“There are three rules for writing the novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.” (W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM)

Monday, December 26, 2011

another collaborative poem

This one was done with Paul Enea and Steve Pump(2 guys from my poetry group). If you know them and their work, enough said.
If not...well let me just say, this one kind of took on a life of its own and got a little crazy. Steve  did a revision of this one that turned out great, if I can find a copy of it I will post soon.
In the meantime, do not try to "understand" this one, just enjoy it, it may make you laugh or cry or experience some other deep-seeded emotion.

a star, trying to speak
blinks like a stuttering neon sign
before giving up. give us
gibson, give us gaga on a glitter stick!

a rave girl dancing in a vacuum, shouting
more please, more surd than word,
heard only in math dream deeps, drums the floor.

save your wishes for the unextinguishing
exorcists in your family. pledge
to continue from where they expire.

purple plasma embers caught in a jam jar, kept
beside pickled onions in gaga’s dressing room
-a grandmother’s cryptic gifts. give us
Keith’s open G - libretto for a blues opera

and grandma’s guitar all day long. deliver
us into song. speak, star. or at least
light my way to the stage, before
betelgeuse outshines the moon
(it may be sooner than we think).

raise a glass to the cross-dressing cousins, married
then murdered for diamonds on their honeymoon. the killer
left behind a clue:  a chord that hung mid-air,
resonating for a sharp-eyed, noir private dick
whose pain-tuned ears detected a whispering music box
in hell.  hell, raise a glass to anything.

I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number...
there are no answers here, but if you stay  
where you are, an outline may appear, a ring
of light, but try not to look directly into it, unless
it speaks to you.

Saturday, December 17, 2011

As a poet there is no greater feeling than finishing a poem. Not that we feel a poem is ever finished; there is always tweaking, addition or subtraction that can be done to change its tone or enhance its feeling when looked at days,weeks,months or even years later. What I really meant to mention is the feeling one gets after "finishing" a poem and intuiting that it is a worthy addition to the world of words and letters. Most poets do not feel that any and every poem they write is "worthy." Those that do are probably only fooling themselves.(sorry for the sidebar.) Aside from creating a work of art alone, I have found that collaborative poetry has brought me great satisfaction as well. I would like to share some collaborative poems I have worked on.

This first one was a collaboration with my brother. We took one line each alternately.

Sunrise Cynic

Time is ticking on a madman's watch
like the irregular rhythm of a lapwing in flight
flushed by the footsteps of an unsuspecting traveler

heavily, another minute alights,lost-
the cost of sitting alone in darkened room,
dreading dawn's approach

patiently weeding twilight's garden
tending her seraph-star
discarding unsought thought streams

harrowing song of early morning wrens
welter of discordant sounds
fracturing silence, bearing ill tidings

no dreams visit, to share in a cup of coffee,
a casual glance, a slight smile
a neophyte in solitude, loathsome-
resigned to wait for a celestial reunion

day begins for the consummate insomniac
weary eyes, heavy soul, sunrise cynic
practiced art, this daily grind
the hours, gravity's co-conspirator,
keep me earthbound