It's Two Twenty Eight

The dogs have twice

Been walked

It’s two twenty eight

It’s time to slip in

To a half-dream state
If I listen closely enough
Even the jackhammer
In the street will
Start making sense

To Point Reyes Station

Pulling into

Point Reyes Station

I thought to myself

Here where the Fault juts

Seaward is a place

Appositely inclined

To my own frame of mind

While also very much akin

To invisible features   

Of the ground underlying
Together giving rise
To an unshakeable sense  

Of karmic equivalence

Strolling down Main Street

I browsed the bookstore aisles

Hoping for guidance  

From a former resident scribe  

Yet none beckoned to me

From the shelves

Who had scribbled

Any closer than

Kesey north in Humboldt

Or Steinbeck down in Salinas

Leaving the most local of mysteries

Still waiting to be divined

Only a few hundred yards

Beyond the outskirts of town

Unmarked by a formal road sign 

Yet the topography could be read

As clearly as with map in hand
Right there where the fingertip

Of Tomales Bay cut inland

As signaling the occurrence

Of a change most profound

And from that point with eyes closed

I thought to venture further on

At less than snail’s pace

And forever affixed to this spot

Though by dint of the epochal
Migration of rock knowing

I was nonetheless destined
To end up in Portland

A hundred million years hence

Carried along by this very earth’s 

Inevitable heaving
As the Pacific coast itself

Slipped to the rear

Whether I stood on
An island or peninsula

It remained unclear
But gradually grinding north
Transported by an overpowering force
I made my way of necessity
To North America
In contra-position

Sunday Morning

Between press click send
And the boot-up routine
Begins a new poem
Prologue to an act
Still to come

This product is
Licensed to me
In point of fact
And seeing how
It's a free country
I can say whatever
I want goddammit

Though sometimes
It would be nice to know
Whose voice it is
That's speaking to
Or through my head
And how it relates
To airportcigarettes.com
And all the other
Duty free zones

Ode to the 14th Green

This morning

As I ambled

Along the course

Of Saucon Creek

I thought how

Wordsworth might

Have penned an ode

Or Longfellow been brought

To tears for love

Of this leafy green

But my only concern

Was to stay clear

Of the foursome

Right then approaching

From the other side

Of the Creek who  

After stopping to take

A few practice swings

Amidst the chorus of

Woodland songbirds

Suddenly commenced

Hacking at the turf with their

Clubs of carbonized steel 

And right then and there

Where the Creek runs slow

Alongside the 14th green

I  saw clearly how

The pristine waters

Bubbled forth with

Unceasing foam

Enriched with the runoff

From Monsanto’s latest

Miracle products and

I couldn’t help but

Shed a poetic tear or two

Beholding this idyll of youth

Thus transformed 

Into an official stop on

The PGA tour

The Swan

This is my translation of a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke, which my mother said is one of her favorite poems.  But more precisely, since I don't read German, I based my translation on a prior translation (which my mother gave me) by Joanna Macy.  Until I read this poem (in Macy's translation), I never particularly much liked or understood Rilke.  But Macy has given me a much better appreciation for Rilke's incredible talents, which here I have tried to restate in a style more of my own.

 * * * * * * * *

We labor away

With all that remains undone

Everything that weighs us down

Much as a waddling swan

Approaches the water

And when we die

The very ground seems to

Give way underneath us

Just as the swan delivers itself

Hesitant but gracefully

Onto the water’s surface

Which yields as it flows all around

Ripple after ripple

While the swan

Now altogether calm and secure

And with regal bearing

Glides forward serenely 

In The Dark American Night

A news story I read today

About the Colorado shootings

Ended on a solemn note

Reflecting the full depth

Of this American tragedy

As Warner Brothers

Decided to withhold

Box office numbers

For the Dark Knight

Through this long weekend of grief

Issuing a formal statement that

They will wait until Monday

Out of respect for the victims

And their families

But with respect to

Their shareholders

Please take note

That receipts may not have  

Diminished so much after all

And there's only negligible

Risk of long-term harm

To the Batman franchise

As the Dark Knight will be

Ready rise yet again

Perhaps as soon as
This coming fall

On My Way to Buy a Diet Snapple

Another 90 plus day
Here in the City
And the humidity index has
Increased the very weight of the clothes
On my back and there's a Mojave blast
Coming off the sidewalk
That's been baking
Since midday up
Along 7th Avenue

This may not be the way
The world ends
In point of fact
But we may very well
Wish that it did
If every year
The temperature
And the chaos keep
Rising accordingly

A Note About Chan

Like a seagull's call
Reality is iterative
That for me
Is the essence of Chan

It first coheres
From a reverence
For emptiness
And slowly ripples out
From there

The Song of An Always Self-Published Poet

Often taking
Perverse pride
Being a self-published poet
Like my beau idols
Walt Whitman and
William Blake

When finally time came
To hammer out terms
With my first semi-legit
Publisher
Ironically enough
With a company 
Named Proverse

I found myself
Adopting a hard line
Over inconsequential things
Such as the percentage share
Of non-existent revenue streams
And foreign rights that weren't there 
Perhaps in the hope of insuring
That publication might never
Come to pass

And that way
My authorial hymen
Might remain intact
At least a bit longer
Having received insufficient
Inducement to give up
My meager pittance of purity

What it Means to Be Homeless

This poem is for and about my friend Richard.  It is part of a larger work I am deeply involved with (in collaboration with the photographer Michel Delsol), a new book entitled The Life and Times of Richard Musto.  You can follow the progress of my collaboration with Michel on our blog (richardmusto.blogspot.com ).  I'm not sure if this poem will end up as part of the finished work, but in the meantime, here is the first draft of what I just wrote:


What it Means to Be Homeless

Sorry but I forgot to mention

Something that Richard

Said to me

The other day

When Michel and I

Visited him

In Atlantic City

In the course of

Explaining to me 

What he found most

Objectionable in the

First two chapters

Of my book

Richard said

And I quote:

Although you seem to

Have a good vocabulary

I think you made

A serious mistake when

You described me

As a homeless man

Because in fact

Not just theory

Richard maintains he still owns

His mother’s former home

Out in Tottenville

Staten Island

Although long ago

Having defaulted on

Overdue taxes

The house was boarded up

And technically abandoned

Richard nonetheless believes he should still

Be considered the last owner of record

 

And if so

That would remain his legal residence

Notwithstanding wherever

His present domicile happens to be

Right down through the present day

  

So it seems we all

Poets and First Army vets alike

Should be careful

When we write or speak

Not to throw words around

Too loosely

Considering the emotional

As well as the legal import

Of the things we say 

Particularly when

It is the human heart

About which

We’re speaking

We Citizens United

Most of the poems I have written prior to now have addressed personal or spiritual concerns.  But I happen to come from a family with a strong predilection for writing light verse, for better or worse, the most famous practitioner of the craft being my great Aunt Felicia, who secured for herself far more than local fame, based on her too clever rhymes, sometimes in the New Yorker's pages or else published in thin little volumes wryly illustrated by Edward Gorey, that playfully touched on broader social concerns.   So this is my first serious attempt to try my hand at this sort of lighter refrain.

We Citizens United

As the political season
Swings into high gear
It becomes increasingly clear

That we have subjected
Ourselves to a system

Of governance best described 

As a campaign-ocracy

A unique form of

Demotic tyranny
In which we the people
With help from a threadbare
Majority on the Supreme Court

Have effectively denied ourselves
All meaningful resort

Other than the public effrontery
Of two decadent parties

Devoted to brazen pandering
And the ritual choreography
Of an endless electoral sham

Well beyond the endurance
Of any sensible man
How it builds to a crescendo 

As the convention season nears
With the ever more frenzied shake down
Of our leading citizenry
Corporate and individual alike
Only to insure the parties
Continue unabated in power

And thanks to the tortured logic
Of Citizens United
Every year of this perennial
Politicking it now costs more

To vote for leaders more firmly
Committed to doing nothing

But sustaining an endless stream
Of consultants and bagmen 

Ever at the ready to pull
The creaky levers 

Of government bureaucracy

Condemning us to rule
By deadlock and inaction on

The issues that really most matter

Betwixt alternating terms

Of Democrats and Republicans
Each year looms as the most important
Yet never does the outcome

Matter in the least since there's not

A hairsbreadth of difference between
The lot of them

On key issues such as 

Protection of the monied class

The greenhouse gas effect
Insuring our basic
Civil liberties or the increasingly
Frequent assertion of Star Chamber
Powers to advance the interests
This two party state

In the end
I guess it's not such
A light verse at all
But one of saddest
I can ever imagine writing
That a place that once conceived itself
As the last best hope for humanity
Has now positioned itself to be
The very cause of calamity
By virtue of a system of
Governance so purely devoted
To corporate sponsored
Blindness and neglect 

The Route to Better Vision

for Michel

Like brothers
We share a predisposition 
And have together embarked
On this unlikely quest
For enlightenment at
The noir end of the spectrum

Approaching life and work
As an open book

With camera and pen 

Ever at the ready

To record the ramblings
Of an old homeless man

And truly what a gift it's been

To discover this route
Through your camera
To improved vision
Well past the midpoint in life

When my eyesight
Is only diminishing
Yet you've brought

Clarity through

Transposition

Into a new key
Opening vistas I had
Never before imagined
Or seen

Spry and lively
As you are
Prancing forward
And aft of the old man 
As he ambles
Along the boardwalk
And down the supermarket aisle
With your hands quick and steady
You capture each angle of vision
Through your lens
While I stumble and hurry
To keep pace
Jotting down a few
Quotable things
Best as I can 

Writing such as mine
Would seem interstitial and plain

Without your lush colored pixels
To flesh out reality's frame

 
* * * * * * * * *

This poem is for my dear friend Michel Delsol.  Michel and I are currently writing a book together entitled The Life and Times of Richard Musto, which is about a remarkable World War II vet we met living on 28th Street.  You can follow the progress of our collaboration on our new blog at:  http://richardmusto.blogspot.com.


Here's one of Michel's pictures of Richard, taken in front of his home and storefront on the street shortly after we first met him last summer in New York.

Sunday Afternoon on the Creek

From peddlers to paddlers
In three generations
Thanks to a not so
Grim shift in the fortunes
Of my family
With ups and downs
Riding at times
Counter cyclical to the
General drift of things

Bringing me here
Paddle in hand
Where I can glide
Along the surface
Of Weesuck Creek
Sailing without canvas
Or mast in this bare
Plastic hull

And where each passing
Crosshatch of
Stratus and cumulus
Expresses the whim
Of gods unknown
And the startled covey
Of starlings denotes
Another auspicious
Occasion

The Dancing Dragons

You know
You've been reading
Too much Chinese poetry
When the water dragons
Start appearing at random
In a glass bowl dancing merrily
Or skipping across the freshly
Mowed lawn
The way they disport
Themselves with their
Ridiculous tails
And then collapse in the shade
Looking moody and dyspeptic

In the Backyard on Another 90 Plus Degree Day

The hydrangeas
Are loving all this
Double water ration
While the grass
Is as yet unresolved
If it's willing to spring
Back to life or
Instead will spend
The rest of the long
Hot summer in
Severe reserve mode
But my best attention
Must be directed
To the garden
Where each hour
Spent staking the tomatoes
And rearranging the kale
May be the last best hope
For tomorrow's salad

The Moon Over Weesuck Creek

Tonight there's a moon
Rising over Weesuck Creek
That only Ralph Blakelock
Could fully appreciate
A smudge through the clouds
Concentric circles of charcoal
Bleeding into maroon
A muted display of lunar glory
If I ever did see one

A fish breaks the surface
In the middle of the Creek
Much like the Drala of Life
It all happens much too fast
And much like the moonlight
More distinct in its watery reflection
Than in the first hand
Experience thereof

Under the Big Dipper

Through a thin scrim
Of stratus clouds last night
Each point of the Dipper
Briefly emerged  
Opening up a vista
Billions of light years hence
Helping me to levitate
And better appreciate
The very curvature of space

So from now until
The Dipper inverts
In another couple of months
Let's hope it continues
Sending forth its blessings
In a continued outpouring
Of summer's abundance

Early Morning on Shinnecock Bay

Few are the sights

To be seen more fair   

Just as the sun

Attends to dawn's chores

With my unrustable

Red plastic kayak

Pulled high on a bight

Of East End sand

While a gull screeches

And a lone trawler

Drones its way across

Shinnecock Bay

There hangs

The gibbous moon

Off to the southwest

Atop of a litmus sky

That expresses the delicacy

Of this early light best

From acid to neutral to base

A gradient both exquisite

And spare

 

A Thing or Two Kay Taught Me About Poetry

I learned more about poetry

From reading Kay’s

Recent marketing report

Than I ever heard discussed

In the college classroom

For amidst all her talk

Of branding and

Similar jargon

As a certainty

She said and I quote

Positive perceptions of poetry

Include the belief that

Poems can help you

Better appreciate

The world around you

They can make you laugh

Or cry out loud with

Insight or pain

And most of all

They can help you better

Understand

Other human beings

As more than similar to self

Than by custom one had

Been led to believe

Was the case

Poetry’s most essential task

Being to abet the self

In loosening

Its tight grip

A message very close

To the heart

Of all art and

Communication





 

After the Summer Rain

There’s a steadying drip

In my neighborhood

After a summer rainstorm

Off the drain spout

And a nearby maple

It’s like the band striking up

With an infinitely supple wrist

The drummer keeps flicking

At the Zildjian high hat

And the robins reclaim

The front lawn

For still more puffery

While the worms return

To their endless digging

The Mind Was Made for the Sonnet

The mind was made
For the sonnet
Not the other
Way around
Because a poet
Doesn't so much choose
The words to speak
But rather it's the words
To poet that are
Directly bound

Or so it is hoped
But first comes
All the sweat and effort
The daily email reminders
And mental calisthenics to make
Speaking poetically
Sound both direct
And roundabout
At the same time
Not halting and pidgin
But always proceeding
In a natural and
Graceful way and
At a well-tempered pace

But still I'd pay
A king's ransom
To speak the Queens' English
The way a Bodleian man can do
So I could keep pace with
The sparrows all day long
Singing my quatrains and couplets 
Unleashed in an unceasing tide
Of half rhyming
And half blank verse