Should I post some of my older poems while I get feedback about Tiny Gods Hiding, or should I post only completed collections on this blog?
Let me know what you think.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Coming soon: Tiny Gods Hiding
I've finished most of the work on my next offering, Tiny Gods Hiding. I just have to run it by a few people I trust to see if it's ready to be released to the wild, or needs more cowbell, or whatnot.
This time I'll make sure that I post the last poem first and the first poem last, so one can read the whole thing from top to bottom. As with Jocasta and the Sorcerers, I'll be dropping hardcopies in and around Burlington, VT. Stay tuned.
This time I'll make sure that I post the last poem first and the first poem last, so one can read the whole thing from top to bottom. As with Jocasta and the Sorcerers, I'll be dropping hardcopies in and around Burlington, VT. Stay tuned.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Explanation/Thanks
I shouldn't explain, but I will:
I worked for a while slapping stickers on boxes and sending them away-- a monotonous job, so I amused myself with names and places. My co-worker said her favorite name from a label was, "Stoneburner." The tag in my hand was going to Sheboygan, Wisconsin, and the name and the place murmurred in my mind through a long afternoon. What name could be exotic enough to pair with "Stoneburner? "Ariadne" didn't quite fit, but "Jocasta?" Well!
Around the same time I read Someone's review (I don't know whose) of Someone Else's poetry, (I don't know whose) sneering: "It reads like Assonance 101!"
Assonance 101?
Sounds like fun!
Weeks later, after I'd written a couple of drafts of the first poem, a friend mentioned a set of stories featuring "Jocasta Stones."
Oops. My apologies to Patrick Carman, whom I've not read (yet).
Thank you to Tina for her favorite name
and thank you to Susan who inspired enthusiastic magic and roisterous joy!
(This whole blogging thing is new to me; I apologize for the bottom-to-top, early-to-later order of the poems. The chronological first post is the first poem in the collection. I'll do better with the next series of poems, which should be ready soon.)
I worked for a while slapping stickers on boxes and sending them away-- a monotonous job, so I amused myself with names and places. My co-worker said her favorite name from a label was, "Stoneburner." The tag in my hand was going to Sheboygan, Wisconsin, and the name and the place murmurred in my mind through a long afternoon. What name could be exotic enough to pair with "Stoneburner? "Ariadne" didn't quite fit, but "Jocasta?" Well!
Around the same time I read Someone's review (I don't know whose) of Someone Else's poetry, (I don't know whose) sneering: "It reads like Assonance 101!"
Assonance 101?
Sounds like fun!
Weeks later, after I'd written a couple of drafts of the first poem, a friend mentioned a set of stories featuring "Jocasta Stones."
Oops. My apologies to Patrick Carman, whom I've not read (yet).
Thank you to Tina for her favorite name
and thank you to Susan who inspired enthusiastic magic and roisterous joy!
(This whole blogging thing is new to me; I apologize for the bottom-to-top, early-to-later order of the poems. The chronological first post is the first poem in the collection. I'll do better with the next series of poems, which should be ready soon.)
Young Gods
After a short ritual
We are young gods.
Confident and terrible
We rise to Inferno
To watch a farce.
The demons and the damned,
Laughing, trade places
Howling with glee
Because they know eternity
Ends too soon.
In a state of grace
We godlings, we urges,
Descend from Hell:
Wings tucked, spiraling,
We fall from garish flame
To cool, dark silence.
High in the tower,
Before a wall of windows,
Above the sleeping world
We reflect on light and shadow
And how abrupt
The simple transition between.
Someone has strung myriad lights,
Bright and dim,
moving and fixed,
And, hearing our wish,
Strobes brilliant pinpoints
Throughout our long watch.
The blazing, wailing Hell above
Has wrapped a poison creeper
Around our goddess’ heart
And thorny tendrils writhe
In chattering arrhythmia.
I dig deep into my bag
And bring out music-
An anchor in her storm,
A tempo to throb along to,
A path back to shadow.
She clings to the song
And soon fills the world
With the trills and moans of
Wind across the tower’s face.
Some of us dive like
Darting fish, tanks of time
Strapped to our wrists
And, when our duration runs out,
Float back to the tower
To replenish our seconds.
Some find morsels of coral,
Swords delaminating,
Calloused glass.
We tell each other tales
Of the treasures and wrecks
We've found, and each of us
Lures all of us down, and down,
And down to the deeps.
There we find a dim heaven
Of music and motion, and
A band of mischievous angels
In a frenzied dervish dance
Whirling to the wave music
Crashing far above.
One shout, we raise voice
In defiant heresy and dance,
One with our brothers and foes.
Dance ‘til our lungs burn.
Dance ‘til our feet blister.
Dance ‘til the waves
Wear away the drumhead of
The beach far above.
We climb back to the tower
And still the lights arc
And still the music of the wind
Across the tower’s face
Rings along the harpstrings of our nerves.
Periodically, a passing imp
Surrenders to a momentary impulse and
Possesses one or another of us
The rest of us giggle and
Snicker until the imps,
Bored quickly with the novelty
of puppetting apprentice gods,
Wander off with their
Stockpiled impulses,
Their bags of bad ideas.
Try as we might
To let go the godhead
And plunge to our pillows
And blankets of mortality,
Divinity has ideas of its own
And we bedspin through
Dawn and sunrise-
Gods at the end of eternity
Watching the last handful
Of worshippers wink out.
We are young gods.
Confident and terrible
We rise to Inferno
To watch a farce.
The demons and the damned,
Laughing, trade places
Howling with glee
Because they know eternity
Ends too soon.
In a state of grace
We godlings, we urges,
Descend from Hell:
Wings tucked, spiraling,
We fall from garish flame
To cool, dark silence.
High in the tower,
Before a wall of windows,
Above the sleeping world
We reflect on light and shadow
And how abrupt
The simple transition between.
Someone has strung myriad lights,
Bright and dim,
moving and fixed,
And, hearing our wish,
Strobes brilliant pinpoints
Throughout our long watch.
The blazing, wailing Hell above
Has wrapped a poison creeper
Around our goddess’ heart
And thorny tendrils writhe
In chattering arrhythmia.
I dig deep into my bag
And bring out music-
An anchor in her storm,
A tempo to throb along to,
A path back to shadow.
She clings to the song
And soon fills the world
With the trills and moans of
Wind across the tower’s face.
Some of us dive like
Darting fish, tanks of time
Strapped to our wrists
And, when our duration runs out,
Float back to the tower
To replenish our seconds.
Some find morsels of coral,
Swords delaminating,
Calloused glass.
We tell each other tales
Of the treasures and wrecks
We've found, and each of us
Lures all of us down, and down,
And down to the deeps.
There we find a dim heaven
Of music and motion, and
A band of mischievous angels
In a frenzied dervish dance
Whirling to the wave music
Crashing far above.
One shout, we raise voice
In defiant heresy and dance,
One with our brothers and foes.
Dance ‘til our lungs burn.
Dance ‘til our feet blister.
Dance ‘til the waves
Wear away the drumhead of
The beach far above.
We climb back to the tower
And still the lights arc
And still the music of the wind
Across the tower’s face
Rings along the harpstrings of our nerves.
Periodically, a passing imp
Surrenders to a momentary impulse and
Possesses one or another of us
The rest of us giggle and
Snicker until the imps,
Bored quickly with the novelty
of puppetting apprentice gods,
Wander off with their
Stockpiled impulses,
Their bags of bad ideas.
Try as we might
To let go the godhead
And plunge to our pillows
And blankets of mortality,
Divinity has ideas of its own
And we bedspin through
Dawn and sunrise-
Gods at the end of eternity
Watching the last handful
Of worshippers wink out.
Momentum
Late in the evening
(early in the morning-- time means nothing here)
we sorcerers and students
gather with Jocasta to pass around
a carafe of water.
"We're done here," (Jocasta says,)
the bash has reached critical mass
and will flare til the fuel
of their passion is exhausted.
Now we can let down our hair and
take off the nametags
and join the celebration!
"Gentlemen, you've done fine work
and controlled the flow of power
with intricate precision
and immaculate mastery-
a safe blaze fed with twigs
and ringed with stacked stone.
"It's time to let go.
"Time to bypass the governors and
let slip the mysteries and
let it flow out of control.
We've been slipping them sips;
let them drink and be refreshed.
"I know your fears--
unwatered wine maddened the Maenads--
but your wall is sound and
has waved away the nasty bastards
and will contain the chaos
if things fall apart inside.
"We've spent this timeless time
priming them for power.
Some have been dazzled and dizzied
but found their footing fast
and have advanced to dance with the magic.
Already the proficient look after the apprentices
and will scoop up any strays.
"Let go."
We glance at each other,
shrug as one,
and let go.
(early in the morning-- time means nothing here)
we sorcerers and students
gather with Jocasta to pass around
a carafe of water.
"We're done here," (Jocasta says,)
the bash has reached critical mass
and will flare til the fuel
of their passion is exhausted.
Now we can let down our hair and
take off the nametags
and join the celebration!
"Gentlemen, you've done fine work
and controlled the flow of power
with intricate precision
and immaculate mastery-
a safe blaze fed with twigs
and ringed with stacked stone.
"It's time to let go.
"Time to bypass the governors and
let slip the mysteries and
let it flow out of control.
We've been slipping them sips;
let them drink and be refreshed.
"I know your fears--
unwatered wine maddened the Maenads--
but your wall is sound and
has waved away the nasty bastards
and will contain the chaos
if things fall apart inside.
"We've spent this timeless time
priming them for power.
Some have been dazzled and dizzied
but found their footing fast
and have advanced to dance with the magic.
Already the proficient look after the apprentices
and will scoop up any strays.
"Let go."
We glance at each other,
shrug as one,
and let go.
TimeSpace Maze
Too much dancing? (asked Jocasta,)
Out of breath?
Come with me.
Grab a tumbler of water from the table
as we plunge into a rainbow maze of
colored cloth hanging on invisible filaments-
-through the maze of shifting silhouettes
grappling, coupling, scrumping, cuddling, tickling.
-through the maze, startling-
but not interrupting--they continue, smiling-
three writhing lovers.
-through the maze to the outer wall
lined down its length
with doors.
Come with me through this door
to the haze of smoke hanging over the crowd
in an old British pub, where four mop-topped boys
are singing up-tempo songs about love,
and Margaret is there, front row, center,
singing while the other girls scream.
Come with me through a door in the back
with a big red sign:
"Warning! Zero Gravity Beyond This Point!"
and into a long, transparent tube,
the thinnest layer of
what-we-hope-to-be-much-stronger-than-glass
separating us from vast Nothing
and the stars so far beyond.
Come with me, freefalling for just under a minute
to the door at the far end,
then through (stumbling now
under full weight) and into a casino
bizarre in that the tables
are brilliantly lit
by the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Olivia is here, toying with the boys
as singlemindedly gleeful
as a cat scampering after a pen cap,
and a man you've seen before only in monochrome
(and then with a sword in his hand)
keeps the women riveted
on other things than envy.
Come to the edge with me
and look down, down, down
at rolling hills and glimmering lakes
and the tops of clouds
lit from above and almost solid-looking.
Look up to the ribbed curve of fabric
stretched over a frame a thousand feet long.
Come with me through more doors-
-to a workshop which smells of welding slag
and molten metal, where Cassandra and
some old guy from New Jersey
whip up the finishing touches on a go cart.
-to a library where Zia and a psychiatrist
and an expert at the short con
compare and contrast their
observations of the depths of self-delusion.
-to a domed arena where everyone is
six times as light on their feet
and Elizabeth is cheering on one of the teams
competing on a floor of grey dust
in a bastard child of
hockey and lacrosse
where a flick of a stick
with a curved basket on the end
can send a ball two hundred meters effortlessly.
-to an auditorium where Emily hacks her way
through a bloody slapstick play, leaving
the audience roaring and wincing.
-to a muggy Memphis evening
where a cowlicked boy
with a spastic grind of his hips
assures us: "It's alright, Mama."
-to the kitchen where we can grab a snack from Fiona,
who rests on a barstool, munching fresh carrots
with a look of pure rapture.
-to a circular room at the top of a tower,
the periphery ringed with windows and doors...
...now, you.
You choose a door
and take me through.
Out of breath?
Come with me.
Grab a tumbler of water from the table
as we plunge into a rainbow maze of
colored cloth hanging on invisible filaments-
-through the maze of shifting silhouettes
grappling, coupling, scrumping, cuddling, tickling.
-through the maze, startling-
but not interrupting--they continue, smiling-
three writhing lovers.
-through the maze to the outer wall
lined down its length
with doors.
Come with me through this door
to the haze of smoke hanging over the crowd
in an old British pub, where four mop-topped boys
are singing up-tempo songs about love,
and Margaret is there, front row, center,
singing while the other girls scream.
Come with me through a door in the back
with a big red sign:
"Warning! Zero Gravity Beyond This Point!"
and into a long, transparent tube,
the thinnest layer of
what-we-hope-to-be-much-stronger-than-glass
separating us from vast Nothing
and the stars so far beyond.
Come with me, freefalling for just under a minute
to the door at the far end,
then through (stumbling now
under full weight) and into a casino
bizarre in that the tables
are brilliantly lit
by the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Olivia is here, toying with the boys
as singlemindedly gleeful
as a cat scampering after a pen cap,
and a man you've seen before only in monochrome
(and then with a sword in his hand)
keeps the women riveted
on other things than envy.
Come to the edge with me
and look down, down, down
at rolling hills and glimmering lakes
and the tops of clouds
lit from above and almost solid-looking.
Look up to the ribbed curve of fabric
stretched over a frame a thousand feet long.
Come with me through more doors-
-to a workshop which smells of welding slag
and molten metal, where Cassandra and
some old guy from New Jersey
whip up the finishing touches on a go cart.
-to a library where Zia and a psychiatrist
and an expert at the short con
compare and contrast their
observations of the depths of self-delusion.
-to a domed arena where everyone is
six times as light on their feet
and Elizabeth is cheering on one of the teams
competing on a floor of grey dust
in a bastard child of
hockey and lacrosse
where a flick of a stick
with a curved basket on the end
can send a ball two hundred meters effortlessly.
-to an auditorium where Emily hacks her way
through a bloody slapstick play, leaving
the audience roaring and wincing.
-to a muggy Memphis evening
where a cowlicked boy
with a spastic grind of his hips
assures us: "It's alright, Mama."
-to the kitchen where we can grab a snack from Fiona,
who rests on a barstool, munching fresh carrots
with a look of pure rapture.
-to a circular room at the top of a tower,
the periphery ringed with windows and doors...
...now, you.
You choose a door
and take me through.
Magic Mixology
Dexter and Sinclair
the twins behind the bar
are mixing magic margaritas
phantasm enhanced daiquiris
and juiced-up gee-and-tees
Everyone gets a drink and a trinket
a string of beads
or a tiny kaleidoscope
or a crackerjack ring
all of them touched and charged,
a gift of the mystical
to turn box wine to ambrosia
or to render denim diaphanous
or to scale up a quartet to an orchestra
and, for everyone,
a nebulous suggestion of dream, more felt than seen;
a misty ambiguity just beyond their periphery.
Of course, start ordering shots
and the magic becomes, shall we say,
a bit more insistent--
The twins will run any eager thrillseeker
through the Lands of Paradox and back again
but the bored and jaded amuse the twins, and
present a special challenge;
a "Freak Me" gauntlet thrown at their feet.
Can you handle three-dee graffiti?
a psychotic cartoonist's delirious daydream?
The boys can turn your night into
a spatter-painting of reality,
and the less you let
your self assurance slip,
the more they'll twist and torque
the stable right angles of your psyche.
the twins behind the bar
are mixing magic margaritas
phantasm enhanced daiquiris
and juiced-up gee-and-tees
Everyone gets a drink and a trinket
a string of beads
or a tiny kaleidoscope
or a crackerjack ring
all of them touched and charged,
a gift of the mystical
to turn box wine to ambrosia
or to render denim diaphanous
or to scale up a quartet to an orchestra
and, for everyone,
a nebulous suggestion of dream, more felt than seen;
a misty ambiguity just beyond their periphery.
Of course, start ordering shots
and the magic becomes, shall we say,
a bit more insistent--
The twins will run any eager thrillseeker
through the Lands of Paradox and back again
but the bored and jaded amuse the twins, and
present a special challenge;
a "Freak Me" gauntlet thrown at their feet.
Can you handle three-dee graffiti?
a psychotic cartoonist's delirious daydream?
The boys can turn your night into
a spatter-painting of reality,
and the less you let
your self assurance slip,
the more they'll twist and torque
the stable right angles of your psyche.
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