I have decided it’s time for me to take on the game of go. The rules are easy to learn. Easier than chess even. But it is a difficult game to master, or to even become proficient at. More difficult than chess even! Much more difficult.
So, my first go tanka. Atari occurs when your stones have been placed in jeopardy.
atari
dark stone taps bamboo
light stone taps and slides to place
beyond the window
a rustle of autumn leaves
falls silent as the dead stones
Latest spill-over. Had Cohen‘s “Dance me to the end of love” stuck in my head so fiercely that I couldn’t make any progress on another poem I’ve been working on. So I decided to write something with a similar feel to it—but without the refrain and chorus—to see if I could get Cohen’s song out of my skull enough to focus.
take me
Maybe I’ve learned a something through my study of Cohen’s poetry. His earlier poems were usually terrible, but his more recent material is outstanding on average. This is what I hope will happen with my own work as the years wear on—Steady improvement.
A child where I work was having a hard time last night. It was one of those times when you just want to be left alone to sort out your thoughts and feelings for yourself, but people keep prying and trying to get you to bend to their will. He had gotten pretty worked up, and really needed to be left alone. Yet because he said some things that indicated he might hurt himself, he also had to be supervised. I managed to intervene and get him twenty minutes of personal space. I stayed near him, and my night-shift supervisor was near, but we both had the presence of mind not to talk to him except to quietly state a couple of simple expectations—basically the time he had available for self reflection.
I could see pain and rage in his eyes, and I could relate. He talked of being worthless earlier, and I wondered if that had something to do with it all. When he said he was worthless, I explained to him then that there is a big difference between “being” and “feeling” worthless. I told him, “you feel worthless, but this is not the same as actually being worthless.” I made it clear to him that to feel worthless is to feel worthless, but that feeling worthless doesn’t actually mean you’re worthless—It is a feeling only.
He seemed to catch on, though it took a while. Later, after he had calmed down some, I heard him tell my supervisor, “I hate feeling worthless.” It was nice to see him recognize and look it as a feeling. He ended up going to sleep. And as the night wore on I found myself reflecting on that look I noticed in his eyes.
Value
for a particular youth
I watched the cyclone raging through your mind
behind the storm front of your gray-blue eyes;
I felt the gale wind thrust of every word
you bellowed to the over-clouded skies.
And here is what I saw: An empty place.
A realm so foreign to the world of men
that few could bear to grasp or understand
the magnitude of desolation there.
The ground as far as I could see was razed,
wiped free of every feature bearing hope;
a river seethed throughout the barren fields,
filled with poisons welled from pools loss.
All horizons bore the faintest touch
of mountains, jagged shadows ripped from time;
the sky was silver-gray with high-spun clouds,
the kind that never break to show the sun.
And here were you, hunched over on your knees,
your fingers clutched into the ash gray soil,
stunned into a state of pallid shock,
silent, still, and breathing low and mild.
I could not guess what leveled all you knew
and left you magically alive—alone.
But when I heard you murmur, “I am worthless,”
I creepingly began to understand.
Dear Soul! What worthless thing could hold!?
What petty life could face such storms of loss!?
What worthlessness could carry on despite
the emptiness of such a barren scape!?
This life is yours! This plane of dreams your own!
Whatever storms have left you thus are gone.
Now you must stand and walk until you grasp
the nature of your reconfigured lands!
Stand tall! For you have shown your truest mettle.
You have endured where most have failed and died.
Your face still holds the will to learn and grow—
So go! Explore the landscapes of your life.
Those distant mountains surely harbor hopes.
And they are yours, so go and see what kind.
But you must leave this place of tragedy,
this epicenter of your broken past.
This place is but a fragment of your soul.
There is much more to you than what you see.
Beyond those mountains continents are filled
with every form of possibility.
For there are treasures hidden in your world,
and there are forests standing green and wild,
but you must make the survey of your soul,
to learn your inner worth and sense of value.
I’d like to give him a copy of this poem, but there are strict policies in place concerning client-staff relations. Giving him a copy would be entering into a gray area that may or may not have repercussions. So I’ll err on the side of personal safety.
Although I have in the past been an avid member of various Christian denominations, I have always viewed the world differently from those around me. Attempts to explain or describe this view have traditionally proven futile and would elicit responses ranging from curiosity to open disdain. This is perhaps due to a lack of common ground.
It was only relatively recently that I stumbled upon a word that more or less describes my way of seeing the world—Animism. If you look this word up in the OED, you’ll find three distinct definitions, all of which can apply to my way of seeing the world. Basically, the animist sees the material world as manifest and inseparable from a spirit world. This statement is crude, at best. The dictionary definitions are themselves inadequate, but they at least point in the right direction.
Either way, animism is a substrate, not a religion. It is a basic way of seeing things, not a way of living, and certainly not a doctrine. The English word “spirit” derives from the Latin “spiritus”, which translates as “breath”. So, my 21st hybridanelle.
Song of the Animist
The rocks are breathing. Rivers also breathe,
clear up the canyons to the glaciered peaks,
caressed on either side by whispering leaves.
From molten ores to flashing thunderheads
to fields of glowing gasses joined with dust,
all the universe is fused with breath.
From lakeside pebbles ground through centuries
to mesas looming black against the dusk,
the rocks are breathing. Rivers also breathe,
inhaling rains into their liquid lungs,
exhaling mists that turn within the light
to fields of glowing gasses joined with dust.
The sands are breathing. Branches also breathe
amid the play of feathers claws and beaks,
caressed on either side by whispering leaves
that tremble twist and sway against the sky
like dancers twirling over sheets of ice,
exhaling mists that turn within the light.
Jutting from the depths of plains and seas,
or crumbling to the steady boom of breakers,
the rocks are breathing. Rivers also breathe
in moonlit meditation through the night,
slight reflections wimpling in the dark
like dancers twirling over sheets of ice.
Our dreams are breathing. Stillness also breathes
in quiet contemplation like an oak
caressed on either side by whispering leaves
as moments dissipate beyond the stars
to visions shining from the distant past,
slight reflections wimpling in the dark.
Throughout the crust where granite forces seethe
and drips of water ripple cavern lakes,
the rocks are breathing. Rivers also breathe,
caressed on either side by whispering leaves
across the living contours of the land.
From molten ores to flashing thunderheads
to visions shining from the distant past,
all the universe is fused with breath.
This poem follows a dream I had many years ago. I talk about the experiences surrounding the dream in my introduction to the poem “oak touch”.
markers
i was half raven
the city long since dead
gray as the silent sky
streaked with granite
i held the air with
long black feathers
in cobblestone canyons
carved from history
i felt the old walls
brush my wingtips
high above narrow lanes
stretched empty below
then the buildings gave way
and i soared free
through an open square
orange with age
in the distant center
tall as the canyon
towers there grew
an old black oak
its crown was full
contrast to the lifeless
city frozen forever
to a moment in time
it grew from a circle
closed in limestone walls
where long sere blades of grass
rose perfectly still
its scaly roots
swam beneath the ground
like coiled serpents
half risen for air
and there i landed
near its broad round base
and rustled black feathers
neatly behind me
high in the crown
on a long thick branch
a large raven worked
at something unseen
its obsidian beak
puzzled probed and cocked
’til i found myself lifting
to see what it saw
and as i rose up
it studied my approach
then tossed its small find
from the edge
it settled deep
parting long thin blades
as i drifted back
to the ground
and about me there gathered
creatures of every kind
as i knelt as in prayer
near the trunk
all kinds of creatures
from all kinds of spirits
half-mooned around me
to see
one stood behind me
covered with stern brown eyes
which gazed down upon me
and in all directions
its skin was the bark
of all the old black oaks
returned to the dreams
of the earth
and i held in my hands
like a soft feathered stone
the black figurine
of a raven
whose breast split in two
its soft downy breast
where a glimmer of light
shone within
Over the years I’ve written a couple of poems inspired by this dream and my subsequently “meeting” the same tree in “real life”. It grows by Orr Springs Road, several miles West of Ukiah, CA. I already provided a link above to “oak touch”. The others are “Three Ravens” and “Oak Dream”.
An out of season sakura poem. This is a tanka. I think the cherry tree could be a lifelong source of inspiration for me.
final thought
cradled in new growth
a single cherry blossom
trembles in the breeze
below the rain has gathered
petals into bright white pools
As I read an in-depth article on the differentia of Verse, Prose, and Poetry, I stumbled across something called echolalia. A beautiful sounding word. Too bad it’s more or less useless outside pathology, educational psychology, and the trivia of obscure definitions. Still, I wanted to play with the concept, and so I ended up tapping this out.
Echolalia
Stars are falling falling through the dark
and through the dark a strong wind thrusts and parries
a strong wind thrust and parries like a sword
thrusts and parries like a long broad sword
and like a long broad sword your words cut deep
your words cut deep and disconnect the tendons
disconnect the tendons of my trust
my trust which slacks and falls like quartered meat
which slacks and falls like quartered meat for sell
I reminisce on stars for some strange reason
for some strange reason I remember stars
I remember stars which fell and faded
which fell and faded in the long dark night
and in the long dark night we held each other
we held each other by curling sea
and by the curling sea our toes were curled
our toes were curled with broken ecstasy
in broken ecstasy we slid to sleep
And stars are falling now from baring skies
from baring skies which deepen like a flood
which deepen like a flood of blackest water
of blackest water spread throughout my soul
spread throughout my soul like acid loss
an acid loss that eats away my trust
that eats away my trust until I’m left
until I’m left like bleached and barren bone
like bleached and barren bone devoid of life
The content is more or less inspired by actual feelings and events. And despite the silliness of the poem, the impact of the echolalia is kind of surprising.
Playing with some thoughts of romance. I’m always loath to take the mainstream approach to romantic poetry, if I approach it at all. And I’m learning, through my practice with the trisects and a study of the interpretations they elicit from my readers, how to use depiction to lead the mind in the direction I’d like it to go without my having to cram explicit thoughts into my reader’s face like a tangle of rotting guts.
Company
come
join me here in darkness
let your lips speak back
long thin shadows
let your touch brush away
tendrils of haze
come
let us meditate on stars
fixed in double panes
which fade to the slow
approach of opal hues
the zenith moon
come
we can listen to the sudden
rooftop rap of acorns
as they call out their
little reminders of towering
greatness outside
come
let us study the red
diodes of time together
silent motions that
push with magic force
toward nascent dawns
Normally, I avoid writing poetry that’s focused on things like Thanksgiving or Christmas, or any holiday. It’s just not the sort of thing that tends to interest me. However, as Thanksgiving day approached, I found myself pondering what Thanksgiving day, a day when most families come together and reconnect, would be like for the kids who live at the group home I work at.
I actually had my own Thanksgiving days in group homes. In fact, group homes not unlike the place I’m working at. Then there were the two Thanksgivings I endured as a runaway teen. So I have my own memories to draw from in trying to bring the hidden voice of these kids to the world. This is my 21st terzanelle.
Thanksgiving Night
A long cold wind blows down the long brown hall.
The lights are dim. The night man gently paces,
and one by one we drift beyond brick walls.
We AWOL through our dreams and greet the faces
that make our stomachs sick with love and dread.
The lights are dim. The night man gently paces.
Outside our doors the floor creeks from the tread
of memories, like ghosts within the halflight,
that make our stomachs sick with love and dread.
We’ve eaten much, and yet there looms a hunger,
an emptiness that writhes amid the gloom
of memories, like ghosts within the halflight.
We stir the darkness in our broken rooms.
We’re full, for well we ate to stuff our sorrows,
an emptiness that writhes amid the gloom.
The heater drones, yet chill seeps to the marrow.
A long cold wind blows down the long brown hall.
We’re full, for well we ate to stuff our sorrows,
and one by one we drift beyond brick walls.
I was reflecting on how Robert Service, a favorite poet of mine, would write poems in various Scottish, British, and other dialects. Some of these poems are very moving. For instance, “Bills Grave” and “Pooch”. If you read them, you might suspect that Service was well acquainted with the dialect used in the first poem, as well as the mindset, and that he more or less guessed at the dialect used in the second poem. I believe the first uses a Northern England dialect, where he grew up, and the second uses the dialect of a Black American, possibly Southern.
I was also reflecting on this book I had just finished reading, The Whereabouts of Eneas McNulty by Sebastian Barry. The nature of the story was such as to cause me a lot of after-read reflection, and there was some life at sea involved therein.
So, with all this stirring about in my brain, I found myself tapping out a few phrases, and shortly thereafter, my 21st villanelle fell out thus.
sea dog
Writing poetry in various dialects is something I plan to explore over time, so it was nice to have this experience. The title was suggested by Chris England, an acquaintance I run into at the cafes here in Ukiah.
Regret is a powerful force of emotion, but it is not easy to depict in poetry. I once left someone I loved to be with someone I was infatuated with. Who knows why we do such things. Years later I found myself looking back on that decision with savage, ravaging pangs of regret.
regret
You may have noticed that the subject is not approached in the usual manner here. Throughout the years, I have been admonished over and over to “just say what I feel” when writing poetry, as if just saying that I have regrets, that it hurts, and talking about what happened to cause them is somehow poetry. It’s not. No matter how I chopped up the lines, this could never create a poem; it could only create prose that’s been chopped into short lines.
Poetry is in part the art of expressing such feelings using only depiction so that he who reads will be overcome by a sense of empathy and relation without ever being asked to empathize or relate. A poem on a subject such as this should manage to completely avoid ever saying anything along the lines of, “I feel regret,” or “I regret XYZ.” This is the job of prose. The poem, if successful, should awaken that regret within the reader as an emotion he can own for himself without ever being told to do so.
In the case of this poem, I use the title to create the expectation of a normal gush of chopped prose on the subject of regret only to seemingly evade the expectation entirely, leaving the last stanza to bring the title home in an entirely jarring and unexpected manner—like the thrust of a dagger.
