I was there
With you in Baghdad, dodging mortar rounds
On selected days, and on the tarmac
Overnight in Kuwait City where we
had to have a special sense of humor
To survive war’s absurd insanity.

Time passes. The wounds heal. The scars remain.
We write the future, it does not write us.
We arrange and describe our past to fit
truth’s narrative arc. It doesn’t matter
That we spent nights in the Palace
Fearful of those whose lands we invaded.

 

Autoethnography

I straddle multiple dualities:
Settler and native, assimilated
And separate, conqueror and conquered.
Crossing lines is my favorite pastime,
Assuming opposing identities,
Walking a mile in my enemy’s shoes.

Still, there are certain things I will not do:
I’ll never hurt a child, or kick a man
Who’s already down, or ignore a plea
For help from anyone. A warrior
To my bones, if you cross me I will pause
And think before I act: it’s likely I
won’t turn the other cheek. I’ll telegraph
my ev’ry move, give you the choice to strike.