your birth was ninety years ago today

a matter to recall with lots of pride

but just nine years ago you went away

into the dust back to the primal clay

and kept still secret all you chose to hide

your birth was ninety years ago today

in warm november when no skies were grey

in willow walk right next to mountainside

but just nine years ago you went away

in a strange land where other rules have play

your ashes sit not too far from the tide

your birth was ninety years ago today

so we remember and with no delay

cast our minds back to thank and not to chide

but just nine years ago you went away

and we cannot forget that painful day

the words that crossed the water never lied

your birth was ninety years ago today

but just nine years ago you went away

When early morning cooking begins, Lola’s on the prowl
Across a cold floor is the click-clack of four spotted feet
Sniff, sniff…Lola’s tummy begins to growl

Morsel dropped on the floor, a sticky trail Lola will follow
Turkey, pie, stuffing and other tasty treat….
When early morning cooking begins, Lola’s on the prowl

Begging for just one bite, Lola will howl
Yummm… Thanksgiving dinner is almost complete
Sniff, sniff…Lola’s tummy begins to growl

Drool forms at her fuzzy jowl
The sweet potato pie never looked more sweet
When early morning cooking begins, Lola’s on the prowl

Lola jumps on the counter, Mommy’s face is crumpled in a scowl
Slurp slurp, Lola lunges for pie and meat
Sniff, sniff…Lola’s tummy begins to growl

The moon rose in the dark sky, in a lonely tree sits an owl
We are all hungry, there is not a bite left to eat
When early morning cooking begins, Lola’s on the prowl
Sniff, sniff…Lola’s tummy begins to growl

Lynn Mari, © 2009

Happy Thanksgiving from Our Family to Yours!

This is based on a favorite family story, when our Dalmatian, Lola, ate the sweet potato pie that I baked for Thanksgiving. I spent hours baking the pie, and sweetened it with chai only to have it completely destroyed when Lola jumped on the counter, both paws around the pie, and slurped it all up!!!

And so, under this net I crept on line
New animal, a cannibal, new wild
Glass helmet avatar, on unmet island

Soul out, coated in volumes of bit brine
Enveloped in sync, where am I now: dialed
And so, under this net I crept on line

Blinking L.E.D., so dim and divine
From darkness pin lights, all coded in guile
Shadowed seer, still just an unmet island

On type: we are taught, we take thought, note time
Our fresh face, the new content, to replace style
And so, under this net we crept on line

Despite a lack of “counscious” thought, I’m fine
Augmented senses, like Kubricks’ Star Child
Behold icy icon, an unmet island

Inside this, what was special now futile
Some old self dissolved in some kinda bile
And so, under this net I crept on line
Reverse zoo, could be you, this unmet island

Believe it or not, I have found, on this blog’s “stats,” that there are almost as many people interested in villanelles as in Robert Pattinson.  (Well, maybe not almost as many.)  Still, there is an interest.

This is fortunate for me as the villanelle form is one that I really like.  (Check out my other posts on this subject, if you would like to read explanations of the villanelle form and suggestions about how to write them.  Check these out especially if you also like Magnolia Bakery’s Banana Pudding.)

Today, I’m posting the villanelle, “The Nap,” because it it feels to me to have an autumnal aspect–after the fall, as it were.  (I was in upstate in New York when I wrote it, when the leaves were fallen, brown, and slowly drying out.)

To all those who are afraid to try writing a villanelle–you’ll see that  I cheated!  I modified the repeating lines;  in other words, I gave priority to meaning over manneristic form.   (Ha ha!)

Reading suggestion:  line breaks, in my poems at least, are not intended to denote pauses, unless there is also a specific punctuation break, such as comma or period.

Thanks as always for reading this blog.  I very much appreciate your sympathetic interest and time.  Comments are also always welcome.  Thanks again.

The Nap

Side by side, we slid to a dry, still, place.
It was not a woeful drought of age or dust,
the softer dryness of a tear-trailed face.

We never used to find this quiet space.
Any closeness quickly clambered into lust.
But side by side, we slid to a dry, still, place

where hands touched in a sweat-free interlace,
fatigue overwhelming pheromone fuss
with the softer dryness of a tear-trailed face.

Some other time we’d find that moist embrace
where pleasure mounts to such synaptic bust
I find myself side-sliding to a place

as blank as emptied well, as capsized chase.
(My brain reacts so badly to heart’s trust,
the softer dryness of a tear-trailed face.)

But today, we two, exhausted by the pace
of time and life and words like ’should’ and ‘must’,
side by side, slid to a dry, still, place,
the softer dryness of a tear-trailed face.

All rights reserved, Karin Gustafson.

Also check out 1 Mississippi by Karin Gustafson on Amazon.

New York was homogenized, cleaned out by Giuliani and his karma police. We were bequeathed the expensive shreds of what was left. This was all in the last will and testament to Manhattan, articulated in the free pamphlets piled high next to subway ticket machines. The fine print about credit cards and one speed bicycles and bomb-sniffing dogs is in there. It reads like poetry if you are, and you should be, a lawyer. It reads like an admissible villanelle. But no one reads the fine print, and no one notices the delivery boys have all gone missing. The hard boiled detectives are all sleeping in. Old cigarette smoke is bottled and sold on side street bodegas. Skyscrapers buckle in the deadening wind while handymen fix New York from the gutter on up. We take what was left for us and try and remember to leave a suitable tip if the delivery boys ever return.

A torrent of rain flooded the snaking river
with heavy drops of majestic purple
in a gentle breeze, fluttering on a thread of silver

spider webs. Water flowing beyond forever,
I drift alone on an inflatable raft. Dribbled
by a torrent of rain that floods the snaking river

that carved the deep brown canyon. Over
white waves, my heartbeat triples
in a growing breeze, fluttering on a thread of silver

rocks that line the banks. So cold, I shiver.
My teeth chatter and my spine trembles.
The torrent of rain floods the snaking river

with a sea every second. I maneuver
my raft through the valley, crippled
by the evil breeze. Fluttering like the threads of silver

strands atop my head, I lunge to sever
a tangled rope holding me down like a staple.
The torrent of rain floods the snaking river
with a chilling breeze, dancing like a thread of silver.

Originally posted here.

relief pours down like golden rain
and washed clean by the stark contrast
I feel no impulse to explain
or backtrack to explore again
exactly when the line was passed
relief pours down like golden rain

I stare back through the darkened pane
puncturing every doubt so fast
I feel no impulse to explain
the questions that always remain
I’ve reached my breaking point at last
relief pours down like golden rain

pushing me on though little gain
can mitigate ghosts from the past
I feel no impulse to explain
that nothing ever was in vain
all expectations hold steadfast
relief pours down like golden rain
I feel no impulse to explain

A clever lie is more than true in certain company,
The honest truth, at times, can leave one worse for being told,
Although the cost is often vague, the truth is never free.

I came upon an ancient man who lived beneath a tree,
He told me stories I’d have never dreamt he could have known,
A clever lie is more than true in certain company.

The old man told me he would tell me one true thing in three.
I spent my time, and searched my mind, for which of them will hold.
Although the cost is often vague, the truth is never free.

The man said his first million he had earned upon the sea,
He told me that his second had been earned by trading gold.
A clever lie is more than true in certain company.

And finally, he said he lost his fortune all to me.
And though I’d never met the man, his comment made me cold.
Although the cost is often vague, the truth is never free.

And though I rarely meet the men who’ve lost their wealth to me,
I never thought that any ended up without a home.
A clever lie is more than true in certain company,
Although the cost is often vague, the truth is never free.

Mad Girl’s Love Song (1953)

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

~A villanelle by Sylvia Plath, first published in the June 1953 issue of Mademoiselle magazine

I spend most days thinking.
My lover sits in a running car.
He shows emotion in sand waves
the way I wish I could.

My lover sits in a running car.
I break a wine glass
the way I wish I could.
I stop believing I deserve him.

I break my lover like a wine glass.
I laugh ironically.
I stop believing I deserve him.
This isn’t funny anymore.

I laugh ironically.
My lover puts his hands on my wine glass curves.
This isn’t funny anymore.
My lover is weak; he can’t turn me.

My lover puts his hands on my wine glass curves.
He and I drink fresh wine.
My lover is weak; he can’t turn me
so I stop believing I deserve him.

He and I drink fresh wine.
I show emotion in sand waves
and finally stop believing I deserve him.
I spend most days thinking.

These boring people don’t know how it’s done -
you have to have conflict, something to fear.
That’s how you make a dinner party fun

I want to leave before it has begun,
“sophisticated and proper” – oh dear,
these boring people don’t know how it’s done.

A drunk, a slut, an outlaw on the run,
a priest, grandma, maybe a keg of beer.
That’s how you make a dinner party fun.

Fuck, I’m bored! I’d rather be alone.
Everyone’s talking at me and I don’t care.
These boring people don’t know how it’s done.

I drink too much and offend everyone
then I show them my hairy naked rear
That’s how you make a dinner party fun!

You would have thought I grabbed and pinched a nun
and now they’ve kicked me out. It’s just not fair!
These boring people don’t know how it’s done,
that’s how you make a dinner party fun!

we chose at last the path out of deep night

through tangled vines and withes into clean air

nothing we gained came to us just by right

what we’d been told was that the facts would bite

each normal mind and send us to despair

we chose at last the path out of deep night

not with relief but knowing that a fight

would have to come and that no one would care

nothing we gained came to us just by right

instead we seemed the victims of some spite

from distant past inheritors of fear

we chose at last the path out of deep night

although each thought that hope was truly slight

the only thing we had to do was dare

nothing we gained came to us just by right

we were the folk throughout bereft of light

who never thought the process could be fair

we chose at last the path out of deep night

nothing we gained came to us just by right

Still thinking of Obama at Dover, and how some on the right have such a hard time accepting the sincerity of his concern for U.S. servicemen at war.

To some degree, the right seems disingenuous here.  However, the disbelief in the patriotism of someone who is generally against war is longstanding in this country;  it seems to  me at least, to stem in part from a  re-hashing of the fight between those for and against the Vietnam War, and the lingering anger over those protests.

I do believe, now, that those protesters went too far, seeming to disown the  U.S. soldiers.    The backlash, in which the flag was taken over by the right (almost as a symbol of war rather than the country) was also a travesty.

At any rate, here’s a poem about it.  Another villanelle.   (Please check other posts in the “poetry” and “villanelle” categories for the exact rules of a villanelle.  You can see that I’ve played with them a bit here.)

Flag

There were rules.  You weren’t allowed to let it
touch the ground.  If it did, it should be burned
or buried.  You couldn’t just forget it,

pretend it hadn’t slipped (if stained, to wet it)–
our trusted God would see and you’d be spurned.
There were rules.  You weren’t allowed to let it

rip or fray.  To be flown at night upset its
regimen, as it were.  The darkness turned
it into something buried.  Don’t forget it,

leave out in the rain; you had to get it
(getting soaked yourself, your last concern).
There were rules. You weren’t allowed to let it

pass—even at the movies, we would fête it—
until the Sixties came, and their war churned
and buried much—you couldn’t just forget it,

pretend we hadn’t slipped.  The fall begat at
least two flags—one paraded, the other mourned—
but just one rule—you weren’t allowed to let it
be buried; we couldn’t just forget it.

All rights reserved.  Karin Gustafson

Dylan Thomas’s famous “Do not go gentle into that good night,” written in 1951 and first published in 1952:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

it’s not that I forget
what this was meant to be
but I have no regret

although you didn’t get
it and I didn’t see
it’s not that I forget
that my path was reset
by your idiocy
but I have no regret

I carry on so let
that be my legacy
it’s not that I forget
or forgive you your debt
your senseless cruelty
but I have no regret

when my heart broke it set
my inner music free
it’s not that I forget
but I have no regret

06 June 2007

Villanelle

It is hard to relate

when things aren’t what they seem

in between love and hate.

Hearts so easily break,

and when wounds are unseen

it is hard to relate.

But, truth we learn to fake,

not saying what we mean

in between. Love and hate,

push, pull, we can’t escape

our never-ending scenes.

It is hard. To relate

under this heavy weight

is like trying to breathe

in between. Love and hate

are choices that we make:

whatever we believe,

it is hard to relate

in between love and hate.

09 June 2006

Bitter Pills

At least I can pretend,

when midnight is this calm and still,

the war within might end.

As peacefulness descends,

with nighttime’s soothing, breathless chill,

at least I can pretend,

and try to comprehend

the mysteries of my freewill.

The war within might end,

if words alone could mend

old wounds, never healed, open still

– at least I can pretend.

Regrets are bitter friends.

Forgiveness is a useful skill –

the war within might end.

This silence recommends

I swallow all my bitter pills.

At least I can pretend,

the war within must end.

As I wrote down the rules for a sestina in the last couple of posts, I have to confess that the question “why bother?” went through my head with the regularity of the six repeating “end words” of that form.

Why bother writing formal poetry?  (Much less blogging about it?)

Seriously, isn’t poetry supposed to be about free expression?

So why bother with all the restraints and requirements of a poetic form?  Why not just write free verse all the time?

Ten reasons:

1.         Writing formal poetry limits your choices.  (If your form requires rhymes, you are limited to words that rhyme.)  This is a big help if you don’t know exactly what you want to say (and if it doesn’t involve oranges.)

2.         Writing formal poetry defines your choices (i.e. once you decide to write a villanelle, you know your poem will have two repeating lines that have to work as a couplet at some point, and will probably not end in “orange”.)

3.         Writing formal poetry terminates your choices.  (If you write a sonnet, you’ll be done by line fourteen.)

4.         Poetic forms provide inherent music and, if you can manage it, rhythm.  This is great if you don’t have a good ear; even greater, if you do.

5.         Sometimes the music of a poetic form, and the cleverness of its dance, can substitute for profundity (which is wonderful if you never found out what exactly you wanted to say.)

6.         Writing formal poetry is fun; there is a game-like quality to it.  (It has rules!)

7.         Even failing at the chosen form makes you more conscious of language, and, it is to be hoped, a more musical and adventurous writer.  (Oh Orange!)

8.         Even bare success at the chosen form puts you in the company of some of the greatest poets of all time.  You, like Shakespeare, will have written a sonnet; like Dylan Thomas, a villanelle; like Elizabeth Bishop, a sestina.  This sense of camaraderie, and the understanding that arises from even a brief turn in the trenches of prosody, will make you a more appreciative and attentive reader.

9.         Finally, it must be understood, and grudgingly accepted, that a good sonnet, sestina, villanelle or pantoum is not good because it follows the rules, but because it’s a good poem.  That said, it’s hard to write a good poem.  Maybe you don’t have it in you one day, maybe not any day.  However, if you follow the rules, which can be done by simple diligence (if not always inspiration), you can write what qualifies as a sonnet, or one of the other forms.  You may not have achieved a good poem, but you will have achieved a sonnet, a sestina, villanelle or pantoum, which itself deserves a modicum of pride.

10.  “Orange” is supposed to be one of the few words that, allegedly, has no perfect rhyme in English.    But it works just fine in a sestina (or mid-line.)   And, if you do manage to rhyme it, well….

If you prefer counting elephants to counting syllables, check out 1 Mississippi by Karin Gustafson at link above.