Well, anyone who knows me knows that I am an English person, a word person, and an avid reader. I do not do math. A former Chief Academic Officer at ASUMH once said that all instructors teaching at an institution of higher learning passed at least a College Algebra class, so they should know math. Nope! Not me! I did pass College Algebra thirty years ago--with an A even. I haven't used it since then. Similarly, I passed three semester of French nearly thirty years ago--I got Bs in every French class. Do I speak French? Do I write French? Nope! Not me! I haven't used it. Unused skills do not get rusty; they disappear completely.
To get to the point, I am not a math person, but even I could see that with 57 poems to revise for the new book and only revising two a week, I would be revising for around 28 weeks. Yes, I can divide just about any number by two and round up or down! Since, during a revising period, I hardly do any new writing, I simply cannot see spending half a year or more revising for one book. Thus, during this week of being off work, I have been revising like crazy. I also have started revising poems any time that I sit at the computer for at least thirty minutes. The result is that I have several revised poems to share with you today.
Now, I can't really comment on every poem with so many of them to read, so I will not comment on any, but I do have some advice. Read one revised poem, set the blog aside, come back and read one more, and repeat this cycle until you read the last one. The same advice goes when reading a book of poetry. Why? Because themes get repetitive, rhythms get repetitive, ideas get repetitive, images get repetitive---repetitive, repetitive. You get the idea! Give every poem a chance to be the one fresh on your mind as you read it. Always do this with any poem. Remember! Every poem deserves to be treated as an individual work of art. Other than that advice to memorize, ENJOY!
By the way, Aunt Marty Gerlach has suggest the title of the new book be Walking with Words. I put the title on the book as I am creating it, but after seeing it all week as I've placed poems in the book, I have decided to change it a bit to A Walk with Words. How 'bout them apples?
ENJOY the revised and edited poems!
Meep! Meep! Meep!
The metallic siren screams
And jars me from a fantasy,
Some wild stuff in my dreams,
But now I can’t revive
The melting figures in my head,
But I will lie here anyway,
Hypnagogic in my bed.
The Sun’s in on It Too
After the beatings given them
By last night’s brutal storms,
The silver maples bow and pray
Among prostrated forms.
The white oak, like a battered nymph
Recouping in the sun,
Drips soreness from her leaves and limbs
But bends her trunk to none.
And, Iris—Oh! Sweet sister!
Who sobs without a sound,
The savage gusts have hammered all
Your blossoms to the ground.
The rosebush seems to be untouched,
Which wearing thorns will do,
But slimy raindrops cling to stems
Like sweats of nervous dew.
The shameless sun’s protective light
Soaks up the sodden tears
And pledges that the thrashing squalls
Are put away for years.
But we know something of abuse,
Its festering greenish hue.
The sun may say it’s gone away
But he’s in on it too.
A Tornado in Arkansas
The cloud sucks humid vapors
Into the circling air,
And updrafts curl like ocean waves,
Tossing their frothy hair.
Wind currents sweep across the sky,
An atmospheric river,
And gust across the sweating land
And then are stilled forever.
A column descends from the black,
A funnel slowly welling,
Concealed behind a rainy veil
That hides tornadic swelling.
Through the wall cloud’s blackened eaves,
A spear of sunlight gleams,
But then is sopped and extinguished
In churning skybound streams.
The funnel dangles from the cloud
And seems a wisp of smoke
But shatters all its tail sweeps by
In one decisive stroke.
A distant growl becomes a roar
Arkansans know to dread.
A beast is born whose hunger grows
No matter what it’s fed.
A Traditional Sonnet Lamenting Prosetry
(Otherwise known as Prose Poems)
We used to dance with dragons, flirt with fire,
And sing our tales of heroes for all ages.
We loved chaste ladies free of base desire
And penned love for our wives on white pages.
Then, we thought we’d explain a thing or two
And write of moral wit absent passion,
But fancy showed that phase would never do,
So we brought wild visions into fashion.
Through all change, we rhymed and kept a beat,
Considering our sister art is Song.
We cropped our lines and counted on our feet
And reckoned we would do it all along.
Now, what passes for poems, well, who knows?
They seem both deep and real, but mostly prose.
(Poetic) Death by a Dozen Caveats
She tried to say some helpful things
About my latest verse
But gave the vaguest of warnings,
“I guess it could be worse.”
She tried to feed some natural skill
That I might possess.
I swallowed down her jagged pill,
“Your mind’s a wilderness.”
She relayed poetic arguments
That I might try to heed
Like “Symbolism must make sense.
A flower’s not a weed.”
She pointed out some weaker traits
That I should maybe hide.
I said I’d rather tempt the Fates.
“You have,” she then replied.
I said that thinking causes pain,
The greatest ache on Earth.
She said, “You’d better think again.
You’ve never given birth.”
I told her that my poetry
Was for the happy soul,
And filled with peace and harmony.
I saw her cruel eyes roll.
She said, “Your mind is like the dark
That scatters over light.
At times, glimpses of genius spark,
But they are not too bright.
They gleam into existence
Then fizzle in the sky,
Sparkling specks of accidents
Too small to catch the eye.”
“You said there is some luster,”
I grasped for every straw,
“If that’s all you can muster,
We’ll call this spat a draw.”
“The greatest thing about your wit—
This praise you should embrace—
Is not the words you’ve forced to fit,
But all the empty space,”
She said, “Where words are hiding,
Train other words to follow.
That will much improve your writing.”
I deem such counsel hollow.
She gives me none but caveats
Dull daggers from her lips,
But still, I sense--I see some spots—
Where her displeasure slips.
From the Divine to the Erotic
(Watching a Butterfly on the Blossoms Outside My Window)
A butterfly’s a scrap of the divine,
A speckle shed by denizens of heaven,
A bit of trash swept from the golden shine
Of streets whose names are known but never given.
Alighting on a leaf, it proves its power,
Enhancing blooms, augmenting paradise,
And curbs the movement of the sun an hour,
Too slight for any but the keenest eyes.
He’s tempted by the rose, a lusty maiden.
She tenders him the nectar of her love.
The butterfly’s weak mind is overladen.
He flutters to more tepid blooms above.
The myrtle flower seems a fitter bride,
A modest blossom that’s less liquored up.
He lightly tongues her stigma on each side
And lets his pollen fall into her cup.
A Disagreement with a Finch About the Size of a Pie
I had a disagreement with a finch
Who took a mile when I gave her an inch.
I let her forage in my cherry tree.
I thought if I helped her then she’d help me.
I gave the little songbird half a chance
To keep my fruit tree free of worms and ants
And watched her hop from limb to limb each day,
Thinking she kept the hungry bugs away.
Then came the day green cherries morphed to red
And dreams of luscious pies swirled in my head.
I shooed the goldfinch off and saw her fly
Into the bower of an oak nearby.
She landed out of sight, but nonetheless,
She shrieked and scolded me without success,
For now, the treasures of the tree were mine,
And she would have to be the next in line.
I stepped into the tree with bowl in hand
(There is no need to climb when I can stand.)
And started picking fruit the darkest red,
The tempting ones from limbs above my head.
A cherry ripens best nearest the sun
And those highest are always soonest done.
One and two and three, a nice hand full
So eager to be picked, I need not pull.
Although the tree was still and all was calm,
The plump ripe cherries fell into my palm.
Their juice ran down my thumb across my wrist.
Then, I looked at my pickings. “What is this?”
I called out to the bird-thief, “What the heck?”
Each cherry had been sampled, just a peck.
One nip and it was ruined all the same,
And I was sure I knew who was to blame.
I saved a hundred cherries, maybe more,
Not near so many as I’d thought before,
And flung each finch-pecked cherry to the ground.
I noted how she watched without a sound.
I didn’t get my bowl full so that I
Was worried that I might not have a pie,
But I got one although it was quite small.
A little pie still beats no pie at all
The finch and I have yet to come to terms.
She claims she only pecked the fruit for worms.
I don’t think that is true, but it could be,
For I’ve not seen an insect in the tree.
And while I’m all for peace I must insist
That finches in my fruit tree should resist
The urge to peck each cherry on the tree
And leave at least a large pie’s worth for me.
The Cherries Are All Gone
Though May has been a fruitful month,
The cherries are all gone.
We’ve picked and pitted, boiled and baked,
And now our job is done.
To finches flitting in the tree,
The cherries are all gone.
You’ve eaten nearly half of them.
Your gorging days are done.
A helianthus grows up through
Where cherries are all gone.
Its seeds will soon be feeding birds
Whose fruiting days are done.
I dreamed last night of sagging trees
Whose cherries dragged the lawn.
I was relieved to wake and find
The cherries are all gone.
I don’t know what next year will bring.
The cherries are all gone.
The tree may well bear fruit again.
Thank God, for now, it’s done.
I Think I Age the Most at Night
I think I age the most at night
When dreaming gives me flawless sight
Into the past when I was young
And words skipped lightly from my tongue.
I long for an enchanted sleep,
A dragon’s nap, secure and deep,
But I’m aroused by groans and sighs,
The aches that say my body lies.
I watch in moonlight’s soft eclipse
The breath flow through my lover’s lips.
Her mind, at peace and dutiful,
Makes my rough thoughts seem harsh and dull.
I’m tempted to give her a shake
And call to her, “Awake! Awake!
We’re speeding ‘round a scorching sun
That cooks our days till we are done.”
But I do not. I let her sleep.
I pull the sheets up in a heap
And toss and turn until it’s light.
I think I age the most at night.
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