11 (another ponderous collection to bore you all with)

42. And possibly 7 and 9 too. But 5 as well for lots of reasons. Y'hear? Y'hear? Woof.

[IMG]http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d20/alteredlife420/heartsonspecial.jpg[/IMG]

'Strings and Holes and Other Things'


This world is strange, Bill.
It's a mess of flowers in hair
and the taste of winter nearing,
of objection being an abject sin
to throw wreaths at,
filled with trembling daisies
and the taste of discomfort
found in books written
by oppressed Russians
and plays staged by the spoken class.
Literate fools. Nonsense in a teacup.
Two sugars and milk, two hands
to show your lover what it means
to feel passion and anger to be twins.

I still believe
there's a modicum of truth
which tells me I exist
to plant seeds in this earth,
seeds which will bloom and sprout
and make me reconnect,
make me throw stones into the ocean
and giggle, make me do the silliest,
fruitiest things.

Let me believe this.
Let me think delusion and truth
are opposing twins too, riled
and grating together, too full
of push and pull, polar dynamics
stretching, becoming a silent,
salient thing.

This world is strange, Bill.
It's a ball of silly string.


'again, shhh'


what
secrets?

you, hiding:
flower-infested hair

and carrots dangling
from your mouth

(a splash of hummus
on a whole-grain slice)

the grass, warm
beside you

hiding
your fright


'triangles'


earlier, emma and i chanted, danced with hare krishna's,
discussed philosophy, psychology, why i'd never convert
but eat their food all the same, stare at their saffron robes:
bald men with glasses like mahatma gandhi,
blonde ladies not past twenty-eight, still firm
and wild-eyed, impatient.

nights like this gift me with alternate angles.
empathy, i've been trying to reconnect.
compassion, what to say to a slab of meat?
excess, i wave it back to the gutters.

from beach road to titirangi to pukekohe again:
i'm of two minds, of two different faces.


'just a thought or three'


i say
all this earth
could give me
dust showers
and erupting clouds
reminding me
of vesuvius
and pompeii
in history books
i've read
churning over
why
tragedies happen
only
to the seemingly
eternal
who grace pages
and paintings
and the sound
of concertos
raised to god
and the conductor
furiously
scribbling
at notes
needing
releasereleaserelease
to catch fire
and tell the stars
all is wild and good
and pure
and scraping
for affection

like you knew


'chic. cheek? i'm sorry'


i'm no piece of candy for you to
chew laboriously over. no sweat-rag
for you to throw out in the dumpster.
i have some sense of class, decorum
(not much, i know). i have a certain
cafe-night-sidling-by-with-a-cigarette
because i like to think i'm slightly hip.
slightly, y'know, ethereal: an eclipse
of bubbly toes and blossom lips, of
perfection being an abominable sin.
a sin! gutter-talk when the candle's
set just right. a raised eyebrow at
your stumbling, bumbling shoes.
at your ebullience when none
should be felt. when stars drop
onto my belt. and tell me

"wake up. you're a frightful sight."


'arch(aisms)'


attachment: lasagna to a lover of all things italian.
i've never visited rome or florence or milan.
but maybe, one day. maybe.

epigrams: i studied these once.
came up empty, shadowed by self-doubt.
to define, to realign and make witty? shoot me.

somnambulance: i've recently discovered this.
a fruitful philosophy in which to dream.
no, it's stasis, moonshot, the taste of steel.

inferno: i've no connection with dante.
no time for brimstone fumes.
arch with me. pray in tune.



'lorca's lover'


yes, i'm a w***e to temptation. i chase shadows
and breathe the forlorn even during the day.
if i were a gay male, i'd be lorca's lover
or his sorry confidante, no mistake.

maybe
it's time to stuff oblivion
into my mouth, watch from an old house
made of oak and cedar
and recall:
windswept juniper beyond the walls,
crushed monkey berries
shrivelled and tasteless and watery
like they always were.
oh, remember as a child�
hiding, throwing,
stumbling
and not knowing, not caring
what the world was about?
it's silence now, silence and mercy
with her white hat.
it's empty now: blue shores call
but never twice.
home is gone, lost in a slipstream
of forgotten friends who'll never come back,
drowned in a pool of prayers
and lonesome, lavender light.

i'm a w***e to temptation. i look more than i should.
i chase shadows and bathe in the night.


'anklebiter'


i write poems to myself tonight. it speaks of cheap perfume
and stale sweat fusing the carpet and my lips together.

existence: a little girl who breaks her ankles every day.


'is marriage blind?'


i was nine when my world tumbled,
became floating spars
drifting through different oceans.
i would hold an orange
and peel slowly,
dream slowly
of the fruit within.

you speak of sky
when countries burn.
you clean dishes
when children hunger.
i've always spiralled, hoping
and falling, hoping
and falling
and yet
you still speak of sky
like a lover would.
how i wish i was filled with your might.

i was nine when the rivers burst.
i was blinded from rushing waters.



'now is'


i forget. i condense.
each noun a statement. a whirl.
a figurative gesture. and i. and you.
we shoulder each moment past.
grab a hold of. existence.
it's not that futile.
just now.


'Mark'


He wouldn't recognize me now,
fleet-footed when it comes to decisions�
sometimes wobbly, both feet spindly stalks
asking for the nearest seat
to splay my tired body
upon.

The last time we conversed,
it was under an old tree
I'll always have fond memories of�
lichen-crusted, still with an old swing
made of rope, wood and summer breezes
blowing eternally.

I would ask him how his nursery fares, how
time on a farm would leech anyone
of wanting to know the outside world�
beyond the hills of Pukeoware,
atop a fence-post standing sentinel
for the birds.

I remember where the chickens
would coop in winter, laying
the fattest eggs possible�
and I'd still see the kennel where
my dog would sleep, now overgrown
with wild raspberry bushes.

He was the only dad I ever knew truly, one
who taught me young and told me off�
but little boys being what they are,
will never learn, will never find out
until their fingers get caught
under the grill.

It's time to visit again
and share the moments
since I last saw him.

Author's Note

Eleven poems to read through, hahahaha, good luck! I don't expect any of you to read them, or to leave thoughts... I'm hopeless at reviewing most of the time so no hard feelings, honestly.

1st: Bill is a writer on another site I keep in contact with... an Ohio native ex-priest, ex-obituary writer who is now a creative writing tutor, I think... could be wrong... but still, an interesting mix, haha.
2nd: Picnic girl. That's all I'll say.
3rd: A crazy date, and about vegetarianism which has always appealed to me for so many reasons.
4th: Wrote this yesterday in about 20 seconds. No punctuation, no capitals, just a blur.
5th: A female persona I adopted for another site I'm on where I have both a male and female ID.
Don't ask. All I'll say is... creative license, ya dig?
6th: Wordplay, dreams etc. Yup.
7th: One of my favourite writers. Enough said.
8th: Depressing. Another writer once said to me it was the most stunning thing he'd ever read. How does one reply to that other than with a deep thank you? Those moments... are humbling and pure.
9th: Well, divorce and all that. So many have gone through it. Just my take.
10th: I've always loved this one. Chalked this down once on one of our missions in the city.
11: Finishing up with my step-dad Mark out in the country where I was raised. I guess that life gave me a firm grounding and respect for... life in general. This one's an oldie... at least two years old.

Did you even read this description? You shouldn't. It's a spoiler. It really is.
Blah blah blah yakkity smack and so on etc etc blah.
And... woof.

Reviews

[Touché Armada]

1)
Whine/wine pant LOL , cant say I know Bill well at all though I can say I do love his writing, most creative and at times nicely twisted. There is desperation in this one J almost looking for a word from someone you respect or perhaps a say its not so. I love the dizziness its very much like the pup, spinning a million unanswered questions and ponderings and wanting perhaps an answer or two and before the answer bang with the next question... What can I say? This write was so flat out and busy I almost feel tired with the movement.. almost. Is that how you two talk for real?

[Doug]

armada said desperation. i definitely felt that. your word choice was wonderful. the format felt good as well. it seemed to give the poem structure. very nice!

-doug-

[zig]

ive really enjoyed this collection, read it several times. each time the same lines keep jumping out at me


"two hands
to show your lover what it means
to feel passion and anger to be twins. "




"existence: a little girl who breaks her ankles every day. "



"i forget. i condense.
each noun a statement. a whirl.
a figurative gesture. and i. and you.
we shoulder each moment past.
grab a hold of. existence.
it's not that futile.
just now."

great work here, just great. im even more impressed. zig

[lark]

(warning: this has probably nothing to do with any of your poems. but i've already commented upon most of them, aaand... i don't think you really need a second opinion, much less a second opinion from me (when i gave you a first opinion in the first place))

(i didn't actually mean that to say, 'you don't need an opinion other than mine.' you know what i mean...)

Today I read this:
'Words will save you when guns can't'
... by some guy who's all up-his and stuff about writing. But it's a nice thought, and then he ended the book with a poem that began like this:
"Populist Manifesto #2"
Sons of Whitman sons of Poe
sons of Lorca & Rimbaud
or their dark daughters
poets of another breath
...

And I thought of you. (Aw.)



furiously
scribbling
at notes
needing
releasereleaserelease
to catch fire
and tell the stars
all is wild and good
and pure
and scraping
for affection

like you knew



i do. you do too.

goodnight.

[Emily B]

You know I love your words. Always juicy, big fifty-cent words, stringing us along to such unusual places. Yes, you know that we will read your poems, all eleven. Because we have to . . . who could resist?

[Legion]

All very well written. Have you posted these seperately before? Seems like a read a few before. You caress the meaning from words like a massuese caresses the fatigue of the day out of one's tired, aching body. Good work.

[Fabian G. Franklin]

No, I didn't read the descriptions, just the poems. I think you highly underestimate the shackling power of your words keeping the readers eyes bound to the page in chains. I have gathered stones from the ocean, did you throw those in there for me to find? Our chickens used to lay tiny eggs we called lucky eggs and how did the little girl with the broken ankles fare, did she ever find a footing or a fruit that was not bitter as the peeling away of time? You are so gifted. I think I had read "maybe" before...maybe...lol no, I am fairly certain I have.