NaPoWriMo April 30, 2013 - "As" an experimental poem

One of our exercises in ModPo was to do a type of Bernadette Mayer experiment with a series of found words or lines to create a poem. I decided to put all my poems in a spreadsheet, line by line, take out the dates, titles and spaces, and random order the lines. But then I alphabetized the lines and liked the alphabetical structure much better. For ModPo, I pulled out all lines starting with the preposition “to.” For the 30th day of NaPoWriMo, I am focusing on the word “as,” which can serve as an adverb, a conjunction, a pronoun or a preposition, depending on the context. All original punctuation and capitalization remains.

This is dedicated to all the brave souls who tried NaPoWrimo 2013.


As you depart
as you become narcotized by, then addicted  
as when of you I dream.
as well as the bad ones,
As we touch, as our lips meet,
as we stand before the world.
As we oscillate-
as we go our way,
as we go our chosen way;
as we forgive those
as we descend
as the lullabies you sing…
as the fleeting dusky twilight between
as the fittest for survival.
as the electrons collide,
as she wishes you peace
as she curtsies, daintily,
as she charts 
as she blows soft words into your ear,
as our plans oft go astray;
as our lips meet,
As our heartbeats synchronize.
As ordered, as planned.
As one, exclusive, all-embracing love---
as much as I do?
As much as hate fears truth, as truth loves light.
As men and women we thought we knew his pain
As long as I know I got a seat in the kingdom,
As it travels toward
as it should be read, slowly, with slurs, and sharps, and flats.
As it is, and as it ought to be
as is Governor’s School –
as in this random moment,
as if seldom appreciated. 
as if one can't wait for the
as if neglected,
As I stood in line for three hours 
as I crossed Memorial Bridge
as her arms become branches. 
as defined by classic standards
as courage is to a soldier
As children we adored his boyish ways
as a young college student in New York

NaPoWriMo April 29, 2013 - A Conversation with Erato, my Muse (spoiler alert: she can be a bit direct)

Part 1

It’s not a ballad poem, she said,
it’s garbage,
and it’s even not a poem,
it’s a royal mess.

Let me show you what real poetry is, 
she said.  And she wrote: 

Were I to undress,
would it cause you distress,
or would you make perfect, sweet 
love to me? 

Were I to recline,
would it help you unwind,
or would you fret over what 
was to be?

Were I to spread wide,
would it help you decide,
or would it make you write more 
poetry?  

The words frame the plan: 
You were never “The Man” – 
It is I, your kind Muse, 
can’t you see?    


Part 2

You’ve a taste for Rodin,
Age of Bronze, Walking Man,
but these words you write down will 
last longer – 

And you like the Matisse
and Renoir, every piece,
but these thoughts laced in words will 
grow stronger –

Stick with me, your sweet Muse,
all distractions refuse,
and together, in life, we
will wander -

Writing rhythms and words
about scenes we observe,
as we share, you and I, thoughts
to ponder.  

NaPoWriMo April 28th - Every Man Must Meet His Fate

Every man must meet his fate –
early or late –
his judgment day must come.

Each woman must know her reason –
in or out of season –
Her reckoning, bright or glum.

Every one must face their truth – 
branches and root – 
Or else the prize is scum.  

(Now, go back and substitute
woman/her in the first stanza
and man/his in the second.
We must have equality, mustn’t we?)

(The third line of each verse is 
interchangeable, i.e., any one fits 
with any verse.  Neat, huh?)

NaPoWriMo April 27th - a prose poem

Now she calls it the ‘family” IPad 

Now she calls it the “family” IPad.
I offered to get her her own, but no, no, 
she wants to share.
WTF!
PC means personal computer, I say.
The tablet is the daughter of the laptop
and the laptop is the son of the PC.
So tablets are “personal”, not family, I say.
It is all in the lineage.

When I started college in 1975,
we waited in line to get on a key punch machine,
then punched out a stack of green cards,
then dropped the stack off at a window
to run it through the Main Frame.

If there was a command out of order
or a wrong value, or an asterisk misplaced, 
you got the stack back with a print-out, 
found your errors, and did it all again.  
It took hours!
I never saw a football game my whole freshman year.
And the only girls I met were the girls in engineering.
Always in Graham Hall, running programs –
All Saturday long.  
Small wonder I joined the Navy! 

We all shared one big computer then.
I seem to recall they called it Harris.  
But now we are in the era of the individual computer.
No more waiting in line,
no more punching rectangular green cards,
no more dropping off a stack at a window
and hoping it works.

So why would she want to go back to those times? 
I’m getting her a new IPad tomorrow!
The old one is mine.  

NaPoWriMo April 26th - Ballad for Emily D.

The words we read, the lines we write, 
are gaps in time, that soon take flight –

poetry has that property
transporting you through space – 
we write a word and make a rhyme
and aim it to its place – 

if accurate, we hit the mark,
we reach the goal we seek – 
but if precise, we claim the prize,
and scale the highest peak – 

the words and rhymes unwind, divide
with measured purpose, need – 
then seek to replicate the thought
and shape the world of deeds – 

The message in the poems we write
is free, yet hidden in plain sight.  

NaPoWriMo April 25th - Triolet

"Sem ti, tudo me enoja e me aborrece
sem ti, perpetuamente estou passando, 
nas mores alegrias, mor tristeza." -- Camoes  

I’m not long for this world of woe -
of strife and quarrelsome divide; 
so I’ll content myself with poems -
I’m not long for this world of woe.
In time we reap the deeds we sow:
Our words and acts and thoughts collide –
I’m not long for this world of woe – 
of strife and quarrelsome divide.  

NaPoWriMo April 24th - To my brothers and sisters-at-arms

To my brothers and sisters at-arms (veterans)

“I will write the evangel poem of comrades and of love,
For who but I should understand love with all its sorrow and joy?
And who but I should be the poet of comrades?” --Whitman

That bitter, acrid taste that war
and combat leaves in your mouth -
cleaves your tongue -
and gives you a sixth sense about things…

For example, the guy out front:
the leader. Will he die for you?
If so, then you will die for him,
or live, make his mission yours,
and accomplish it.

But if he won’t,
and your sixth sense will tell you so,
then neither will you for him.
And his goal is his alone and can go to hell.

And if you are out in front,
will you die for the men and women
in your care?
If so, then they will die for you,
or live, and make your mission theirs,
and accomplish it.

But if not, you should quit faking
and just go home. Because those
behind you, in your charge, following you,
will already have a sixth sense of things.

NaPoWriMo April 23rd - Two Gates to Washington City (a riddle)

Two Gates to Washington City (a riddle)

Two sets of Italian-casted brass statues
flank primary routes into Washington City.

One, anchoring Memorial Bridge
is named The Arts of War:
Sacrifice on the near side,
Valor on the far.
Both feature a man on horse with
a woman walking proudly alongside.

Another, flanking Rock Creek Parkway,
is called Peaceful Arts:
Aspiration and Literature on one side -
a man is holding a book,
Music and Harvest, the other –
a woman is holding a harp.

Pegasus, the winged horse
sits on both sides of the parkway.
A spring bursts forth
wherever his hoof hits the earth.
Giver of water, life, hope.

Little more need be said, but
there is so much more to say -

One suggests that sustenance
derives from war, aggression, conquest,
and the valor and sacrifice that
guarantee success at war.

The gilding is clean and polished.
But the heavy casting is gaudy, stagey.
Its foundation pedestal has cracks
and the bridge itself is in a state
of quiet, desperate disrepair. Sequestration.

The other predicts that peaceful pursuits,
music and literature, will bring us
the harvest and the aspiration
our survival requires.

It bears a refined, light, lithe casting,
but its gilding is dirty, dusty,
tarnished, and dull,
as if neglected,
as if seldom appreciated.
Yet its foundation pedestal is solid.

A curved concrete walkway
(and 41-step staircase) follows
the curvature of the Potomac River
and connects the two gates
(at right angles to a tangent
drawn from its midpoint)
That tangent line runs parallel to the face
of the Lincoln Memorial,
the Washington Monument,
and the Capitol, all parallel to each other.

Parallel things are forever
the same distance apart,
near or far,
and never touch.

And two things
both at right angles
to the same straight line
are parallel to each other.

NaPoWriMo April 22nd - Meta-poetic reflections on the 22nd day of NaPoWriMo

Meta-poetic reflections on the 22nd day of NaPoWriMo


I am feeling the heat of the battle
and tasting its bittersweetness. Still on track,
though other things fall through the cracks of space 
and time. Poetry is a jealous mistress, 
after all, a possessive lover without gender who 
demands every ounce of your attention and devotion.
Forget any other dedication, any outside legal  
or moral obligation, poetry warns, 
and ignore that silly wench you call your Muse!
Poetry screams, “Be with me alone!” 
And you accommodate, first haltingly, 
reluctantly, then eagerly, anxious 
as you become narcotized by, then addicted 
to the sweet taste and aroma of stolen waters.

NaPoWriMo April 21st - Trans-Atlantic Longings

Longings

The bones are creaking -
My soul is in need
of a trans-Atlantic crossing -

A submarine would be nice:
to feel the sea all around me
underneath me
on top of me -

then emerge from the darkness and the depth
into the brightness
of a new port
and fresh food
and sweet scents of flowers and perfume -

A freighter would do the trick:
to feel the tradewinds burn my face
to taste the salt of the seaspray
and the occasional unruly wave -

to see the sunrise on the true horizon
and the sunset, day in, day out -
and the moon, ah! the moon!
And the stars for navigation on a clear crisp night.

But for now my car will do.
I’ll take a drive out west on 66
then southwest on 81.

I’ll stop at Luray Caverns
and go inside, deep inside the earth,
where trickles of condensation form mountains.

Then I’ll blast some sea shanties on the stereo
for the long drive home.

NaPoWriMo April 20th - Amtrak: Northeast Regional

Amtrak – Northeast Regional

a train ride 
is such a sweet relief -

the men and women
who check tickets are
so friendly, so courteous -

I watch as the Pennsylvania
sunset becomes the Delaware
sunset becomes the Maryland 
nightfall becomes Chocolate City 
darkness -

church steeples
oil rigs
smoke stacks
Old Glory unfurled -
I watch it all from my window.

the end we think we seek is not near
and it’s not the end
and it’s not what we seek -

Her feet are hurting 
in those high-heeled shoes
but she won’t listen to them
when they speak.   

NaPoWriMo April 19th - A Walk Down Franklin Way

I walked down Franklin Way in Philadelphia today.
Benjamin Franklin, founding father, diplomat, statesman,
abolitionist, musician, scientist, grand master.
Smart things he said are written in stone 
on the pavement of Franklin Way for all to know and remember:

“Being ignorant is not so much a Shame as being unwilling to Learn.”  1755.
“He’s a Fool that cannot conceal his Wisdom.” 1755.
“An Ounce of Prevention is worth a Pound of Cure.” 1735.

I paused and thought, 
what wise men who founded this great nation?
They must have been inspired by a high calling.
That their words continue to ring robust 
and true is a testament to the power of their thoughts.
How might history treat today’s political leaders:

“Diligence is the Mother of Good-Luck.”  1736.
“Half the Truth is often a great lie.”  1758.
“Well done is better than well said.”  1737.

What was his political party?  Patriotism.
What was his religion? Deism
What was his stand on issues of the day?  
He kept himself above the political fray: 

“There are no Gains without Pains.”  1745.
“A true Friend is the best Possession.”  1744.
“Doors of Wisdom are never shut.”  1755.

My visit to the City of Brotherly Love has come to an end.
And I must return to Chocolate City, 
head of the Beast, seat of corruption and graft.
My soul yearns to be with you again, O Philadelphia!   

NaPoWriMo April 18th - Letter to Walt

Letter to Walt (inspired by a classmate and friend who posted aLetter to Emily)

Dear Walt:
I seem to recall we met,
in the future, in the past, or in a dream -

maybe deep down in engineroom lower level,
repairing a valve or calibrating a gauge
on an obscure hydraulic line;

or maybe on the bridge,
transiting the Strait of Gibraltar,
the Strait of Bonifacio, or the Strait of Messina;

or maybe having a smoke on the fantail
while the ship rounds the Cape of Good Hope,
Cape Horn, or Ras Kasar.

The physical place is less important
than the metaphysical space we share:

lonely, tired, perplexed, distressed,
missing loved ones;
lonely, tired, perplexed, distressed,
surrounded by loved ones -

seeking refuge from war’s alarm,
whether fighting on distant battlefields,
or negotiating in hostile boardrooms, far or near,
seeking refuge from war and the rumor of war, seeking peace.

We share the womb of America -
twin biracial souls within the same mother,
bouncing around in an aqueous environment.

Scandalized, scapegoated and heart-broken,
we forge forward together on this mystic trek,
guided by an unseen star in the Northern sky,
inspired by love, and hope, and steadfast faith.

Letter to Walt (trans. Helga Fernandes)

Querido Walt:
Se bem me recordo conhecemo-nos,
no futuro, no passado, ou num sonho -

talvez ao fundo na casa do engenho o nível mais baixo,
reparávamos uma válvula ou calibrávamos uma bitola
numa obscura linha hidráulica;

ou talvez na ponte,
atravessando o Estreito de Gibraltar,
o Estreito de Bonifácio, ou o Estreito de Messina;

ou talvez enquanto fumávamos na popa
no momento em que o navio dobrava o Cabo da Boa Esperança,
Cabo Horn, ou Ras Kasar.

O lugar físico é menos importante
do que o espaço metafísico que partilhamos:

sós, cansados, perplexos, angustiados,
saudades de quem se ama;
sós, cansados, perplexos, angustiados,
rodeados de quem se ama -

em busca de refúgio para alarmes de Guerra,
ora lutando em campos de batalha distantes,
ora negociando em salas de reunião hostis, longe ou perto,
em busca de refúgio de guerra e de rumores de guerra, em busca de paz.

Partilhámos o ventre da América,
gémeas almas bi raciais dentro da mesma mãe
oscilando numa atmosfera aquosa.

Escandalizados, bodes expiatórios e corações quebrados,
avançamos juntos por esta mística caminhada,
guiados por uma estrela não vista no céu do Norte,
inspirados por amor, e esperança, e fé inabalável.

More of Helga’s poetry can be found at her blog site Bonjour Roquentin .

NaPoWriMo April 17th - English Translations of Pessoa's Autopsicografia

Translations of Fernando Pessoa's Autopsicografia (Self-Analysis)

Portuguese text of the entire poem

Reading of the original text

Learn more about Fernando Pessoa!


O poeta é um fingidor. Finge tão completamente
Que chega a fingir que é dor A dor que deveras sente. —Fernando Pessoa

The poet is a fraud. He is so completely fraudulent that he begins to fake that he feels pain, pain that he may legitimately feel from his fraudulent deeds. –Ray Maxwell’s translation

The poet is a fake. His faking seems so real that he will fake the ache Which he can really feel. —Keith Bosley

The poet fancying each belief So wholly through and through
Ends by imagining the grief He really feels is true. —Roy Campbell

The poet is a feigner. He feigns so completely That he even feigns that he is suffering The pains that he is really experiencing.  —Ernesto Guerra Da Cal

Poets are people who feign They feign so thoroughly,
They’ll even mime as pain The pain they suffer really. —Jonathan Griffin

(Poets feign and conceal So completely feign and pretend
That the pain which they really feel They’ll feign for you in the end —Michael Hamburger

The poet is a faker. He Fakes it so completely,
He even fakes he’s suffering The pain he’s really feeling. —Edwin Honig

The poet is a pretender. He pretends so completely
That he even pretends The pain he really feels. —Marilyn Scarantino Jones

The poet is a feigner. So completely does he feign
that the pain he truly feels he even feigns as pain. —Jean R. Longland

The poet is a forger who Forges so completely that
He forges even the feeling He feels truly as pain —George Monteiro

The poet is a forger. He forges so thoroughly
That he even forges the pain He really feels as pain —George Monteiro

The poet is a pretender. Pretend as completely
That comes to pretend that pain is The pain that they really feel.
—Google Translate (Douglas Storm)

Poets are liars. They lie so completely
That they make up pain Even when they’re hurting. —James Parr

The poet is an inventor. He invents so completely
That he succeeds in inventing That the pain he really feels is pain. —F.E.G. Quintanilha

The poet’s good at pretending, Such a master of the art
He even manages to pretend The pain he really feels is pain —Peter Rickard

The poet is a feigner his feiging so complete
that he comes to feign a grief in the grief he really feels. —Raymond Sayers

Poets pretend They pretend so well
They even pretend They suffer what they suffer. —Martin Seymour-Smith

The poet is a faker Who’s so good at his act
He even fakes the pain Of pain he feels in fact. —Richard Zenith

NaPoWriMo April 16th - Three Pantun (Sonnet #46)

Sonnet #46 (actually, three pantun and a closing couplet)

In the hustle and the bustle
as we plod our chosen way;
in the winning and the losing
keeping score throughout the day -

in the seeking and the striving
as our plans oft go astray;
in the comings and the goings
and the things we do, and say -

in the kicking and the screaming
of war's battles, of the fray;
in the plotting and the scheming
of our deep naivete -

Our pure love knows no decay:
In my arms I pray you’ll stay.

NaPoWriMo April 15th - Sonnet #45

Sonnet #45

The poet does not write and read, non-plussed,
for mere applause.  His rhythms and his notes
might give you pause: for him it’s true relief.
Approval's not the cause, nor the end
of his efforts.  He writes because he must:
an unformed phrase, a clause not spoken
is like an Albatross that gives him grief,
until he edits out its flaws and sends
it to a waiting world of laws and dust.
He draws the strength from deep within: a lust
that gnaws his soul and never grants respite,
nor takes flight, nor withdraws to sleep at night.   

NaPoWriMo April 14th - Acrostic Chance (Ryle's The Concept of Mind)

Acrostic Chance

The Concept of Mind - Gilbert Ryle

Their mechanics. Still unwittingly adhering to the grammar
He knows
Etc. as signalizing the occurrence in someone’s hidden

Considering and executing
Official theory finds it difficult to resist the consequences of his
Not really will. They are
Classes of performances in which intelligence
Explain what makes the
Philosopher’s myth. In attempting to explode
The working of the mind had to be

Other than his own. Even if he prefers
First ten motions made in tying one knot might be identical with

Metaphorical representation of the bifurcation
In this book is
Not unnaturally, therefore, an adherent of the
Dispensed with. Its use habituates…

NaPoWriMo April 13th - Sonnet #44

Sonnet #44

I was a runner in my hapless youth:
two times, four times, eight times around the track;
running to things, running from things, always
in a haste, never taking time to smell
the fragrance of the roses, know the truth.
In time, life slowed me down. I changed my tack.
I learned to walk, to circumspect, unfazed
by every shiny thing my eyes beheld.
But then the boundless sea became my Muse:
Her hidden wonders and her ways seduced
my every thought. Yet she was just a phase,
A short poetic phrase and a malaise.
This sonnet owns no ending, just a star,
To capture our attention from afar.

NaPoWriMo April 12th - Remembrances

Remembrances

When she said, “you kiss me like
you want to f— me,”
it should have been a sign
of things to come.

When she said, “you’re making me
fall in love with you again,”
alarm bells should have rang
inside my ears.

When I said, “this is not going
to work, it’s too much like
the last time we tried and failed,”
I should have listened.

NaPoWriMo April 11th - Three Tanka

Three Tanka

Immortality.
We can achieve it if we write
poetry that rhymes – 
that endures beyond our years – 
that rises above our fears.

Reconciliation.
We can attain it with insights
coming from all sides –
breaking a path through darkness – 
blazing the trail.  No regrets. 

Everlasting life.
We can seek it if we might:
learning from the past -
facing up to truth, at last – 
fearlessly, with faith steadfast. 

NaPoWriMo April 10th - Ottava Rima

Ottava Rima

I do not have a poem to say today,
Appalling how thoughts sometimes hit a wall:
The words don’t seem to flow, a sad cliché
That accurately spells with great recall
My present state where words have gone astray,
Imagination covered by a pall.
But just as long as ink flows through my pen,
I’ll find my Muse and write some words again.

NaPoWriMo April 9th - A Catalog of Muses

A Catalog of Muses

The first muse to visit me was my father,
Polyhymnia. He’d wake me up
in the middle of the night
to slur his way through a poem
he had memorized as a child.
It was torture, pure, but the
seed was planted.

Our muse mother was also Polyhymnia.
She taught us to read and write
before we "learned" in school.
She made us write letters to our aunts
that included little rhyming verses.

My fifth and sixth grade teacher
kept us two years, she loved us so.
Her name was Terpsichore.
I still recall the dances she taught us
and the poems she had us memorize,
some her own.

My scoutmaster, Urania,
taught us the value
of building a camp fire strong enough
to resist a cold wind, cooking over embers,
map-making, compass-reading, hiking,
poetry of the forest and woods.

My ninth grade English teacher,
Calliope, showed me the value of grinding
through the classics, the epic works.

My eleventh English teacher, Euterpe,
was a performance artist who shared
with us her first hand experiences
as a young college student in New York
during the Harlem Renaissance.  Priceless.

That first real kiss.
A muse-full experience.
Rushed back my room
each night to write poems
about the new high I had found.

The bakery where I worked
was one big collective muse.
All my big brothers and sisters:
Nelson, Alvin, Floyd, Ralph,
Carl, Charlotte, Robin, Lawrence,
James, George, Melvin, James,
Linzell, Jeffrey, Darnell, Richard,
Charles, Michael, Dayne.
One big collective muse.

The sea became my eternal muse,
the vast and boundless sea.

A kind friend muse taught me
the sonnet form.
She was my Erato,
my Thalia,
my Melponeme.

And the Beloved Community,
was my muse.
My peaceful port,
shelter in a raging storm,
my restore point.
My Polymatheia,
my Cephisso, Apollonis, and Borysthenis.

NaPoWriMo April 8th - These Words I Write

(The freshly roasted Yirgacheffe smelled so good when I ground it that I thought about taking a snort…)

These words I write
are not for me alone.
I pour a little red wine 
on the ground for the ancestors 
on both sides of the Atlantic
and down on the bottom
whenever I take a drink.
We always keep a little extra
tea inside a special tin 
in the china cabinet
for the nieces and nephews
when they come around.
It is the same with words.

NaPoWriMo April 7th - Five Cinquain on an Evolutionary Theme

From two to ten.
The size increases,
the depth deepens,
the strong grow stronger,
the weak go further off track.

We graduate to higher levels,
we decimate,
we diminish,
we assassinate ourselves
through our ignorance.

Through our ignorance,
through our arrogance,
through our willful
rejection of truth,
we reject our true inheritance.

As we oscillate-
like loose clothes pins,
from one end of the line
to the other-
we pause for a second …

To reflect…
to reclaim what we’ve lost …
to reconsider what we’ve tossed aside…
to re-evaluate our status
as the fittest for survival.

NaPoWriMo April 6th - A Pot of Chickpeas

A Pot of Chickpeas

I awoke to an incredible feeling 
of comfort and well-being.

It was a fragrance, a scent 
that took me back to 
Dona Nazaré’s kitchen 
in Lisbon.  I went into 
Filomena’s kitchen and 
lifted the lid on the big pot.  
Ah!  Chickpeas cooking 
through the night!

So much love goes into 
a pot of chickpeas.  
And then you get to eat them.  
Yum!

Filomena serves her chickpeas 
with cod fish, and carrots, 
and rapini, and boiled eggs.  
I smash the chickpeas, 
sprinkle them with sea salt, 
and drizzle olive oil 
and balsamic vinegar on top.
Sometimes I smash the carrots, too.

So much love goes into a 
pot of chickpeas.    

NaPoWriMo April 5th - I Remember My First Kiss

I remember my first kiss -
how my heart raced
and pounded -
like a drum -
inside my head.

You were a city girl,
gorgeous, gifted, talented -
it was no big deal for you.
But I was a country boy,
And for me it was
a singularly special moment.

I called my mother -
Daddy was in his world -
And I wrote some poems.
I couldn’t wait for tomorrow -
To kiss you again.