Thursday, April 30, 2009

The Home Stretch

Many apologies, dear reader(s), for not having posted yesterday's poem. It was composed yesterday, but technical difficulties precluded me from making it available.

Without further ado, the final works from my NaPoWriMo series:

and again and again
I demand that you fill my bowl
not with food
but with water
and again you must know
I thirst

*****

what are you? you ask me
what am I indeed? I reply
fine features
a dash of sass
the perfect complement
to you

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

By request...

Villanelle of Myself

I am a proud black queen.
More than the sum of my hands.
My magic is aquamarine.

More beautiful than the sleekest machine
but ready to rumble my way through badlands.
I am a proud black queen.

I sleep. You've not seen such a creature serene,
but stir not or suffer a sting like hot sands.
My magic is aquamarine.

My exquisite features overwhelm when first seen.
My tassels, my haunches, indicate higher plans.
I am a proud black queen.

You may, if you like, sit read me Racine.
En Français, bien sûr. You'll come with me to Cannes.
My magic is aquamarine.

Praising a Schubert is never routine.
In singing of Schubert, the heart understands.
I am a proud black queen.
My magic is aquamarine.


...Hmm. Not sure. Might come back to it. Your input, if you please. This particular piece may need reworked.

Monday, April 27, 2009

The Requests Lines Are Open

As I hurtle toward the end of NaPoWriMo, I wonder if there are particular forms at which my readers would like to see me try my hands. Write now or be subjected to more Waka-Waus and Francaikus.

s'il y a une chatte
qui ronronne comme une tondeuse
laisses-lui manger l'herbe

Friday, April 24, 2009

two more...

packed up my gear and drove
the highway to the anger zone
whispered hiss
adorable
even cranky Schubert
so sweet

...

ask again, if you please.
I'll tell you where I got my fez.
I will share
the Schubert lore
as long as you promise
a sip.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

NaPoNoMoRhyming!

After yesterday's rondeau, I won't be rhyming for a while. I think I may have sprained my rhymer. Two Waka-Waus:

A perfectly good bowl
of water spilled onto the floor,
depleted,
unlike the thirst
left behind by selfish
pursuits.

...

Couchfill showers about
torn into yellow foam snowballs,
champed and chomped,
ruminated,
as if it were a thought.
A plan.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Lessons Be Damned!

Better to be the pillager
than be the pillaged villager.
The scratcheur before the scratchpost,
will never be left the rearmost.
The timid novel abridgeur
little more than a bandageur.
The readers will find they've been dosed,
unable to remain engrossed.
Torn to shreds by a savageur,
the work bites light like a midge, or
a catechumin at the Host.
What was so strong now is milquetoast.
What's left, then, for the voyageurs,
but to scrabble like forageurs?
The words are now trapped with the ghosts.


Yeah. It's not the best, and the rhyme is slanted, to say the least, but...

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

What will I do in May?

Lesson: if composing a rondeau, choose a word other than pillager to end the first line.

Okay, here's a haiku:

l'odeur des bananes
peut clôturer mes yeux, mais
jamais mon esprit

Monday, April 20, 2009

How many is this?

Yesterday's dinner in a small pile on the floor. Either from me or one of the others. Probably me but I can't remember. It slumps on this side of the fence so the dog can't eat it. Can't clean it up. Can't capture something that was once ours. I am hungry but not that hungry as hungry as the dog is always. She scrambles and begs. Whimpers. Simpers for food for something that she cannot explain. Even if she could tell you it wouldn't make sense. But still she pleads with her eyes and with her dog feet. Knocks them together in prayer. I fold my hands but not in prayer. I fold my hands for comfort. I fold my hands for lack of fear. I fold my hands not to beg. Not to plead. Dignity rests. Dignity in rest. In comfort. Everything and everywhere and everyone is comfort. Knowing how and where and when to look. Knowing how and where and when to be found. By comfort. By dignity.

Friday, April 17, 2009

Mow

More than halfway through the month. And counting...

...

combien de beauté peut danser sur quatre mains?
autant qu'un gorille peut empaqueter

...

écoutez bien
je ne répéterai pas
mes raisons, excuses

...

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Wry

...

the briefest of visits
with cher Penultimatina
refreshes
my will to win
back my place alongside
her neumes

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Po'

Just before the sun
pushed helpless against the glass blocks
I stretched. Stood and turned
a slow circle.
Laid down again.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Nah

I'd thought of composing a poem with a number of catalectic lines, but thought better of it. Instead:

Why I am Not M___

I am not M___, I am a cat.
Why? I would rather be
M___, but I am not. Well,

for instance, M___
is brushing her teeth. I pop in.
"Come on and have a sip" she
says. I sip; we sip. I look
up. "You have glasses on your face."
"Yes, I need them."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I see her again. The glasses
are still on, and I go, and the days
go by. I pop in. The glasses are
gone. "Where are the glasses?"
All that's left is just
eyes. "I don't always wear them," she says.

But me? One day I am resting, looking
across the room: Penultimatina. I write a line
about Penultimatina. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of Penultimatina, of
words, of how wonderful she is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
Penultimatina yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it PENULTIMATINA. And one day I see M___,
still no glasses, still not seeing Penultimatina.

Monday, April 13, 2009

Today, a new form...

Pantoum des Beaux Arts

Hidden in plain sight,
a Schubert on a sweatshirt.
Green eyes flash back
as you pass by.

A Schubert on a sweatshirt,
a picture of American comfort.
As you pass by
you may see, not hear, a meow.

A picture of American comfort
in a museum of beasts.
You may see, not hear, a meow.
You imagine bunched haunches.

In a museum of beasts,
green eyes flash back.
You imagine bunched haunches
hidden in plain sight.

Friday, April 10, 2009

(running out of titles)

a song for the meagle
who clatters and whimpers and begs
show some class
it's not so much
the clattering; I too
click, click

_____________


a funny thing happens
when one always gets what one wants
one assumes
others lucky
in their service; of course
it's true

_____________

again to the meagle
who is never lost in her thoughts
who cannot
regret her faults
who has no thoughts at all
but bliss

Thursday, April 09, 2009

This is quite an undertaking...

...but I'm going to press on. Here goes:

we two dance the quadrille
knock over lamps and break vases
with delight
but don't worry
our dancing will never
get old

____________


good morning, garbage men.
I know that you know that I'm here.
You can look.
I won't gorille.
Promise not to frighten
you off.

____________

As you can see between these two works, I'm back and forth on punctuation in the Waka-Wau.

Wednesday, April 08, 2009

...

Pourquoi
Es-tu si belle?
Neruda always wrote in green ink.
Unyielding, his faith in Esperanza.
Lay here a while longer.
The day will still need you
In an hour or two.
Moi, je veux caresser ton visage
Avec mes mains.
Truth was a rare thing to Dickinson,
In some ways. But she also wrote: Beauty is
Not caused. It is.
And you are.

Tuesday, April 07, 2009

Apparently He Reads My Blog...

Yesterday's poems dealt with the unfortunate situation created by the guy/Dad when he gave me my daily antibiotic. While I understand that the medicine is for my own good, nobody holds my mouth closed without paying a price.

Anyway, I heard him coming to give me my medicine this morning and I bristled, ready to decorate his arms and hands with some new scratches. But then he just dropped two treats in front of me. No pill. No prying my mouth open and then holding it closed.

So I ate the treats.

And they were delicious. A bit different than other treats I've had. They had a crunchy center to them, that wasn't as tasty as the tender outer portion. But overall, they were delicious.

I'm glad he learned his lesson.

In closing, today's poem:

et je te pardonne
et j'accepte tes excuses, si
tu as des festins

Monday, April 06, 2009

NaPoWriMo

Still at it. These are brand new, a haiku and a free verse:

je vous ai rayé
et je ne regret rien
demain, la même chose

________________

si vous ne voulez pas être rayé
ne forcez pas les pillules dans ma
bouche
je n'avalerai pas
cela que je ne souhaite pas
avaler
ainsi ne me blâmez
pas si votre main blesse

Friday, April 03, 2009

Wrapping Up 5 Days of Waka-Waus

not shirts against skins but
pyjamas against wooly neumes
haunches flared
a wiggle of tush
collapse of teeth and claws
we broil

________________


I can read upside down
the text on a tube of shampoo.
Truth be told,
I prefer reading
upside down, unless it's
Chinese.

________________


easy to say, tant pis
but tougher to accept our faults
nos manies
the enlightened
among us own our flaws
nos tics

________________

incomprehensible
autosuggestibility,
badinage
intermeddles
verisimilitude
for keeps

Thursday, April 02, 2009

et puis...

understand and take note
no matter how magnificent
one may be,
however true,
a beast is a beast is
a beast

_____________


people out walking dogs
carrying bags full of droppings
linked by leash
as if by chain
gang identified by
no class

Wednesday, April 01, 2009

more...

here's where I take it back
the night from the queens who disturb
our slumber
disrupt the peace
with much cacophonous
yowling

_____________


sometimes I want to ask
what it's like to be so pretty
and perfect
but realize
that the creature I see
is me

_____________

what makes you think
that a mouse is a meal for me
or a toy
or that I would
even want to stoop to
its level