Honestly, I'm a Liar, & Other Balances & Imbalances

May 29, 2017

STARES AND A LOOK

Filed under: fragments, lost, POEM, poetry, prose, Uncategorized — Tags: , , , — namelessneed @ 2:28 pm

 

 

S T A R E S

Where is the wound that shines?

Well Over 50 years on

Over this  his day, on?

My Back  way against all this memorial day shite  here

I’ll intentionally send me  to a ill-shielded shy there,

Back at  again to that  day where

I’m Far  too young  to fathom,

Or even  notice  yr. crevasse,

Yr  Grande Malaise,

Yr. countdown…Yr. Pass.

It makes me madly think now

It takes  the saddest thing    to tell now..

Stuck in a stack of old NewYorkers

There’s this raw cartoon drawing;

A mere boy  drawn in black & white

Stands on a step of his own basement,  stares,

He did look down on his own  livid  apocalypse,

His lips, and the caption say

“It’s  A.O.K.”

.

Here is the wound that shines

Tonight, a glint off yr. cracked onyx ring.

I lift it  in my open fist to my lips.

.

.

L  O  O  K

.

Hope  we’re having  a heaven  so

I’ll look all about  &

Daddy can call out, (& it won’t hurt, no)

He’ll look just like he just got home from work:

“There’s my inquisitive young man,” he’d shout.

We’d have it out;

My young man’s mystery,

His young man’s misery.

We’d upheave it out. One Heavy inquiry would unfold

If he mightn’t have killed himself  he might have taught me:

“You gotta take the bite of bitter with the cold”

.

My Mother could steady things when she told me

When I was ready she told me:

“I know, I know,

With time…

We’ll  heal.

He  was  not  well.

They say  that You/

Have his look.

You  know.

You know

I say  ‘You’ll/

Try having my smile’”.

.

.

.

.

For always, again, rest in peace, daddy 3/21/1929-5/29/1959

May 18, 2015

“MORNING ARRIVES” by Franz Wright

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , , , , , — namelessneed @ 4:06 am

Morning Arrives

BY FRANZ WRIGHT

Morning arrives
unannounced
by limousine: the tall
emaciated chairman
of sleeplessness in person
steps out on the sidewalk
and donning black glasses, ascends
the stairs to your building
guided by a German shepherd.
After a couple faint knocks
at the door, he slowly opens
the book of blank pages
pointing out
with a pale manicured finger
particular clauses,
proof of your guilt.
.
.
FRANZ WRIGHT, POET
RIP;5/14/2015

December 1, 2014

Explanation, from Mark Strand

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , — namelessneed @ 4:52 am

STRAND

Well, I think what happens at certain points in my poems is that language takes over, and I follow it. It just sounds right. And I trust the implication of what I’m saying, even though I’m not absolutely sure what it is that I’m saying. I’m just willing to let it be. Because if I were absolutely sure of whatever it was that I said in my poems, if I were sure, and could verify it and check it out and feel, yes, I’ve said what I intended, I don’t think the poem would be smarter than I am. I think the poem would be, finally, a reducible item. It’s this “beyondness,” that depth that you reach in a poem, that keeps you returning to it. And you wonder, The poem seemed so natural at the beginning, how did you get where you ended up? What happened? I mean, I like that, I like it in other people’s poems when it happens. I like to be mystified. Because it’s really that place which is unreachable, or mysterious, at which the poem becomes ours, finally, becomes the possession of the reader. I mean, in the act of figuring it out, of pursuing meaning, the reader is absorbing the poem, even though there’s an absence in the poem. But he just has to live with that. And eventually, it becomes essential that it exists in the poem, so that something beyond his understanding, or beyond his experience, or something that doesn’t quite match up with his experience, becomes more and more his. He comes into possession of a mystery, you know—which is something that we don’t allow ourselves in our lives.

from interview in Paris Review./ http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/1070/the-art-of-poetry-no-77-mark-strand

.

Mark Strand, April 11,1934-November 29,2014

January 7, 2013

Bless “THE RIGHT THING’

Filed under: prose — Tags: , , , , , , — namelessneed @ 4:14 am

The Right Thing

Let others probe the mystery if they can.
Time-harried prisoners of Shall and Will-
The right thing happens to the happy man.

The bird flies out, the bird flies back again;
The hill becomes the valley, and is still;
Let others delve that mystery if they can.

God bless the roots!-Body and soul are one!
The small become the great, the great the small;
The right thing happens to the happy man.

Child of the dark, he can out leap the sun,
His being single, and that being all:
The right thing happens to the happy man.

Or he sits still, a solid figure when
The self-destructive shake the common wall;
Takes to himself what mystery he can,

And, praising change as the slow night comes on,
Wills what he would, surrendering his will
Till mystery is no more: No more he can.
The right thing happens to the happy man.

Theodore Roethke

November 13, 2012

My Own Parade

Filed under: fragments, rhyme — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , — namelessneed @ 1:58 pm

 

 

 

 

Walking, mostly in clockwork close meter,

Warmer ghosts  from my former  features;

All the roles, All the resume’,

Falling in line,  just the crew to rescue me.

Faded as sad old soldiers,

Vain fantasies say old glories.

Again, always, They had  heaved it all in a chest.

Again, always, they had heaved in their chest

& took it to heart.

.

I’ll call it for you  my own VFW

hall. I have my own tall tales to tell,

We’ll share lies, & libations.

I’ll wear my  mightier  pen.

I’ll share  sham wisdom  wide open.

But first, false memories in verse.

& what’s worst,  I’ll con, & confide  open.

.

.

.

.

“I’m ready to go anywhere/ I’m ready for to fade/ Into my own parade”

—————-Dylan (the troubadour one), from “Mr. Tambourine Man”

.

.

.

.

“Every hero becomes  a bore, at last.”  -Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

 

July 12, 2012

The Unpalpable Ash

Filed under: poetry, prose — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , — namelessneed @ 11:52 am

“..If I touch/ Near the fire/ The unpalpable ash..”

-Pablo Neruda  (7/12/04-9/23/73)  from  “If You Forget Me”

.

.

.

 

 

 

 

I wonder when one day

We’ll pocket our passions

They’ll fasten  in look-see  neck  lockets

Soon it’ll seem right

To wear…She’ll share hers in sunlight

Fashion  will see to it  we

Unabashedly

Undress off our soft  underthings

And  show  softer

Bold  and  tender

Expressings