Gasps
Wednesday, July 30, 2003
 
Ecstatic Air

Triumph. Music
swelling

even from mundane
press release

Surprises
through augmentation

Chimes
echo chimes

Where choice
prefers concision

truth surfaces
through "formal wonders"

Like brilliance
obviating

gravity
to evaporate shadows

Say, "starkness of
beautiful heels"

Say, "woman
reading fabulously"

The challenge
of private poetry

lowers
its head

via science
of tranquility

(Expansion
just enough

for
"endless benefit")

O letter
clearing

for the Poem
now starting a book


Wednesday, July 23, 2003
 
POEM: The Eternal First Love


1.
.....song of silence.....silently singing.....singing silence.....silent song.....silence of song.....ng.....nce.....s.....o.....O!.....I.....i.....ing.....ngs.....nces.....

2.
humming.....

3.
a hiccup
for necessary dissonance

4.
ing.....ing.....ing


Sunday, July 13, 2003
 
Untitled


lilacs at midnight

redundant


you on a beach

where you shouldn't be


I am not a word

I am here


fragrance of purple

a scent too familiar through evocation


melancholy

where you are not


nor do the blues

wail


miss the unknown

sand on your hair


and the known

still incomplete "Yes"


Tuesday, July 08, 2003
 
OBVIATING UNLESS
--after "Unless," a novel by Carol Shield


The world holds back
prudence

obliging me to regulate it
but secretly

Oh, yes: missing flowers
can signify a greater evil

while the naming of a perplexity
can offer unplanned magnification

As for that miniature village
clinging to a steep, dark mountain

its modern limited editions
will never receive history

from a "Distressing" -- the noun
for literally, physically, battering pages

Goodness can be a project
of self-extinction

But this matters -- this pen remaking
an untenable world

where cemeteries become sentiment
-al embraces of death

through headless torsos
of stone cupids flattening the grass

Why explore subjugation
as paradox

when the explorer is a gaze
seeking to land

bearing the quality of softness
depicted only by eyes of never injured girls

Well, sigh then at so many secret
drawers within a drawer

A "narrative apogee"
is called for

Not, please, the loneliness
of underdecoration

Or, please, the bravery
of blurting

Please
surely, there is more


Monday, July 07, 2003
 
Second Chance

Once, the only veil
between our cheeks
was a wave loose-

ened from my hair:
is that image
purely imagined now?

A projection
on screens of
shuttered eyelids

while licking off
tasteless shadows
staining my wings

when I flew
through memory?
Where I saw

your fingers
tracing the ear
I offered as proxy

for eyes I turned
toward a window?
Where I saw you

on glass shielded
by night air reflecting
the same narrative

a mother wished
for Achilles
before a thin-lipped

god changed
the story? You see
that I am not stone

or block of salt
or any other Biblical
metaphor

for "mired in regret."
I hear your tongue
caressing my ear

as I break nails
from my hands
bleeding

into ground hard
-ened by a lead sky.
They excavate

you still breathing...


Sunday, July 06, 2003
 
LOVE IS NEVER TRITE

James Meeze writes on his Brutal Kittens Blog:

"In response to Eileen's take on poems about love: "I began my poem blog "Love's Last Gasps" with the idea of making non-trite poems from a very trite theme. The problem -- though this is a good result insofar as I wish no membrane between me and the poem -- is that in order for me to write about love dying, I had to experience....love dying." I must say that, as I'm sure is obvious, I am also writing about love though I don't find it necessarily trite as a subject. Of course, it is written about in trite manner ad nauseum by numerous folks who are unaware of the trajectory of poetics and many who are. My take on "love" is that it is such an original experience every day, whether or not one is in love, or in love with the idea of being in love, or mourning the loss of love, etc."
*****

Oh, it makes sense, James! I worded it poorly the first time. Love is never trite....though many love poems are. Thanks for the feedback, James. I'm going to change the wording of the earlier post to reflect more accurately what I wish to say -- including, certainly, that Love is never trite.


Friday, July 04, 2003
 
DIES CANICULARES

....................but not really

slithering
from headlights

rattlesnake
leaks diamonds--

skin undulating
(as I have longed

in my manner
of comprehending

a high-wire artist's*
"art of solitude")--

shimmering
scales pull

down stars
to decal asphalt road--

leading to
an iron gate

opening to
a bedroom--

cocoon
of blue velvet

where your
e-mail awaits

to stroke my hair
"You are amazing"--

rattlesnakes
hunt

using their tongues


(* Philippe Petit, as described by Paul Auster)

*****

THOUGHTS: It's rattlesnake season in Napa Valley, but it wasn't until last night that I saw my first rattlesnake!!!! I was so glad my car didn't run it over as it was breathtakingly beautiful: a pale yellow/tan skin demarcated by a black, double-tetrahedron pattern.



 
TRANSITION TO "LOVE'S FIRST GASPS"


I began this blog, previously "Love's Last Gasps," with the idea of making non-trite poems from a theme that's often generated triteness. The problem -- though this is a good result insofar as I wish no membrane between me and the poem -- is that in order for me to write about love dying, I had to experience....love dying.

Eh. It was okay for a while (and I came up with a couple of poems or so that I like). But since love don't actually happen to be dying around me, why continue to live that downer of an experience?

But I still want to try to create non-trite poems from a theme that's engendered much triteness. So, as of this moment, "Love's Last Gasps" just became "Love's First Gasps" -- this blog is now on the birth (whether first time or renewals) of love. (It will still have the same URL http://lovelastgasps.blogspot.)

Why the change? Simple. If I'ma gonna have to live the poem before I write it, I'd rather live Love Growing.

As Amanda Hass, an artist I met over a July 4 barbecue, notes on her wonderful web site AmandaHaas.com, as regards her "Residue 1999" series (bold-faced emphasis mine):

The drawings are made under a 10x magnifying lens using finely sanded 0.3mm graphite leads to capture detail. The leads snap easily, often just by breathing. A by-product of working in this fragile and vulnerable space (established between the sanding of leads and the breaking of leads) is the involuntary markmaking onto paper caused by snapping graphite. Which, then, become the real marks in these realist drawings -- those recording details of an existing object [blog theme being the "object" here] or those reflecting experience of the maker?

Peeps, were I to continue living "Love's Last Gasps," I might wreak havoc on my personal life. So, here, join me in living the poetry of expanding Love:

LOVE'S FIRST GASPS!


Wednesday, July 02, 2003
 
OH IT JUST FIGURES!

rogue
You are Rogue!

You are sexy and strong willed, and able to take on
just about anyone. You long for a serious
relationship, but whenever you begin to get
close to someone things always seem to take
turns for the worse. But you have dealt with
this lack of closeness with an almost constant
flirtacious behavior.


Which X-Men character are you most like?
brought to you by Quizilla


 
BUT

why use anger
to cast flesh
onto shadows
defining "memory"

What center
exists
regardless of
opposition


Here is a poem
's skin to elude
abstraction: a
red, waxy petal

from a rose flung to the floor

puddled by a dropped trenchcoat

there where no sunrays linger

where silence is a solid weight of rust



*****

THOUGHTS: Tinkering with visual effects. Of italics representing abstraction and boldface representing the solidity (flesh to) italicized abstraction. Tinkering...



 
BUT

why use anger
to cast flesh
onto shadows
defining "memory"

What center
exists
regardless of
opposition

Here is a poem
's skin to elude
abstraction: a
red, waxy petal

from a rose flung to the floor

puddled by a dropped trenchcoat

there where no sunrays linger

where silence is a solid weight of rust



Tuesday, July 01, 2003
 
GLASS POET

I've stumbled there and there

And here right where I enact fetal position upon cold floor

I unlatched both shoulders to press against the world. The world splintered my flesh into shards formed by more fragility: glass

Shards -- though sunlit -- of I, I, I

Today the curves along my shoulders manifest the visible from my true b-o-d-y: ball of compressed glass shards

Yea, yea, yea

To lie back with my body paralleling the straight horizontal plane is to reveal each shard -- each jagged, sharp outline. Address the pieces as a jigsaw puzzle: piece each meticulously against another to create the elegance of flatness

Jean Arp on one of his sculptures: "If I get rid of the bump, the whole thing will become elegant"

Yea, for then will I become a flat mirror able to reflect on and reflect back the totality of a multidimensional world

"greedy and ambitious," you have called me

Ron knows me as a glass drum and -- "still, oh still! -- the calloused edges of his palms pound and pound and pound. He has read my poems: he knows he must flatten me. He must soften

"your flesh is like skin pulled taught over a drum"

What is fear?

Against all logic which also diagnoses pain as something to avoid, "I am not Thoreau"

My ars(e) poetica: What is fear?



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