"...to enclose the present moment; to make it stay; to fill it fuller and fuller, with the past, the present and the future, until it shone, whole, bright, deep with understanding."

Virgina Woolf, The Years


29.6.14

All birthed and happy


I walk along these hillsides
in the summer 'neath the sunshine
I'm feathered by the moonlight
falling down on me






Words: A murder of one by Counting Crows

6.6.14

If you ignore the world and find it in you to swirl the word (or, Same bones, different skeletons; or, Pick your poisson)



Eros scrabbles to rose and rage
to rose and rage

to rage
to smite homesick hours or violet types
flowers that say "love it" if you listen

                                                                       Me, I do 

and don’t feel it matters that evil thrives
in live, that we tinker and smash 

everything down to bits and then
try to patch a path back home, it’s our lotto 

in life, to have no clue
what a natural disaster is
when that disaster is us. 


                     Besides, what can I say about

language other than it’s an anal egg 
in need of one glorious u. Words
or sword — pick your poisson. Every time 
I try to peak into speaking, the bag
of gab to learn what our noodles
are really up to, I get flummoxed
that the tools I use
are the stool I stand on

to see a way in or out. I can’t even tell 
if I’m more trapped or rapt,
if meaning’s mean or play’s
a dumb waiter riding numbly

up and down. But have you noticed 
read becomes dear
if you ignore the world
as you find it and find it in you

to swirl the word, in the way 
solve and loves are the same 
bones, different skeletons. 


(Personal selection of Bob Hicok's The pregnancy of words)

15.5.14

Eleven


On Waterloo Bridge I am trying to think:
This is nothing. You’re high on the charm and the drink.
But the juke-box inside me is playing a song
That says something different. And when was it wrong?
 
- Wendy Cope, "Waterloo Bridge"



I say eleven, you say eleven
I say... what? And you said... what else?
Some details do begin to fade
like they do when old photographs
are exposed too long to sunlight
or forgotten in dark, humid corners

Yet others remain spotless
like the way you tried on that hat
or the way you sipped all those iced coffees
The memory of all that
Time doesn't seem to be succeeding
in taking that away from me

The way your smile
does certainly beam
The way you said
how much you like to sing
even if off key
The way you still
sometimes
haunt my dreams
Time is not being able
to take that away from me

The way we first danced... 'till three?
When there was nobody else
on the dance floor
but people were watching us
probably murmuring to each other

The way you sneaked your arm
behind me
The way it reached down
to my waist
Or how we both already knew
that one of our faces
would approach the other's lips
and thus waited patiently
The memory of all that
Time just won't take that away from me

I may wonder
for how long will I wonder
why the Gods above me
(who absolutely were in the know)
thought so little of me
they allowed the music to change
from major to minor

I may wonder
for how long will I wonder
if there will be other lips
that will thrill me half as much as yours did
or if there will be another you
altogether

What is certain
though
is that time can't take the memory of you
away from me


(Variaton, the last, on not-exactly-Eleven jazz poems -and songs-, namely, Ella and Louise's Let's call the whole thing off,  Ella's They can't take that away from me and Every time we say goodbye, and Chet Baker's There will never be another you)