Daniel Klawitter - 2
In Memory of Robert W. KingWe all miss his voice of course:
The sound of honest sandpaper Or gravel gurgling In a rough, river bed. He could hold you, spellbound, At a poetry reading, Becoming everyone’s Favorite grandpa in verse. Thank the muses we still have his poems. Poems which slide on the mind Like well-washed jeans, Loose and tight in all the right places— Good for pacing the distances Between hope and hopelessness. From now on, when the sages ask: “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” I will always think of you, Bob, And the sound of an Old Man Laughing. [Editor’s Note: Bob King was a joyful contributor to VerseWrights. He also recorded three poems with his distinctive, “honest sandpaper” voice. Old Man Laughing was his first full-length book of poetry.] The Book of St. AlbansA murder of crows--
A gaggle of geese. In poetry and prose-- A linguistic masterpiece! A parliament of owls Or perhaps a scream of swifts. You can feel it in your bowels: Such luscious artifice! All the PoetsThese days,
it seems all the poets love using the word: “Rhododendron.” Geography is inspiration. Botany begets creation. Esp. in a Mary Oliver poem! Don’t get me wrong-- I like Mary Oliver. Her poetry is very peaceful. Full of animals and nature. Often depopulated of people. Everyday someone new succumbs to her spiritual spell. (I wish my books sold half as well.) And then there’s the rebels: The beatnik poets who had a thing for the Buddha. Lots of poets now worship Walt Whitman, wish they wrote Howl, won a Nobel like Pablo Neruda. In the end, all the poets are the same as you or me. We have moments of clarity, and many moments when we are mysteries unto ourselves: two-legged, Janus-faced, perplexed, Searching for the perfect words in the perfect order on the most elusive subjects. None Too CleverAs long as you can remember,
People have always said- You are not the sharpest tool In the history of tool sheds. You are also not the keenest knife That’s in the kitchen drawer- And in your case the elevator Does not go to the top floor. You’re a burger short Of a combo meal- And one ski short Of a snowmobile. You’re an open book But the pages are blank- A deposit short Of a functioning bank. The phone is on But there’s no reception- Your eyes are open But without perception. You’re a few atoms shy Of critical mass. And a car on a road trip Without any gas. You’re missing some marbles- A few screws are loose. The train has left the station- And thou art the caboose. Talk About the Weather
“Weather forecast for tonight: dark.”
~George Carlin When the fingers of winter Claw their cold way Through the stark bark Of brittle trees- Your figurative heart is still At home by the hearth, Curled up little and tight As the paw of a worn-out kitten- Clutching a wisp of warmth Among the fuzz and fizz Of dying embers. DogmaticsWhen it comes to poetry, I am quite ecumenical.
I’ll take it light & lyrical in terms of versification- Or narrative, experimental and also confessional. Some slam poets do sound a little too identical- Making one wish they’d avoid verbalization. Nevertheless, let us embrace the nonprofessional. Free verse is fine and so still are sonnets. Rhymed or unrhymed, irregular or formalist: Poetry is a church of many different denominations. As long as craft trumps emotional vomit, And semblance isn't senseless–or the music subordinate: Let’s allow each one their particular call & vocation. My tastes are catholic in the sense of: universal. If a poem is well done, it will seem irreversible. C MinusI was always below average at math.
Yet I know how fullness retracts And shrinks back to empty. How the calculus of loss Is equal to achievement, Or simply: how all those numbers In unencumbered, joyful sequence- Are neither greater nor less than The algebra of bereavement. |
Poetry in Yo Face If I feel physically as if the top of my head were
taken off, I know that is poetry.--Emily Dickinson If hope is the thing with feathers Like the Myth of Amherst said-- Then poems are words like birds, Nesting in your head, singing sweetly Or chirping curses. As likely to peck your eyes out, As dazzle you with verses. Buddhist Constipation Haiku
Face red with straining--
Zazen on white porcelain… Life is suffering. Bad First Date Sensations that are not likely to be understood
are best kept to ourselves. To be sure, a sunset is highly poetic, but what is more ridiculous than a woman describing it in long words for the benefit of matter-of-fact people? –Balzac. She used the word “luminous” to describe the setting sun, but the banker was unimpressed-- he thought it was ludicrous and so he confessed his preference for profits over sunsets. When the moon came out, she exclaimed: “It is the eye of a silvery lunatic!” The banker, (a little nervous now, truth be told), explained that he was more into arithmetic than metaphors. With a sigh, she replied: “Forgive me for being bold, but I’m fairly certain you are a matter-of-fact person. There’s nothing wrong with that. There are worse ones to be. But you see, poetry is my thing. Why don't we call it a night?” “Alright” said the banker. “May your words bring you warmth. I mean that with all sincerity.” To which she responded: “Warm or hot, words can't be bought, go home and count your currency.” Such Strange Pageantry "Remembrance of things past
is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were." –Marcel Proust It is a strange alchemy- To make the past present Through an act of will And remembrance. To make it real Though intangible, While never leaving The mind’s labyrinths. Such strange pageantry- At times unpleasant With regretful lament. Time travel as penance Is impractical-but still We honor the Sabbath. We keep it holy-and we will Unpack our baggage. A Flock Made FleshThe sudden birds erupt upwards
In a shower of speckled confetti-- Startled starlings taking wing. Like my love in feathers For you my dear darling-- When you turn and preen So spectacularly. The Poetic Crimes Investigative Unit
No one knows how it happened:
But we found words in Latin On the crumpled paper napkin, Clutched in the hand of the poet Jabbering on the floor by the banister. He was nude and obviously in shock, Speaking in misconstrued iambic pentameter Through chattering teeth, but no rhyme Or reason could be detected in his talk. “It’s so cold”, he whispered. “And my heart is like a rock.” “Perhaps he’s been infected?” suggested the Sergeant. But the poet’s vitals all seemed normal. “Well, he didn’t overdose on formal verse” Declared the paramedic—to which the Sergeant replied: “Hell, something scared him though. Maybe he’s just cursed.” It’s all idle speculation, but a witness later said That she saw abrasions on the poet’s face The day before—angry stanzas written In red letters furrowed across his brow. But she didn’t know what it meant, why or how it got there. And then we found the note, written in blood On the bathroom mirror. It sent a shiver Down everyone’s spine, including the hotel clerk. It said: “One should never choose to piss off your muse By asking for inspiration, without doing any work!” "Well, that settles it”, said the Detective. “What We have here is an assault on a poet predisposed To laziness. His own muse beat him down, Ripped off his clothes and left him exposed.” And let that be a lesson to you criminals: Ignorance is no excuse: mystery solved, case closed. The Fundamentalist
The Scripture opens and a multitude of voices,
assaults your ear. But you can only hear the one Voice. The one that echoes what you were taught: that God is truth, not love. And truth is a club to be used in war. So you shouldn't be surprised that it strikes me as being somewhat medieval, this small fortress with very high walls that you would die for. I prefer the cathedral, where there is more space for grace to overcome the evil that men do. Men like you, for whom certainty is a relief, prove only one thing: you don't really believe in God. You believe in belief. That's why any contradiction results in a fatal hemorrhage... a faith without a doubt, is a god in your own image. ♢ |