"I LOVE WRITING" MAIDEN VOYAGE: The International of Bad Poetry and Good Feelings

just a bit of fun this, fnarr fnarr:

lol

I have heard it
said before, true
faith comes in
the earhole only.
(In a messy bit
of theological baloney,
this is simultaneously
taken as explanatory
of man’s place before the pastor
and the subtler mechanics
of immaculate conception—
not to mention, the creation.)
Then again, Pascal said Kneel,
and you will understand;
but forgive me if I’m rather eagerer
to try my hand.

been really into The Dream Songs lately, but I eventually had to stop reading because the pain and sadness were overwhelming me... but not before bidding a fond farewell to the unwell man and his book:

last fall poem
(for John Berryman)

you do not sacrifice yourself
in vain, none of us do, a late
september rain shades
imperceptibly
into the autumn

and at bottom, hell fixed on
them frozen from
the first day of creation;

but what paradise there is
is only in the lying waiting

simple love songs

I saw her stood there
long and lonely
as a french horn note

that sounded in some
sentimental symphony,
selling out
the concert halls of life

before an audience
already growing restless
with this prettiness
relentlessly advancing on them

minute after minute;
with the terrible acoustics;
with the insecure conductor,
his flamboyant mannerisms,
and the thoughtless youthful couple
who had brought their screaming child…

in spite of which, she hardly smiled
when asked
“Why don’t we
do it in the aisle?”

I am still writing lots of poems. this one is from a few months ago and I am quite proud of it:

————

people who live in glass houses
are letting them go all to seed,
wisely allowing the ivy
to grow up and over and hopefully
cover them totally
(chimneys excepted)
pruning back only
those vines that entangle the downspouts,
that threaten the gunholes
and air intake vents.

people who live in glass houses
have stopped getting stoned,
but still they grow paranoid, often
the feeling of somebody watching,
of being sealed up in a coffin,
steals on them softly and awfully,
they pause in the kitchen,
stare into the distance,
and stir at their coffee.

people who live in glass houses
jar their own jams, preserves that remain
in a room in the basement—
and from an adjacent hillside,
on a stormy night sometimes,
one sees through the floor,
dramatically lit from behind under thunder,
sprawled out in rows
like an army of pottery soldiers,
the syrupy fruits of their labors.

and people who live in glass houses keep lamps lit
well after transacting their day’s worth of business;
for people who live in glass houses alone
know that sound is to water
as ghost is to window

(not that anyone cares but I've) been woodshedding poetry hard lately — scribbling down lots of ideas + not posting things on my blawg until I've gotten them to a point I'm happy with; find enclosed my most recent effort:

THE NEW LAW

the new law was friendly,
wearing the face and perfume
of an orchard of apples in bloom,
brushing his fingers
inside of your wrist

the new law had a nose, made a noise
like whatever the noise
of your favorite animal is,
its muzzle’s impression,
and sloppily kissed

under the new law, we prospered:
houses, like haikus,
appearing where nothing was,
holding back shadow
and drawing the curtains

playfully, certainly, onward
we picked up the trashcans
and emptied them (inwardly)
setting to work on the cities
we bore as a burden
—still something went missing,
a phone, or a friend, or a word,
a veil dropped between us and meaning—

of course, the taps and blenders
screens and speakers
couches ceilings walls
we still could see,
but saw obscurely,
through a fog and failing light

when language dies, it leaves a vacuum
other tongues rush in to fill;
so that no word is lost for long

(by ‘word’ I mean not meaning
but articulated feeling)

This sustains beautifully right up until it hits a bump in the final two lines. There is probably a way to articulate that last thought that is a bit less jarring within the context of what came before. Otherwise, outstanding poem!

thanks! funny you should mention the ending, which I was also conflicted about—lately, I've been reading Barbara Herrnstein-Smith's wonderful Poetic Closure: A Study of How Poems End, and trying to approach my own poetry with some of her insights in mind... I agree with you about the jarringness of this particular case, though.

My guess is that you just need to let the idea simmer a bit longer; try out several or a dozen new verbal approaches to it; daydream on it. The nubbin of an image will come along that buttons it up nice and tight for you. Patience will be rewarded.