POEM: Perpetual City [Day 18 NaPoMo: Prose Poem]

The day drizzled on and off into the night. Dreariness seeped to a cold-soaked bone. And I was schlepping down that saturated sidewalk, feeling like I was being watched. That cloud rides overhead when one haunts a city that hasn’t another soul in sight. The denizens must be somewhere, and some must be outward-facing. They might be in the shadowy maw of an alleyway or watching from the warmth and anonymity of a darkened room, but the city never went without eyes.

This was the throbbing heart of the city — if, also, the darkened heart of the city. Within a two-hundred meter radius hemisphere of my position who knew how people were seeking heat? Some would be wrestling away from dank recessed pits in the backrooms of minds run amok. While others were in the act of surrendering — plummeting into that dim pit with abandon. Who knew what was happening? But — for some reason — I had to believe that something was. As I pressed a palm to a wet stone wall, feeling for the trace vibration of hyper-living, I had to believe that the perpetual city was still wound.

POEM: All Hail, Warhol! [Day 17 NaPoMo: Doggerel]

[With doggerel the only way to be “good” is to be ironically bad.]



Being a true genius must be hard work.
Is there a less laborious path to the perks?

I’m so glad you asked:
Just convince the right person you’re a genius,
and you’ll be in like porn star penis.

Just stack some boxes of Brillo pads,
reprint some old burger joint ads,
slather color on portraits — Tammy Faye Bakker-style —
(just make sure to showcase the subject’s creepiest smile.)

Lest you think I’m just being snarky,
I say this without a trace of malarkey,
if you can buy mansions off a soup can label you didn’t design,
genius is too meek of a word, you stink of the divine.
[Like Odysseus being dropped in the lap of goddesses
who were ready & eager to pop open their bodices.]
Do you think the Campbell’s marketing artist has a mansion?
He probably retired with a meager pansion.

I say this without derision,
to be great artist you don’t need to show in galleries, Parisian
you simply need to showcase your vision
of some poor shmuck’s labors
to the person who can get you a better class of neighbors.

POEM: The Philosopher [Day 16 NaPoMo: Narrative]

Said a man, standing on a crate,
“Thought and comfort are species that cannot mate.”

This philosopher continued:
“An idea unchallenged can’t claim merit. Sacred stories are paper tigers.”

“Anything sanctified may lead to murder. For one person’s sacred object will bump into that of another, and it’s only by brute force that such conflicts are resolved. ”

The mayor was captivated by the philosopher’s words, and thought:
The youth are lumps, existing free…
-of challenge
-of thought
-of dignity
-of power

So the mayor invited the philosopher to his town.

The townsfolk were not pleased.

The philosopher’s first act was the erection of a sign that read,

Your god is the wrong God!

One resident said, “How can you make such a statement?”

“I’m not here to offer instruction about how language works, but — rather — about how  a thoughtfully lived life can be achieved.”

The first man kicked the philosopher in his left shin, and stormed off.

The second shouted, “But what gives you the right?”

“The right to what? To write a statement? To expose it to public scrutiny?”

“To make claims about which god is the true God.”

“I make no such claims.”

“But your sign says so.”

“Do you claim the sign is wrong, or that I have no right to make the comment — regardless whether it is true or false?”

“Well, mostly, the first one. The sign is not right,”

“Perhaps the sign IS untrue, and if proven so, I would certainly have to remove it. So tell me, is your counter-claim that your god is truly God?”

“It most certainly is,”

“Then tell me, how can I know that your claim is the correct one?”

“It is written in the scriptures.”

“So anything that is written in a religion’s scripture is true?”

“No. Not just any religion’s scriptures, just ours.” said, the man, thinking he’d anticipated the philosopher’s argument about how mutually exclusive statements can be true.

“And why just yours?”

“Because ours were written by the hand of God,”

“And how could a person such as myself be convinced of the truth of such a statement?”

“Because it is written…”

“So the scriptures of other religions don’t say they are the truth from God?”

“They may say it, but it’s not true.”

“So do you have more of an argument than that you believe something written centuries before your birth must be true and statements contrary to it must be false? If not, I must maintain that the statement on the sign has as much validity as your counterclaim. Both statements may or may not be true and with unassignable probabilities.”

And so the second man punched the philosopher in his right eye, and walked off in a huff.

A third man, a missionary, said, “That man was wrong,”

“I agree,” said the philosopher holding his palm over his eye, “violence is not a winning argument,”

“No,” said the third man, “not about punching you. He was wrong that what matters is the scriptures. I know my god is the God because I feel it’s true.”

“I had vertigo once. It felt like the room was spinning and like I would fall over, but neither was true. So, I can’t say that I put much faith in what I feel as arbiter of truth, but I definitely don’t have any feeling about the existence of your god — one way or the other. Are you saying he might be god to you — who feel this presence — and not to me, and to all those others, who don’t have such a feeling?”

“I’m not saying that…”

“Oh, good, because I was going to ask why you make so much effort to convert people to a subjective god?”

The third man kicked the philosopher in the right shin, shook his head, and walked off.

A fourth man approached and said, “Your sign is wrong because I have no god. I don’t believe in such hokum.”

The philosopher took out a marker and made some editorial changes. He wedged a large “V” in between the word “Your” and the word “god” and wrote “lack of” above it. He then crossed out the words “the” and “God.” The edited sign read:

Your lack of god is wrong!

“Surely, you aren’t going to attempt a proof for the existence of god after what you told your previous conversant?”

“I am not. You watched the previous discussions and should realize that I claim no more than that my statement holds as much validity as yours. Unless, that is, you are more successful at proving the non-existence of a god than the previous individuals did at proving its existence.”

“I cite Occam’s razor,” the fourth man said smugly, adding, “are you familiar with it?”

The philosopher said, “Indeed I am. But I wonder, why is it not called ‘Occam’s Law?’ Is it always the case that the simplest explanation is invariably true? Could we not find in the natural world instances in which the explanation for an observed phenomena was more complicated than an explanation we could theoretically imagine?”

“Not invariably, but a good rule…”

“So you base an absolute conclusion on a ‘good rule of thumb?’ Isn’t there potential for…”

The fourth man socked the philosopher in his left eye.

The philosopher, blinded with two swollen eyes and with a knob under each knee, sat by his sign, awaiting more takers.

The mayor came by and said, “I’m afraid this hasn’t worked out as I’d hoped. I’ve gotten so many complaints. Perhaps, it would be best if you move along.”

So, the philosopher grabbed his meager possessions, and limped one painful step at a time out of town.

***

Two weeks later, a colonizing army invaded.

The officers told the residents that they must convert.

The townsfolk all said that they would never convert.

The generalissimo said, “Convert or die. Those are your options.”

“That’s unfair,” said one man.

“What gives you the right?” said a woman.

The generalissimo then said, “OK. OK. If any of you can give me a sound reason why your religion cannot be supplanted by our own, I will reconsider…”

POEM: Spanish Flu Elegy [Day 15 NaPoMo: Elegy]


I
The known world died, made sick with Spanish Flu.
Flu made War look clumsy at dealing Death.
The Dead piled for the corpse cart to come through.
Trash stacked with kin who’d expelled their last breath.
 
II
What masters passed in those tens of millions?
Could we’ve faster mastered tech and science?
Might we’ve lost heroes that matched our villains?
Could the good have formed a grand alliance?
 
III
They say a forest without any fires
is a place of Death that doesn’t know it yet.
Disease isn’t just some fast-track to the pyre;
it’s a force of nature; an unpayable debt.

POEM: Bee Flow [Day 14, NaPoMo: Pantoum]

[A pantoum is a Malay form built in quatrains, and which uses repetition of lines. The second and fourth lines of one stanza become the first and third of the next. The final stanza can, but doesn’t necessarily, revisit lines from the first stanza.]

She bends a moment writ in iron time,
while concentrating on a hov’ring bee.
Its undulation hushes a turbid mind.
Entranced, there’s nothing else to feel or see.

She concentrates on the hov’ring bee.
It becomes the sum of all things in her world.
There’s nothing else to feel or hear or see.
Only the bee alighting, body curled.

The bee is all that resides in this world.
Its undulation lulls her into trance.
She sees it flit and hover, its body curled.
The moment slows to show her its wee dance.

A Few Senryu [Day 13 NaPoMo: Senryu]

[Senryu is a Japanese style of poetry that’s identical to haiku in form, but different in content. While haiku rely on images (usually natural and often seasonal) and the juxtaposition of such images — devoid of analysis, commentary, or judgement — Senryu poetry explores human nature. In other words, while humans appear rarely in traditional haiku (and, when they do, it’s as a part of nature;) Senryu are always about humans and they do present commentary — often intended to be humorous.]







two dodge bird poop
the missed credits himself,
the struck curses birds



when floors must be swept,
some needn’t be told, some must,
and some told they can’t



extroverts
having virtual parties,
while I read



Blake said,
“The cut worm forgives the plow.”
What of the plowman?



boredom exempt:
creatures who use their teeth, feet,
or their brains



the hungry snake
doesn’t begrudge the winning
chameleon

POEM: I’ve Seen Sunsets [Day 12 NaPoMo: Rondeau]

[A rondeau is a closed poetic form of French origin. It uses tetrameter, a half-line refrain, and rhyme schemes of aab and aabba. The first poem I ever learned by rote, “In Flanders Fields,” is among the best known English-language examples of this type of poem.]

I’ve seen sunsets in colors bright.
I climbed Phnom Bakheng for the height
to peer above the canopy.
Fire orbs dip to Andaman Sea,
and I crossed isles to beat twilight.

 

Hues: royal purple to blazing fire light
I’ve watched Midwestern skies fade to night
from a tower above the trees.
I’ve seen sunsets.

 

Seven ridges of varied might,
were stacked from tree- to snowcapped-height,
and a different scene for each degree —
as painted clouds flared windward to lee,
and I watched from an idyll campsite
I’ve seen sunsets.

POEM: Train of Sleep [Day 11 NaPoMo: Free Verse]

waking in a train car
at the rail yard
slouched in the darkness —

but not pure darkness
because the lights are always on at the railyard
and the pale light shines in at strange angles

slapping the window makes your palm hurt,
bruising the bone of your thumb,
but gets you no closer to being free

trying to wedge your fingers between
the rubber ends of the sliding door panels
proves useless

the door doesn’t give way — weakly —
as it does when a running rider
slips a hand in at the last second during rush hour

nothing to do but to try to go back to sleep
but your mind races with what you’ll say
how it’s “a funny story”
or
indignantly, “isn’t someone supposed to check each car?”

of course, they are, and they did,
but the driver, eager to get home,
just peeked through window into that last car
and didn’t see the person huddled
in the backward-facing first row of that last car

mind-racing, and butt feeling the hard seats
you can’t fall asleep,
and you wonder how you ever did

but, eventually, you do

you wake in the train car
still at the railyard
but without the darkness

because a bright light shines in your face
as someone says,
“What are you doing here?”

Rainy Day Tanka [Day 10 of NaPoMo: Tanka]

[A tanka is a Japanese form closely related to the shorter form, haiku. In fact, a haiku can be thought of as the upper phrase of a potential tanka. Traditionally, the tanka (a.k.a. waka) is a 31-syllable poem. In modern notation, the additional 14 syllables are  put into two seven-syllable lines below the three haiku lines, i.e. 5 – 7 – 5. (That said, there are many — myself included — who feel that the 5 – 7 – 5 – 7 – 7 approach applied to English language poetry loses the sparse, Zen feel of Japanese poetry because English syllables can be — and frequently are of — much longer duration. Personally, I’m more partial to the 2 – 3 – 2 stressed beats approach.) Historically, a haiku presents an image devoid of analysis or commentary. In Tanka, there is a pivot and the lower phrase often presents a response to the image.]



dry season
afternoon downpours
come daily
like one bird nesting
in another’s nest


soggy forest
oppressed smoke hangs low
unseen, but smelt
bone dry wood exists
but only within flame

 

drippy garden
a bright orange flower
hangs its head high
you warm my mind,
if not my bones



Cloud Ruba’iyat [Day 9 NaPoMo: Ruba’i]

[Ruba’i is a Persian form of poetry written in four lines, i.e. one quatrain. A ruba’iyat is a collection of such poems. [These quatrains aren’t necessarily thematically or narratively connected.] The most famous such collection in English translation is Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam. In English language ruba’i, the most popular rhyme scheme is A-A-B-A, but A-A-A-A is also popular — not to mention dispensing with rhyme altogether.]


1.)
clouds drift, unrushed, across skies of blue
tranquil spies that follow stuck like glue
no gains or losses are made in this game
for “heed the wind” is the only rule



2.)
to hide a mountain takes a special cloud
the mountain may lack color, but it’s proud
its steely, silvery gray stands manly
so neither white nor grime will enshroud



3.)
still cloud, I find troubling your lack of speed
it’s like you’ve stopped to draw a bead on me
those untethered should take a roaming spree
hasn’t anyone told you that you’re free?



4.)
wispy crystalline cloud high above
your shape won’t be discussed by those in love
’cause no one’s lying back this frigid day
wearing fur-lined coats, and hats, and gloves