Intermissions [I.-IX.]

I.

For L.F.: bicycling to 92

No lines
In the forest sky.
My eyes open.
Today is for today.

The wind makes my window
White with the darkness
Of night.

The warmth of words
Waits for its own breath.

Music lives
Where silence sleeps.

I have only the every actual
Teetering on the wire
Above the crowd
And tent of imagination --

I will give you a balloon
For your trip
To everywhere
You hear your own voice.

II.

End

That sunset
Gives me up,
Gives up the day
With me --
Blinds my right eye
To the page I turn
Away from.

I hope I can make it
From the voices
I wanted to hear --
From ‘I can’t be that
Anymore’

-- And the day turns blind
even to the stars
that never appear,
the silent wandering
of my mind
and the cold appetite
for yesterday.

III.

S.F.

We live in a place
Where the seasons do not
Show themselves,
Like roosters on a hill
First thing in the morning.

They slide from rain covered sidewalks
To windy walks through aimless collections
of neighbors
Unbelieving in their nearness

-- To trolleys on and off in narrow false progression
To waiting for the winter afternoon
Every summer day.

IV.

Stop

I read into the night
Beyond my tired body
Listening to the meaningless repetition
Disturb the furtive visitor.

Revisit old texts, old thoughts,
Make peace with my uneasiness,
My unrest.

I felt the smooth hand of silence
Take hold of my memory,

Remembered nothing, became nothing --
Waited for the clock to start again,

Laughed at my bout with seriousness,

Gave thanks for light and shadow,
Remembered tenderness
For one so independent
Of my agenda.

Then looked forward. Looked for tomorrow:
Beginning and rest and beginning.

V.

The edge is always closer
Than my reach
And beyond any way
To get over it.

I hear the deafness
Block out
The the moment.

I can’t see the number
On the dial.

What is it to have a machine
Without electricity?

Remember the late nights,
Lighted streets,
Other people’s lives…

And turn in --
Turn it out.

VI.

Letter to Yesterday

Sixty thousand people on the West Coast
Tuned into technical difficulties on the radio
This morning --

Turning poetry into prose,
While my in-laws contemplated
Re-upping in the military,
Moving to Seattle,
Changing jobs -- changing lives.

Second chorus:

The state of my condition
Has not been reported
The news was on early --
I wasn’t.

In the meantime:

All my friends act like they’re glad to see me.
I show up at appropriate events
And I hear someone else’s voices
In my head.

I …
…just don’t know if I’m going.

VII.

She’s right.
The ‘news’
Keeps us
From knowing
What’s happening,
I say to myself,
As I switch from
NBC to ABC
To PBS—
The alphabet
Of ignorance.

VIII.

Fragment

You’ve already made it
Into the vocabulary of my brain:
The dark lights and heavy music
Where we performed and you played.

I wished I could sing, but I knew how to listen.

IX.

Home to Boston

…and the flags still waving, wavering…
I see the pigeons on the Commons
Still haven’t had enough.

The bell from the corner church’s
Been drowned out by megaphone democracy and
A lazy poet inscribes Civil War testimonials
For passersby passing on.

Electricity in the clouds means
God will be late,
Though he still thinks he’s a capital G
Kind of guy.

Meanwhile, overseas:

the blue white and red
Is taking back North Africa
One dictator at a time.

The sky is falling from the ground
Off the coast of China
The largest island.

Americans, another mean while ago,
Still stick their heads
In the variegated sand.

And its time
To leave memory
Behind
…leave it for tomorrow.

suddendly I am feeling very inspired. Peter, I can always count on you. thank you.

go for it, or, amo et avanti.

Peter

Peter, I like the focus of (I). The message is clear and uplifting in a way. You always seem to do well with your dedication poems.

I'll come back to each of these over the next few days. On first reading I think this is a great group of poems.

Les

In (II) I see a kind of melancholy or nostalgia that naturally comes with age and perhaps with introspection. A good read.

(III) paints a picture of San Francisco that every newbie to the city discovers: There are no seasons in San Francisco, just two or three good rain storms in December and January and 5 days of real sunshine in September or October. What this poem doesn't talk about is the vibrancy of the natives, which draws people to the city.

(IV) like (II) deals with the same emotional state that seems to prevail in the mind of the author.


Les

Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 04/23/2011 02:06PM by les712.

i honestly think this is your best work thus far, peter. There is definitely power in many phrase choices in this.


"god will be late"

"All my friends act like they’re glad to see me.
I show up at appropriate events
And I hear someone else’s voices
In my head."

please please perfect this one if you feel it necessary. i dont think it needs to be polished, but if it is unpolished, this one deserves the attention and effort.

bravo, peter.

and as always,

-with love

The fifth poem here (V) is again introspective, but with a type of understanding that reflects acute awareness of one's place in the world. The opening stanza I believe is very strong:

The edge is always closer
Than my reach
And beyond any way
To get over it.


Les

btw,

these are all poems I wrote while my computer was dead.

Peter, perhaps we should all turn our computers and TV's off and smell the roses.

Les

roses have very little smell, though they are beautiful. My sister Dot used to raise prize winning roses in Boston many moons ago. I am ok with the entertainment I get from my 'boxes'...I've just learned not to trust what passes for information about the world we live in.

amo,

peter

(VI)and (VII) speak to your comment about information. I believe one needs to many sources to find truth. Everyone, including reporters paints the world with their own brush. And each one of us can only see the part of the world that's directly in front of us. Who knows what might be going on behind the scenes. I'm thinking of foreign war correspondents for instance.

I like (VIII). The ability to listen without judgment is a wonderful thing.

The concluding poem (IX) is perhaps one of the strongest of the group, being a regular viewer of several different newscasts I appreciate your slant on the subject.

Les