Category Archives: Poetry

POEM: Faceless

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the faceless, in my dreams, play at chores i can’t comprehend,

leaning over consoles  — big powerplant-style consoles,

neither typing nor jabbing buttons,

just sitting, attuned to the lay of the world according to indicator lights

i shout to them

of course, they can’t shout back

but they don’t even flinch

zero acknowledgement

i can’t tell if they have ear-holes,

whether they’re ignoring me, or can’t hear me

i guess i should consider myself lucky

if one turned its faceless face toward me

i’m sure i’d shit a dream brick

POEM: The Last Word on ultima Thule

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ultima Thule / əl-tə-mə-ˈthü-lē / n. 1. a distant unknown region; 2. the extreme edge of the discovered world



“Where lies the ultima Thule?”
he inquired about the edge of discovery.



“It’s down in cave, beyond the cold,
in a pocket that’s hot and noxious.”



“I’m sure it lies in the Challenger Deep,
far down below the waves.”



“It must be out amid the void of space,
where frozen silence reigns.”



“If it lies not in the recesses of my mind,
I’m sure I’ll never see it.”

POEM: Momentarily Untethered

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For a moment —
a still moment —
belief flat-lined.

I don’t mean belief in gods, myths, or monsters —
that abandoned me long ago.
[Or I abandoned it? Either way, it’s gone.]

I mean recognition that there is a world,
and that I know enough to hum along to its tune.

And as I’m listening to the shrill and steady tone in my ears —
[it really was a flat-line, like in the TV medical dramas]
the world snapped back to normality

&

I almost fell out of the bed.

Gray Day Haiku

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palm trees waving
under gray, stormy skies
delusion rocked

 

foggy city
bridge top corner juts
from river’s cloud

 

monochrome town
fog drained your varied hues,
what feats light works

 

cloudy mountain
layers of gray stay silent
keeping secrets

 

vodka, no ice
peering out a window
into nothing

POEM: Softening a Blow with Poetry

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Nothing, these days, sounds mean or terse,
if you put it in metered verse.
Rhymes make a “screw you” whimsical,
not hostile or inimical.

So if you’d like to ride the fence,
and give insults benign pretense,
just rhyme your lines and count your feet,
they’ll think it jest and call it sweet.

[Ex. 1]
Your breath is Death on crack and meth
gone ten days without a shower.
It’d stop a clock and kill the hour.
“What foul winds blow?” It is your breath.

[Ex. 2]
To say you’re dumber than a post
gives the post too much room to boast.
I’d liken your wits more to toast,
but
one day you’ll be sharp as pot roast.

So if you need make libel or slander,
you can do it with the utmost candor,
if you can make the barb zing like a song,
they will drop their riposte and sing along

POEM: Same Dream in a Different Key

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I have a recurring dream.

It never plays out the same,
never looks the same,
the setting differs,
and, besides me, the cast differs.

But it feels the same,
an identical nuance of feeling,
and there’s always a tower —
a high tower that I don’t think I ever top.
Sometimes, its a bamboo scaffold.
Other times, there’s gilt ornamentation around the elevators,
but there’s some common towericity… towerness?

There’s also a man on the tower who thinks himself a holy man,
but I think he’s a fraud.
I’m not sure whether I think he’s a fraud during the dream,
or only once I wake up.

But they say you are every person in your dream.
So, that makes me a fraud and a self-professed holy man,
but how can a person who never claims authenticity be a fraud?
I’m not sure what genuine means in this mysterious world,
and don’t get me started on what I don’t know about being a holy man.

I have a recurring dream.

POEM: Kyrgyz South Shore

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standing on a green mountaintop
with snowcaps to my back
ahead, angular arid lands
crinkled, as marked by wrack

beyond, a lake still and turquoise
waters frigid as clear
not a sound but for bird or breeze
at habitat frontier

where do desert, beach, and meadow
mingle as in this place?
a thousand square miles condensed
into a hundred acre space

BOOK REVIEW: Kulager by Ilias Jansugurov [Trans. Belinda Cooke]

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Kulager by Ilias Jansugurov
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

 

This narrative poem was written by Ilias Jansugurov about the life of another poet, a man named Akan who lived from 1843 to 1913. More accurately, it’s about Akan’s horse, the eponymously named “Kulager.” The story revolves around a horse race that is takes place in Kazakhstan. An important, if unloved, man passed away, and as part of the wake there is a massive get together of people from far and wide, and it features a horse race.

Kulager is a crowd favorite, and in the cut-throat Kazakh steppe, that love seals the animal’s fate. The opening chapters acquaint us with setting, with Akan, and with Kulager, and then proceed into the story of the Akan’s arrival, the pre-race braggadocio that confronts him, and the race, itself. There is another favored horse who isn’t so beloved as Kulager but who has an owner willing to do anything to secure a victory. The tragedy that ensues is one in a long line that have confronted Akan.

It’s worth mentioning the tragedy of the author’s own life. Jansugurov was killed in 1938 in Stalin’s purges. He was considered too outspoken, and his criticisms were not so well veiled to keep him from drawing the ire of the state.

The book includes monochrome artwork and a glossary that comes in handy for those who aren’t acquainted with the Kazakh language. There are two forwards and a translator’s post-script, but it’s not the case (as is sometimes the case for poetry and thin volumes, more generally) that the ancillary matter exists to pad the book out to a publishable length. The ancillary matter is of reasonable length, contains useful information, and the bulk of the page count consists of the poem.

I found this book interesting and readable and would recommend it for those interested in life on the steppe. I picked “Kulager” up because I try to read indigenous literature from each country I visit, and this was the only Kazakh literature I could find translated to English. That said, it seems to be the first work to be put out by Kazakhstan’s National Bureau of Translations, and so – hopefully – there will be more to follow.

View all my reviews

POEM: Room

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There’s a room in your house;
what it’s for you do not know.

It seems to collect odds and ends —
the varied detritus of a life lived.

You’d never invite company into this room,
not a friend, not a lover, not a confidant,
and certainly not your therapist.

Sometimes you’re eager to visit,
but other times you dread it —
at such times, you must be pulled by an unseen force.
You’re never indifferent about it,
because it’s never a boring trip,
because this room is rearranged daily.

How it’s rearranged, you do not know.
To the best of your knowledge,
you are the only possessor of a key.
In fact, to the best of your knowledge,
you are the only one who knows how to find it.

Even you couldn’t draw a map.
Its entrance is deep and concealed.
You get there by intuition —
never by counting corners.

Sometimes you are stunned or startled by what you see when the door opens.
Other times it’s as though you’ve stumbled onto a treasure trove.

But the fear, elation, sadness, or madness is short-lived.
For the room is like a vow of love scrawled in wet sand at low tide.

POEM: god heap

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they scream to gods on hidden hills
who watch and watch and drink their fill
but heavenwise direct their will

to higher gods than thou can know
their hope locks not in glacial flows
but awaits the great call of “go!”

then it crumbles, tumbles, and ‘s gone
to cries of “fair” and “right and wrong”
sung by pilgrims unversed in song