Notes on Poetry Composition

Notes on Poetry Composition

When I need to make sense of it all, I go back to the beginning.

I throw out the poetry textbooks and all my lecture notes.
I ignore the voice in my head that keeps repeating “imagery,
cadence, structure and rhyme”.

I go back to Bluebird and Roll the Dice. I go back to that place
where my passion was born, where the muse first gave me a wink
and the gods showed me words that could kick like a mule
and kiss me like no woman I had ever known.

I forget about submission guidelines and contributors’ copies.
I pour myself a tall glass of cheap scotch cut with ice
and drink until I don’t give a shit, until I’m ready to wipe my ass
with rejection letters and can vomit up years of advice.

It’s then that I remember the women I’ve fucked
and the ones that have fucked me. I think about the pain
and failure that's refined me, then I take another sip and say
“but I’m still here”, and I smile at the gentle tinkle of ice and glass.

SMG

Tallahassee

Tallahassee

When the hands of the clock

are flipping you off,

its face a twisted smile,

and escape to the bottle

has drowned the words

that once intoxicated you.

When lust is merely a metaphor,

love a long distance call

and your voice has turned

to autumn leaves

that crackle under foot.

That is when the night

becomes only darkness

and the call of that bottle

fills the spaces in between

the sunlight.

SMG

Something for Easter: Of Wood, Nails and Colored Eggs (by Martin Bell)

Of Wood and Nails and Colored Eggs

Wood: Something like an eternity ago, human
beings got all caught up in the illusion that being
human is a relatively unimportant sort of proposition.
Here today - gone tomorrow. A vale of tears - that
sort of foolishness.

What’s more tragic, or course, is that in the

wake of this basic error, there quickly followed the
idea that human beings are expendable, which easily
degenerated into the proposition that some human
beings are expendable. Really bad guys are expendable.
Guys with low I.Q.’s are expendable. Anyone
who disagrees with me is expendable. A long time
ago, human beings got all caught up in the illusion
that being human is a relatively unimportant sort of
proposition.

Well, that’s not true. It’s wrong. All wrong.

And it has always been wrong. From the creation of
the heavens and the earth, it has been . . .wrong.
There’s nothing more important than being human.
Our lives have eternal significance. And no one - absolutely
no one - is expendable.

Nails: Jesus was dead. He was dead and

buried. It was expedient that he should be dead and
buried. Caiaphas had explained that to himself and
to others over and over again. It was expedient, he
said, that one man should die for the sake of the
people. Jesus is expendable. Caiaphas suffered from
the illusion that being human is relatively unimportant.
And so Jesus was dead.

What happened then wasn’t so remarkable,

really. God simply raised Jesus from the dead. He
merely walked into the tomb that we call insignificance
and absurdity, and meaninglessness, and
other such names as that - he merely walked into
this tomb and raised Jesus from the dead.
There was nothing very spectacular or remarkable
about this. God revealed himself to be the
same God who created the heavens and the earth
and called his creation good; the same God who led
his people out of Egypt to be a light to the nations;
the same God who affirmed David in his weakness;
who called forth the prophets; who kindled the heart
of John the Baptist; and who reached out to touch
his tiny children in the person of Jesus Christ.

God raised Jesus from the dead to the end

that we should be clear—once and for all—that
there is nothing more important than being human.
And no one - absolutely no one - is expendable.

Colored Eggs: Some human beings are fortunate

enough to be able to color eggs on Easter. If
you have a pair of hands to hold the eggs, or if
you’re fortunate enough to be able to see the brilliant
colors, then you’re twice blessed.

This Easter some of us weren’t able to hold

Easter Eggs, others of us were unable to see the
colors, many of us are unable to move at all - and
so it will be necessary to color eggs in our heart.

This Easter there was a hydrocephalic child

lying very still in a hospital somewhere with a head
the size of his pillow and vacant, unmoving eyes,
and he was not able to color Easter eggs, and he
will not be able to color Easter eggs in his heart, and
so God will have to color eggs for him.

And God will color eggs for him. You can bet

your life and the life of the created universe on that.

At the cross of Calvary God re-consecrated

and sanctified wood and nails and absurdity and
helplessness to be continuing vehicles of his love.
And then he simply raised Jesus from the dead;
and they went home and colored eggs.

By Martin Bell

Label Whore

Label Whore

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Thank you


SMG

Doldrums

July rains
baptize garbage piles
on 26th street
then evaporate
to twilight steam.

September’s still
beyond the horizon,
the soft shores of Spring
a distant dream
in my wake.

The Doldrums
of Gotham Summer
have becalmed my ship
and I am adrift
on this graffiti sea.

Adorned in albatross,
I will navigate
august Manhattan’s
burning quiescence
and trade for Fall.

(Excerpt from "Another Hotel Room")

Letters to the Editor

Letters to the Editor

I sat at my usual stool at the bar

and ignored the bartender’s scowl.

“Yes those eight quarters are your fucking tip”

I thought without a moment of guilt.

Now that football season is over,

I find Sundays are best spent drinking and reading.

I refuse to jump on the machine

that is New York on any given weekend.

This city has no use for the disengaged,

or the conscientious objector, but I don’t give a shit,

so I hide in dim corners until nightfall.

I was avoiding the sun and working

my way through a bottle of decent single malt

with an uppity west-side literary rag chaser.

I get a copy in the mail every time

they print one of my poems so vanity

forces me to at least give it the once over.

It was filled with everything you’d expect,

two pieces of short fiction, one pretty good

and the other not great, but a good story none the less.

Two dozen poems of various length and skill,

covering everything from love to Iraq and back again.

The Letters to the Editor were the usual prattle

bemoaning the dearth of true art in Western society.

One letter made it quite clear that sentimental crap

was unwelcome and pleased nobody.

Another, written by a grumpy little man,

railed against every poem (all of them) that did not

meet his educated discriminating standards.

As I read his editorial, I could picture the smirk spread

across his face. His little diatribe against the unworthy

amongst these pages, penned with great concern

for future generations of poetry readers everywhere. 

A glance at my watch confirmed my suspicion

that the angry yellow sun should have mellowed a bit,

so I snatched half the change off the bar and walked out.

On my way home I gave the change and the magazine

to a homeless woman who thanked me with a blessing.

When I got back to my door I paused just long enough

to watch the remnants of tangerine melt into the Hudson,

and I smiled as I imagined the coming night.

There was poetry to be seen on the faces of the city

and in the single blade of grass pushing defiantly

through the Lexington Avenue sidewalk.

SMG

D'Verse Poet's Form for All (Sedoka)

Sedoka

I let form invade

my normal creative processes

and attempted a Sedoka.

Originally Japanese,

it is a form created from

two, related, three line katauta

SMG

D’Verse Poet’s Pub

Pretentious Little Poet by the Poetry Rack at Borders

Pretentious Little Poet by the Poetry Rack at Borders

"If you like Bukowski
then you should
definitely
check out
this anthology.
It has several
of my poems
in it and
Bukowski
is my
biggest
influence"

SMG

Ordinary Excrement/Alternate Time Period

Ordinary Excrement/Alternate Time Period

A coat and tie stops
a passing shopping cart

to ask if it can spare

some freedom or maybe

a few pieces of mind.

The shopping cart

ignores the intrusion

and mumbles

“quit yer job asshole”.

A group of ponytails

and short skirts peer

over a construction fence

to ogle the hard hats

as they sweat

in the late afternoon sun.

A new pair

of black Florsheims

stalk the sidewalk

in search

of an unsuspecting

pile of dog shit

or a freshly discarded

piece of chewing gum.

The desk clock

refuses to move a hand

and instead

flies a bird salute

at the pressed empty shirt

that sits in the chair

once occupied

by possibility.

SMG

The N to 59th (by @HannahMiet )

 

Hannah Miet

a real writer you should know!

Peace on Earth

Peace on Earth

The Archer is wake!
The Swan is flying!
Gold against blue
An Arrow is lying.
There is hunting in heaven--
Sleep safe till tomorrow.

The Bears are abroad!
The Eagle is screaming!
Gold against blue
Their eyes are gleaming!
Sleep!
Sleep safe till tomorrow.

The Sisters lie
With their arms intertwining;
Gold against blue
Their hair is shining!
The Serpent writhes!
Orion is listening!
Gold against blue
His sword is glistening!
Sleep!
There is hunting in heaven--
Sleep safe till tomorrow.

William Carlos Williams

Tears

a Poem by Actor Michael Madsen

Eastern Terminus

Eastern Terminus

The eastern terminus of the Lincoln
Highway is Times Square, New York,
New York; the confluence of Broadway,
Seventh Avenue and 42nd Street. Three
thousand three hundred and eighty nine
miles from San Francisco to the Cross-
roads of the World, cut through the
Rockies, across the broken heartland
and over the big shoulders. There is no
poetry here only clichéd mannequins, neon
buskers and Moriarty’s ghost. Pale travelers,
blown in from Bountiful to Bedford, stand
on line at Bubba Gump and an old stripper
cries in the shadow of some forty odd stories.
Jesus used to ride the crystal ball but now we
seek our salvation in the ticker’s rise and fall;
God is dead after all. This is jazz, blues and
rock n roll, marquee lights and urine stained
sidewalks, the end of a long road, destiny
manifest and an innocent kiss at midnight.

Late Fees

Late Fees

I know you watch me,
over spectacle rims
near the bridge's end.

You shush me
over index cards
and collected late fees.

I want to tie you up
or hold you down
and scribble poems
on your breasts
in red fountain pen
and let your screams
echo through
the Dewey stacks.

We both know
pain and love
are partners
over time, overdue.

SMG

9 to 5 Icarus

9 to 5 Icarus

These days King Minos
wears a suit and tie
and drives a new Bentley,
but he still has to deal
with the same bull,
rotten kids, bad wife;
fucking cow!

This is Manhattan,
not Knossos, so
there’s no labyrinth here,
just subways tunnels
and skyscrapers,
but it can still be hard
to find a way out.

The wings of our fathers
come with warning labels
and we still ignore them
when we get high.
It’s fortunate that this prison
only holds me from 9 to 5
and New Jersey
is a relatively short flight.

SMG

Jordaan

Jordaan

I found myself  on a  bridge over  the Prinsengracht canal
in the disconnected calm  of three joints  from a coffee bar
and the cool predawn air. The click of Rembrandt’s footsteps
still echo down the cobbles at this hour--  Once, long ago,
I dreamt of the scene,  this moment;  fog  tickling  across
the warm canal water. I thought back to the person I was
when that dream was formed and I realized that I missed him.
He was young and idealistic, so unafraid, with a swagger
that  could  only  come  from  hubris  and  ignorance.

The damp morning air  sat on the shoulders  of my  jacket
and I smiled as I watched  a young  Dutch couple  fend  off
the chilly dark, oblivious to the painter and me as we took it all in.
The distance between that boy and the man that I would become
seems so much greater than the twenty five years it took to travel.
That  boy’s  dreams  have  turned  into  my  sad  reminiscence,
a longing for that time before disbelief and defeat; the un-jaded
days of wonder lost along the way. I wanted to see Amsterdam
before I died; I realize now that it’s too late.

SMG

Poet Warrior

Poet Warrior

I am the Norse god Bragi
lyricist for the conquests
and defeats of antiquity.
I have sailed the North Sea
by aurora borealis light,
singing songs of victory
drunk with the spoils
of Lindesfarne Abbey.

I am a Celtic warrior born
from the waters of the Rhine
before stone sheathed steel.
With the blessings of Taranis
I have marched into battle
to taste Etruscan blood
and watch Virdomarus
fall to the sword of Rome.

I am of the tribe Myaamia
descended from ancient Adena.
I've hunted with wolven stealth
and flown on raven's wings.
I swear an oath of vengeance
to the Moon, Earth and Sun;
the Ohio shall one day flow red
with the white man's blood.

SMG

Meursault

“I opened myself to the gentle
indifference of the world”

They tried to make me feel different
like I wasn’t connected or in touch,
but isn't everyone just doing time,
standing vigil and mourning without tears.

Eventually we all join this funeral procession,
a slow march through the scorching sun.
Conviction, condemnation and reprisal,
are my rewards for calling the ritual absurd.

Some days I can imagine the crowd
shouting from the subway platform
as my train pulls away into the darkness,
cries of “die Meursault die” echoing down the line.

I can’t really explain the four extra shots,
seemed like the thing to do at the time.
I've decided to start wearing sunglasses,
that should be enough to show regret.

*(Re-print from The Melancholy Dane)

The Weight of My Own Self Importance

The Weight of My Own Self Importance

How pretentious
the poet’s pen is,
nattering nonsense
cobbled and collated
into couplets and quatrains.

The mysteries of life
explained; I am, in iamb.
A lot of alliteration;
love’s loss lamented
line by line.

Yellow pad in hand
we toil and tarry ‘til
the world weeps
in wonderment
at what we’ve written.

SMG

(Art Credit)

Inspiration

Inspiration

I spend Sunday afternoons
in Greenwich Village
searching for Holden
and old Sal Paradise.
I want to connect
with the dissonance ,
embrace madness
and take On the Road.

I stutter step 42nd Street,
weave and eaves drop
on stolen conversations
and snap shot scenes.
Sublime brief glimpses,
of a television set to scan.
Seen through dim glass
a city viewed darkly

I’ve fucked my share
of whores and goddesses
but I still can’t write
a decent love poem.
Language fails compared
to the splendor and stench
of two becoming one,
then two, or maybe none.

I walk through Central Park
and wonder about the ducks,
I often take the time to ask
the junkies “where’s Dean?”
and every once in a while
they give me a knowing look
and say “he’s on the journey,
living it, where are you man?”