New Year's Eve Afternoon

I wrote this poem on the afternoon of 12/31/2011 standing in my recently reseeded back yard in East Quogue


Looking at the just replanted
Half-grown lawn
I pleased myself
With the thought
That the only thing missing
Now is the weeds

There being fresh grown grass
And dog shit enough already
To approximate the usual
Midsummer scene

Only lacking are the crabgrass
And dandelions leaving
Me oddly forlorn with
The realization that weeds too
Play a vital role
In promoting a man's
Sense of well being
By defining tomorrow's
Task with a spade on
Hands and knees

A Journey Yet to Come

No matter how bad
The cell phone reception
In a particular part of town
You always want to stay
Connected to the clear blue sky
In an unmediated way
And if there ever should come
A moment where it appears
Things are going rapidly
The other way
A late afternoon squall
Blitzkriegs in from the south
Much better if you're not caught
Too far off shore when it hits
Or you just might end up
Blown far off course
Much further than you
Can even imagine possible

On the Afternoon Before Christmas

I wrote this poem 6 months ago or so and came across it today by chance. It strikes a chord with my mood this afternoon so I have decided to post it to the blog in lieu of words more contemporaneous. It was the afternoon before Christmas and I was home by myself, the dogs were both snoring, one on a chair and the other on the couch.

* * * * * * * * *

That it’s worth doing well

Doesn’t mean it’s worth doing

If no one else will ever know

Or care or tell

Unless you feel compelled

The way a swan plays the trumpet

As if it’s a necessary part of what

Or who you are and what

You have to keep doing

To stay alive

That’s what poetry

Has to become

Your daily meditation

And prayer

You don’t need a license

But it does take

Constant practice

So you can close your eyes

And pluck the truth directly

Out of thin air

To Dream Perchance to Write

This is a poem I wrote in my sleep on 12/19/2011, the night before I got fired from my job. I've tried not to change too much from what I first wrote down after waking up. One thing a little odd about the composition of this poem is that I woke up, wrote a line, went back to sleep, woke up and wrote another line, and so on four separate times. So if the poem reads a bit disjointedly, you now know the reason why


With or without
Careful adherence
To everyday
Appearances

By some method
Both proper and good
And by reality
Dispossessed

Whichever way you like
Or back and forth
If you can't decide
Already drenched in sweat
But trying harder even yet

Head over heels
Down the pathway
We tumble
Making progress
At minimal expense
A thing in itself
Neither good nor bad
While prone to something
Completely different besides

About Animal Co-Dependency

Almost everything
I needed to know
About my own addiction
I learned from Guston
The one eyed cat

Who developed
A pretty bad
Drug habit himself
Just from sitting
On my lap

You see
That’s how he became
Hooked on weed
And seemed to lose interest
In most other stuff

Whenever he saw me
Pull out my pipe
For a puff
He’d take a running leap
And soon enough

From the glassy look
In his one good eye
I knew it was time for me
To think about
Straightening up

Gan Yu - II

A Poem About Meaning

I don’t speak as
One officially trained
Or accredited by a school
Of higher learning
I have labored
With help here and there
From a few intensely wise friends
Followed by much
Dogged self-study

Poured over the dictionary
In point of fact
That proving
A most helpful way to learn
Through long steady gaze
At its handsomely bound pages
Only then did the patterns within
Begin to emerge

How meanings leap about
Whether by sound or sign
Or by means compounded
The mind thrives by
Such diversity
At each point
In the path
We notice
A potential
Divergent
Branch

Or as opposites
Meanings continuously
Attract one another
From shelter to
Abandonment
It takes nary but
A slightly different
Shape of the tongue

A New Hallmark Holiday Proposed

Tonight while watching
A sappy TV movie
I had a great idea
For a new Hallmark holiday

It would be
Called Homeless Day
And Richard Musto
Would be the official
Holiday spokesman
In all his cranky wonder

Now listen to me
One thing you have
To learn pretty fast
About living
On the street is
Never eat food with
Mayonnaise if you want
To avoid getting really
Sick

Because what holds us
Together is nothing
More or less than
What Mitch Albom describes
Only what it holds
Together I’d hazard to guess
Is not exactly
Co-extensive with
Either his experience
Or imagination

Gan Yu - II

A poem about the importance
of a strong sense of place

You know the role
Played by Richard Dreyfuss
In Close Encounters
His complete obsession
With Devil’s Tower

Well how come
I’m not quite sure
But that’s exactly the way it's
Always been for me
In and around
These few square blocks

It’s the place
Where I most belong
And how can I explain it best
Except by saying it’s been such a long time
Personal and business address as to
Become one and the same
A single location that pervades
My entire sense of well-being

Or like water
That’s circling the drain
I’m intent to continue holding on
Just a little bit longer
Thinking perhaps the path of
Least resistance is remain right here
And try to make myself
An even more integral part of the
Midtown South Precinct scene

Gan Yu -- II

Alone or Together

Alone or together
Is one of those imperishable
Questions
A toggle hard wired
In our hearts and minds

Just so I found myself
On the corner outside
Where I first noticed her
Beautiful and self-possessed
Regal throughout her being
And online at Pret
Again she was
Behind me
Long auburn hair
America’s next though
Slightly aging supermodel

As I paid for my mid-afternoon snack
Keisha asked:
Alone or together?

Well
I do my best to keep
Things together
But I’m all alone when
It comes to her
If that’s what you mean

And then I glanced briefly back
And when she smiled
I said to her
For the first and last time:
And you’re well put together too
If you don’t mind my saying

To which Keisha crisply replied:
Well
Why don’t you pop her the question?


To which I quipped in return:
Is all I get three dollars change?

But the best of it yet
Is that after stepping back
And later still
As I remembered the scene
No matter what I said or meant
Keisha came to her own understanding
Such that I ended up paying
As though we were together
Whether or not we were
In fact or in mind

So what exactly
By this question is meant
Alone or together
In this or any other context
Each of us for ourselves
Each and every time
Must redecide

Gan Yu -- II

(a poem about the benefits of embracing change)

Once again

As I get ready

To quit my day job

In truth I recall how always

I have found it much easier

To keep faith

By embracing change

Instead of getting

Bogged down in

The status quo




All the Dao asks for is balance

And no matter what you give back

Many are the ways

Chemical physical and emotional

To pry your third eye open

As you find your own way

Through life

A Poem About the Gan Yu

Does it mean

Feelings about things

Met along life’s way

Or better yet just

Things encountered

Such is the nature

Of life in translation

And such are the transformations

As we move from tongue

To tongue

Sometimes the choices

Seem very enormous

Almost overwhelming

Still

At the end of the day

The Gan Yu shall

Speak for itself

If you’ll just kindly do your best

To keep me and Chen Zi’ang

Both far from mind

Instead try striking out

On your own

First by crouching down

In the depths of the forest

And then calmly wait

Listening for the cuckoo’s

Loud lament

My Thoughts After Reading a Letter from Richard Musto

What am I

To Richard Musto

Or he to me

Both questions are

Unfathomable

And there's nothing

More laughable

Than my answer

It sometimes seems

It’s not just money

That brings us together

Though a little more

Of the green stuff

Deposited directly into

His account from time to time

Would go a long way towards

Buying me peace of mind

Meanwhile he is looking

To engage me professionally

In order to pursue legal remedies

Against half the known world

His sister’s son and a desk sergeant

In the South Bronx both of whom have

Done him grievous wrongs

A whole lifetime of

Disparagements still

Awaiting redress

And in all caps and bold face scrawl

Again and again

He reminds me to

SEND MORE CASH

BY WIRE DIRECTLY

It’s pretty clear what

He expects of me

But what do you suppose

I am destined to learn

From him in good turn

A Common Misunderstanding About What Dietrich Really Said

A lot of guys
Stop to ask me
What’s the secret of life?
And I’ll say to them
How the hell should I know
Except it’s what you see
All around you like
People sitting on the bus
Pile their bags so high
On the seat next to them
Because they don’t want anyone
Sitting right alongside
You see everybody is afraid
Of someone or something
Getting too close

And it’s the same with the rich
You know flying around
In their private jets
It’s the same damn thing
And it’s very dangerous too
All those movie stars
Politicians and musicians
Who lost their lives
In their private planes

Rugged individualism
Is what they used to call it
Back in the day
But that’s just words
They used to use
To try and give it
A positive spin
Something to say for
A good cub-scout leader
Maybe an infantry captain
Or anybody who knows
How to get by
No matter what
To live off the land
Just like me
Yeah I guess you could
Say that about me

Anyway
It’s like everyone
Made the same mistake
About what Marlene Dietrich said
She never said
She wanted to be alone
No siree
You see
That wasn't what she
Said at all
She said she wanted to be left alone
And you can take it from me
That’s a completely different thing
If you get what I mean

What Richard Told Me

You know why
There has to be a God
Richard says to me
Sitting in the back
Of Ali’s Deli
On 29th and Sixth

Look at the trillions
Of fish in the sea
And all the rice they grow
Underwater in the paddies
You take all that rice and fish
That comes from underwater
And you have enough for
A very healthy diet
Right there

And don’t forget
You still have
To call back
That Landlord
Down in Atlantic City
And if he asks you
How long I’m gonna stay
You should say
Just as long as he’s welcome
Just to show him that
I can be a very accommodating person
That is accommodating to
His disposition
And you have no idea
Frankly how temperamental
A Landlord’s disposition
Sometimes can be

For Dan

Let each poem
Be a celebration
Of life be it a moment
Of truth or continued
Uncertainty

As with the Saturday
Arrival of a package
From Putney
What the fuck?
My younger son exclaimed

And after opening it up
Holy Shit he further said
It’s a letter from Natalie
That says my application
Is complete and look here
It’s a plastic cow she sent me

Am I in or not?
Stop sending me
Rubber cows please
No more kitsch
I want the rest of my life
To begin already

This is a poem I composed at the James A. Farley Post Office on November 3rd where I went to send out one last package.


Let each day bring its own
good measure of life changing
circumstances
into existence


Each day may
the Kabbalah Truck
remain parked outside


With carts filled
with trays filled
with fresh baked
loaves of wisdom


Just waiting to greet you
on your way out
the front door

Blind to the World of Spirit

I wrote this poem early this morning. I wanted to post it quickly before having the chance to revise or disavow it.

Blind to the world of spirit

Only with eyes closed

Can the map's contours

Be discerned

How energy flows up

And out through

The crown of the head

Always rising and yet

Maintaining its own

Steady state

To know spirit

Is to know flesh and

Its dielectric constant

The permittivity of the possible

That love in every breath is

Made visible however

Limited in extent

In the chill morning air

Extension Cord by Brad Melamed

I love this image that my friend Brad Melamed posted to FB today.  This is part of recent series of work in which Brad has been exploring the connection between his hands and the rest of the world.  It seems like such a perfect drawing to accompany this poem - the permittivity of the possible - the idea could be more perfectly or cogently conveyed!

A Song of Lu Moutain

Here is a translation of one of Li Bai's spirit poems. The Madman of Chu appears briefly in the Analects and chides Confucius for thinking he can or should meddle in affairs of state.

A Song of Lu Mountain

I am the madman of Chu
Who sang for Confucius
And laughed at him too
All the while
In both my hands
A precious jade staff
Tightly I clasped

To Yellow Crane Tower
At dawn I departed
Onto the Five Sacred Peaks
Searching for Immortals
Far and wide

For an entire lifetime
Across Ming Shan
I have wandered there
Then across Lu Shan
Where I approached the Big Dipper
Through the nine screens
Traversing through clouds
Like wind through
A brocade clothe

Out of the shadows
And into brightness
I found a crystal clear lake
Its surface shimmering with
Dazzling colorful rays
And the gates of golden watchtower
Opened silently before me
Revealing in the distance
Two more enormous peaks

Down a winding path I strolled
Where there flowed a silvery stream
Under three stone bridges
It passed and then tumbled
Down a sheer precipice
In a misty waterfall
Obscure in thick with a
Blue green haze

While on the skyline
Clouds glowed persimmon
Herald of the morning sun
And birds beat their wings
In endless flight on their way
To the state of Wu

Ascending these heights
What great vistas have I seen
Of Heaven and Earth
As well as places in between
A river that flows apart from
Space and time
Measureless and vast
Filled with whitecaps
Flowing fast
Yellow clouds
Propelled ten thousand miles
By the relentless wind
Towards nine distant
Snowcapped peaks


This is the song
Of Lu Shan
The spirit that
The mountain speaks
At leisure I gaze
At her rocky crags
As into a mirror
More clearly
It’s my own heart
I glimpse

Down pathways
Long overgrown
Moss everywhere
A thick dark green
Taking an extra dose
Of cinnabar tablets
Beyond this world
The heart stirs
Like a zither
Strummed three times
It trills from
First to last

And far in the distance
See the Immortals assembling
Filled with roseate inner light
In their hands they hold
Hibiscus blossoms
To present the Jade Emperor
In the Imperial Court

Before crossing the void
Nine levels ascending
At last arriving
At the truth of Lu
Approaching utter clarity
Though the work continues
Onward still

From the Desk of the General Counsel (II)

With apologies to Gus and Jim
And to all my other clients
My sincerest regrets
That I couldn’t take
Their legal problems
Any more seriously

But being so ill-suited
To the tasks at hand
The endless wrangling and
The mind numbing detail
While nonetheless needing
To keep on paying the rent

Just as the scam blogs lament
I came to be compromised
To an unbearable extent
I felt guilt and distress
About the fraud of the law
But what’s a middle class boy
Supposed to do
When there’s rent
To be paid
And various other markers
Are all about to come due

Reflections (III)

This is my translation of a poem by the Tang poet Zhang JiuLing also known by the courtesy name of Zishou. Don't know too much about his work. He served as a senior minister to the Emperor Xuanzong in the early 700's. The spiritual flavor of this poem reminds of sonnets by John Donne.


Reflections (III)

Into seclusion returning
A man resumes his lonely perch
Deliberate in manner
Bathed in purity and truth

Like a soaring goose
Feeling full of thanks
Because of the great distance
Spread out underneath
Over which the soul shall pass

Day and night
Mindful of
Emptiness
But can anyone
Attain its essence
Soaring or sinking
From self fully
Detached

Where
Am I to find
Such comfort
Please tell me truly

On Mutual Longing

This is my translation of a poem by the Song Dynasty poet Lin Bu. I don't know much about him. Supposedly he lived the life of a recluse and turned down successive requests to attend upon his Majesty the Emperor. According to one source, although he lived as a solitary hermit, Lin considered himself betrothed to his plum trees and together with them is said to have sired a child who was a snow white crane. I can't swear to the biographical accuracy of this story, but in any case I consider this to be an incredibly beautiful poem.


On Mutual Longing

The Wu Mountains
Are clothed in green
So too are the Yue

On both sides
The green hills
Regard each other
In uneasy greeting

As if such like beings could somehow
Overcome the distance and feelings
Holding them apart

The gentleman weeps
Without restraint
So too does the lady

The same feelings
Swaddle their separate hearts
While remaining unfulfilled

The river of tears
Rises to equal level
Atop the distant banks

Ode to THC

What’s been said
About youth
Is equally true
About drugs
Being wasted
On the young

Take it from me
My son
You really need
A little seasoning
To fully appreciate
The improved reasoning
That comes with THC

And to be able
To speak truth
To weakness and power alike
And never by flattery
To be seeking advancement

Always haphazardly
Proceeding through life
Though it’s not quite a random thing
The way I take a hit or two
While walking around the block

As Yet Without a Title (for Marissa)

A rainy day
On my way home
Down West 28th
I stopped to consider
The water accumulating
In the detritus clogged drain
Above the uptown stop of the IRT train

You know the whole damn block
Is so lush and green
With palm fronds and rare orchids
Like a rain forest it casts off petals
By the bushel per hour
Being by far the most tropical part
Of the Midtown South Precinct

Then there comes a shift
In the spectrum of light
To yellow from green
With the rain-streaked taxis
Parked along both sides thanks
To the Ramadan crowds
In the Mosque
North one street

These and other things
I've noticed on my rounds
To and from the studio
Ambling for enlightenment
Every neighborhood provides a motive
For a longer sojourn
But here in particular
I'm held enthralled

Home being where a man
Dares and feels the need
To show both his most masculine
And feminine sides
This petal strewn block
Is the very place where
I've had full recourse
To expose both of mine

Humbert's Peak

In the angular light

Of a late July afternoon

I reached Hubbert’s peak

Sexually speaking enjoying

Pleasure so great with you

It felt beyond compare

Or should I say Humbert’s

Because there you appeared

In your red Target suit

Dark sunglasses and all

Looking both Lolita and her mum

And then we went

From two to one

Like a sea nymph

Urging me forward

Until we grew nethered

In the deep end together

While nearby the blue wheelbarrow

Stood upended in the dirt

Its arms for legs splayed

Invitingly

Saying to me

So much depends

On the here and the now of it

Wherever you happen

To transplant yourself

Make sure this time

It really counts

That it was shared with you

I find unsurprising

Nor am I perturbed but delighted

By the promise of all the lesser peaks

Between us yet to come

Never Once My Dear Friend, Not Once

Something I have a hard time
Understanding about you
My dear friend
Even after all those years
Not once did you ever pen
A word of complaint

I mean there is nothing more deadening
In the whole fucking world than
Insurance law yet there you were
Ensconced as a corporate VP
In charge of legal affairs
For the Hartford
And never did
You manage a peep

Discounting all the fancy rhetoric
About the emptiness of the snowman and so on
Which you may have intended
As a coded lament about how
Your work life was utterly boring

But for that reason I content myself
At having been the more direct
If less artful poet
Having found similar means
To support myself I nonetheless
Don’t trend so much to abstraction
Or self satisfaction that scribbling
A line or two will ever amount
To a whole hell of a lot more

The Naming Ceremony

We sons of Marv
We partied hard
And learned to live
With immoderate risk
Whether we or the dice
Became more fully loaded
There’s room for continuing debate

But when the time finally came
For me to choose my own name
I chose Blue Flower Poet
With aspirations so clear
It still remains to be seen
Just how well
It may be said
I lived up to it

Poem for My Father

For all those reasons too
I have scribbled in obscurity
Through each day
The alembic drips

Whether defying received wisdom
Or spurning proffered sympathy
Yet still longing in private
For some crumb more
Than self-respect

Towards the Finland Station
You made your way
Constantly crisscrossing
The tracks proceeding
At your own good pace
So restless means seldom bored

Through it all
You composed a song
For a Jazz Combo
Where urban sets the beat
Balanced by a country air
As with strings of longing
Drawn forward
And from student days
Hear the flute's
Lyrical call
While a guitar provides
The loin's true heat

Even to those who
Consider themselves
Of animal or plant parenthood
I say the heart must stay strong
However divided
As two pieces of obsidian
Broken from the self same stone

And so I am
My Father's Son
I swear it
On this very ground
Where he lies today
I leave one half
While the other
I take away

Hey Mr. Archangel

Ending up
In your presence
Later tonight
Will not be quite
By accident

Whether sitting alone
Or with my wife
It was she who
First brought
The notion to mind

Although I should
Also mention
I personally arranged
For an extravagant bouquet
Of white flowers

Two geraniums
On either side
Of a towering
Snap Dragon together
Serve as backdrop
To a teardrop orchid
Ladled on top
Of a green chevron
Why don't you come in
And see for yourself

And this poem in the form
Of a prayer is what
I'm thinking right now
Whether it carries you
Over the threshold or not
Only time will tell

Two by personal invitation
One by intuition
And then as to
The three wishes
Let them come
Straight away
As my heart swings open
Like a garden gate

Perhaps Enlightenment
Always proceeds this way
Cross-crossing
City side streets
And narrow alleyways
Up the back stairs
Until St. Thomas and the others
Arrive with a rustle of wind
And unpack their bags
For a five night stay

To Fellow Members of the Academy

Unsure on which particular day
I first became a member
Of the American Academy
Of those who dabble in verse

I found myself sitting down
From time to time
In front of the typewriter
With an energy that was
Incredibly succinct

Though nearly capable
Of bursting through my capillaries
That’s how sharply it pulsed at times
And how much I found myself
In need of release whether
By means of measured rhyme
Or just the reverse

It came to me
Line by line
Like an extension of my very self
Yet also as if begotten by ghost hand
Powered or perhaps informed
By someone other than I

All the while
It resonated so deeply
From soles to crown
Measuring the totality
Of who and what I am

So now I say
Let poetry itself
Be the foundation’s rock
I don’t need Harriet Monroe
Or anyone else to help decide
In point of fact
And difficult though it may be
To get the news from poems
Let no man die for lack thereof
For want of trying

Qing Chou and Lao Nian

I trouble myself
Now and again
Thinking about
The three stages
In the life of man
Qing Chou and Lao Nian

Wondering where
In their midst
I presently stand
Betwixt the there I go
And the here I am
Not entirely sure
I still know the difference
Between Qing Chou and Lao Nian

At MOMA Wendesday Afternoon

By the Philip Guston
You stood deep in
Contemplation
For a long while while I
Blackberry in hand
Proceeded through
The arabesques
And swirls heading
Towards whatever
Next came to mind

Not long after
Pollack realized
He wasn't Picasso
You saw how he figured it out
Through a flick of the wrist
Paint thick on the brush

And in the room next but one
There it was again
An image that lingered
On the retina of
Barnett Newman’s inner eye
Abstraction made
More vivid through
The pushing and shoving
Until you stood
At the very forefront
Of daylight's parade

Then heading down the corridor
Twenty years in the making
By Rothko in contention
With failing light itself
Along the dimming path
Of a darkening palette

It was precisely then
I understood you
As a student in
In the same academy
The same impulse of light
Though sometimes
Inclined to take up
Disguise just
The reverse

With a firm grip on the brush
The horsehairs bristle with life
In a virtual reenactment of
The flowering act
You follow a genetically
Determined path just like
A bumblebee races along
The curve of light
Enfolding the tip
Of the hibiscus bud
Next about to bloom

Sonnet No. Thirty-Two

If I just happen to be
Wearing a cardigan
Due to inclement weather
And there’s no message
Inscribed either in the top
Or bottom of the bottle
And I’m stuck in the middle
Of the universe trying
To clear my mind in preparation
For rhyming meter or blank verse
Though a paper cut may give rise
To a daub of blood upon my brow
As I prepare once more
To assume my forgetful state
Let the real world slip
A continent or two away
Though I remain incarnadine
In an inconsequential sort of way

From the Extension Chord series by Brad Melamed