This world is so wide that, even if you flitted around and around it, you would never reach the end of it. This blog is a collage of more or less literary and humorous, outlandish or sometimes even serious glimpses at this great wide world.
I’ll order the squall jacket you recommded,
my that will be one fierce tendril less. I won’t flinch
no more with the crow at the emporium, as I used to,
and feel so small, like peppered rust reverberating.
Now there’s only one thing that remains to be said,
and that is that I dislike saffron, so contrary to your
advice I will not take those pills. CU tomorrow!
Bel-Ami
Written for napowrimo #22, in which the following words were proposed:
All the things observed here truly happened – except that I rearranged them a bit for better effect. Similarities with living persons are definitely intented.
The brief instant the beacon hits you right in the eye,
that flash of time remains engraved
I remember a ridiculous instant in the tea kitchen,
with you standing with your back to the paper towel dispenser,
when you smiled at me and I was close to your face,
a flawed face with not the best of skin,
thinking, “Could I possibly love her?”
And now sometimes I stand next to you
and feel that our bodies are one without touching
I look at your face and
every flaw is a mosaic piece of certainty
II
But if I asked you if you felt the same,
you’d deny it with the coldest Asian face on earth
I know you would
You’d switch the beacon off, I’d wander off
You’d let me go until you changed your mind,
fearful suddenly of losing whatever I am,
turning the light on to renew the draw
III
You know I’ll come around again
But sometimes I see doubt come in
(I relish those moments, I admit it)
I see the beacon rotate in the dark,
I know it will come my way
In another instant, when it hits me in the eye,
I’ll know exactly what I feel
Notes
Thinking about what to write for this prompt, the word lighthouse came to my mind, and then a shred from a song I later identified as 'Til I Gain Control Again by Rodney Crowell.
To me, parts of the poem have a song-like quality, which may well be due to its source of inspiration.
The song was covered by many singers, including Emmylou Harris and Willie Nelson. Lyrics and a live performance: Like sunlight dancing on your skin.
This one was originally written in German years ago.
Rendered in English and brought to napowrimo #16 because the prompt ("What’s that smell?") made me remember it. It was originally written on a Friday (hence the title) and was now translated on a Friday. That is definitely beyond coincidence :)
Isak Roux is a South-African composer and pianist who lives in Stuttgart, Germany.
In a nice private place, pick out a stanza, or a few lines, that you like from a poem that you don’t otherwise feel was very successful. Say them over to yourself.
Now hum them. See if you can find the tune.
And now sing them aloud. (Who cares if you can sing? You’re in private. And this is poetry!)
Throwing away the rest of the poem, write two more stanzas (stand-alone or connected) that go to the same tune.
The line from a poem (song) I considered not entirely successful (for reasons of triteness) was "Now’s the time / for something a whole lot special."
You say yes, I say no
You say stop and I say go
– The Beatles
For her, as usual
One
We say good-bye,
each one walks on,
to meet again
and again
to let destiny
take its course
Two
you will not turn around,
I know,
tomorrow
and again,
becoming love
full circle
Three
We say good-bye, you will not turn around,
each one walks on, I know,
to meet again tomorrow
and again and again,
to let destiny becoming love
take its course full circle
In the near field an idle, stylish horse raised one leg
In her living room in the city of S. her alarm went off
Mine went off ten minutes ago and now I’m sitting here
spouting early poetry having to do with a stylish horse
She is fighting to shake off the softness and warmth
of pillow and cover and embrace
I’m letting the horse put its stylish leg down on the ground
The cold of a cold April morning is seeping into my bones
The idea of napowrimo #13 was to take a line by Norman Dubie as a first line and title the resulting poem “Poem Starting with a Line from Norman Dubie” – both of which I did.
there's this guy I kinda like but have no use for
who's been mooncalf lovesick for me for years
and my mooncalf unwed mother girlfriend
who's been looking for a suitable guy for years
so why not get together this guy and my unwed girlfriend
- Leonard Blumfeld
Would that qualify as a tanka about love, funny side up for napowrimo #7?
Even right now. Limbo is impending, even though not quite upon me yet – my work situation is about to change radically. I won't work in the same place any longer, won't be around the same people, some of whom have become friends over the nearly three years I've been here.
I have all intentions to bid good-bye to my beloved, who is among these people. I've come to the conclusion that it will be best to cut ties completely to regain peace of mind and peace of heart.
So – let me try and work some alchemy, generate light that shines and points me in the right direction.
Or was it raspberries?
That was the title of a book of poems
I bought somewhere in rural Arkansas
in 1978, where three friends and I
had come for boating on the
Buffalo River.
Written by one Edsel ... (not Ford,
I think, definitely not Ford). And
now I can’t find it on my shelves
to help me remember why
those berries, straw or rasp,
run deep.
A poem to illustrate the strangeness of (my) memory and to go with “running” at One Single Impression.
Notes
As I found out with the help of Google, the poet's name is Edsel Ford indeed (there is a Wikipedia article about him), and the title of the collection is “Raspberries Run Deep” (published in 1975). I still haven't located the book, though, so the deep-running raspberries must remain a mystery for now.
The door it opened slowly,
my father he came in, I was nine years old.
And he stood so tall above me,
his blue eyes they were shining
and his voice was very cold.
He said, "I've had a vision
and you know I'm strong and holy,
I must do what I've been told."
So he started up the mountain,
I was running, he was walking,
and his axe was made of gold.
Well, the trees they got much smaller,
the lake a lady's mirror,
we stopped to drink some wine.
Then he threw the bottle over.
Broke a minute later
and he put his hand on mine.
Thought I saw an eagle
but it might have been a vulture,
I never could decide.
Then my father built an altar,
he looked once behind his shoulder,
he knew I would not hide.
You who build these altars now
to sacrifice these children,
you must not do it anymore.
A scheme is not a vision
and you never have been tempted
by a demon or a god.
You who stand above them now,
your hatchets blunt and bloody,
you were not there before,
when I lay upon a mountain
and my father's hand was trembling
with the beauty of the word.
And if you call me brother now,
forgive me if I inquire,
"Just according to whose plan?"
When it all comes down to dust
I will kill you if I must,
I will help you if I can.
When it all comes down to dust
I will help you if I must,
I will kill you if I can.
And mercy on our uniform,
man of peace or man of war,
the peacock spreads his fan.
But alas, the odor,
stuck to my shoes,
came right along
- Leonard "Lurch" Blumfeld
Written to implicate frantic, lurch and odor from 3WW. Titled "Splat" because a pond might have been my next destination in quest of getting rid of that odor I'd stepped into.
