reflection: spare crop / fleet mind
Le fou
(lui-même)
allume mon briquet
avec la tête
d’une allumette illustré
avec le schématique
du feu
designee
en d’or
mir(acle)
alchimie
The fool
(himself)
lights my Bic
with the head
of a match illustrated
with the schematic
of Fire
designated
in gold
mir (Acle)
sleeping
alchemy
by Bonnie McClellan
ecoutez ce poem ici…listen to this poem below:
“We’re all trying: poets to give you, the reader, the gift of an image that cannot be offered in any better way, that cracks you a bit and frees something; you, readers, are giving us the gift of your searching, your curiosity, your attention…”
Now what?
International Poetry Month 2011 is closed. The marauding hordes have left the library ablaze, the flood has washed away the ashes, the caravan carrying the last copy of the precious poetry collection has vanished in the desert; at least that’s what it feels like to me as I hit the delete key and erase the written versions of the poems.
What remains is the oral tradition; I have made audio files of each poem available where the poem used to be posted. Anyone who is on my e-mail list has a ‘fragment’ of each work. Perhaps, like the poems of Sappho, this is all that will remain.
I would like to extend my profound thanks to the following guest poets for their contributions:
Michelle Lee Houghton
Liliane Richman
Jere Schaefer
Octavio Solis
Some of these poets have blogs or websites where intriguing writing and images may be encountered. I encourage anyone suffering from poetry withdrawal to visit these sites by clicking on any of the names that appear in bold. Others are tantalizingly unavailable, if you want to see more of their work you’ll have to hope that they come back next year. Of course my work that is or has been posted throughout the rest of the year is still here.
Thanks as well to everyone who has stopped by to read and comment on the poems either here or at podbean*. It has been a real joy to present so much fine poetry again this year. Now I have to start thinking about next year and get back to writing.
A presto!
*podbean ate my audio! All mp3’s can now be found posted with the poem.
I'm just the type for whom
no end is suffix (ient):
tap (drip, drip, drip)
where is the beer, the syrup, the flow in this day?
clip (ed) to the
dock
do I mean to to say kissed where my ship comes in
or pinned to the dry velvet of a leaf?
finish (ed)
board (ing)
shall I wave my handkerchief as I sail off
or thank the landlady for lunch as I wipe my lips
sliding my legs across the polished wood?
I must be at least two tired to get anywhere,
looking in wonder through the iris
that will bear
up under
the snow.
“I miss you and I wanted to write / you a letter to tell you I miss you / but there is no silence / like hello unanswered”
TENDER
What is paid?
What is offered?
How is that spot
when pushed?
What are we looking after?
the tile lined roof on the last villa
of the petty nobles of this town
sags like the jaw line of a matron.
her voice sings out
a spinster’s peevish tweet:
“VERGOGNA! VERGOGNA!”
she:
(distant falling daughter of whatever local saint–
though aren’t we all?)
shames her poor dog.
he of:
nothing to do but go mad with barking;
jamesian psycosis
closed shutters
infinite empty rooms.
Series I : polyvalence* : context is everything
1.
Burial at Sea
WAKE
2.
Speaking Truth toPower/The Admonitions Scroll
STAY
CURRENT
3.
Morning Shift
CHANGE
SIMPLE DRESS
MOVE
*pol·y·va·lent (pŏl’ē-vā’lənt)
adj.
3. (fig.) having many different functions, forms, or facets.
Now is the time
I play the game
of let’s pretend
that you’re all here
to draw my face.
At this moment,
before beginning,
I still have hope that you all
will not
randomly cut off
my head.
my hands.
my feet.
Do you mean to perform
these amputations or
is it fear and lack of skill
that leave my multi-copied, uni-facet self
speechless.
unable to grasp a fork;
helpless to walk away
or even cast an angry,
or tired,
or curious glance
back at you.
You,
all diligent charcoal and eraser
perfecting the sine curve
from my armpit
to my breast
as if
it could
divorce
my breath.
And now for something fun…a story. For anyone who’s interested in the non-poetic version check Bullfinche’s Mythology, there’s also a brief bit in Ovid’s Metamorphosis. Meanwhile read on and enjoy the race:
Atlanta and the Golden Apples
Since Meleager killed his uncles (both)
For the sake of your pretty face,
You’ve set aside your silver bow
And traded hunting for the race.
The man who wants you to wive
He must take up the chase.
But what prize to win?
your pretty head, your blushing hide
the land, the cash, the pride
that will dower you.
Ah! but if his grasp this fleet maiden miss?
No blushing bride he’ll own
but pay his debt to Dis.
If only they had the sense to leave well enough alone…
you never wanted this.
Still they’ve come –
stand pawing at the starting line like Phoebus’ horses
primed to haul the weight of day across dawn’s broken rim.
You flash a pitying glance at them
then gird your softer self with iron will
to win –
“What idiots,” you think
“would gamble death for lust?
You set aside your cloak and stand;
slender virgin, lilly pale, in your running dress
fringe grazing your thigh
as you play teasing rabbit
to their panting hounds
but rabbit is swifter than breath
and dogs will die.
Will you stay to watch the executions
By your father duly meted out?
No, you’ve seen enough of death,
The Boar, Meleager and his kin, and now these fools
Who traded life for the chance
To own your glowing skin.
But who is this? Striding willow light and straight
Across the field like Eros unwinged;
face as gentle, fair, and blue eyes just as bright.
It’s Hippomenes! the boy who, standing at the finish,
Called your foot first across the line.
Now, enchanted by your fluid grace,
He’s come to offer challenge
You see it in his face though he’s still six steps away.
You want desperately to press your soft fingers to his sweet lips, saying:
“Hippomenes – No! My thigh, my breast,
my blushing cheek – no part of me
can be worth this!”
But it’s too late,
The words escape, he taunts:
“What, no trouble for you to outrun
that rack of tortoises? All clatter and no meat!
I think that I could win you running, as I can,
like Zephyr’s sigh and twice as fleet!”
“Proud as a lion,” you think, admiring.
Still the oracles warning like a tocsin clangs:
“Atlanta, do not marry; it will be your ruin…
and his.”
and so you say:
“I’m ready when you are – Tortoise!”
shaking your head, wondering which pazzo god
has willed this youth to death.
Is he speaking to this god now, eyes up, head tilted
and what is that in his hands?
But now they’ve called the start
And you are running hard out…
but still, he’s managed, somehow
to catch
you
up!
What’s this he’s flung aside?
glowing golden in the grass –
an apple like a jewel of heaven?
but wait! Now he’s far ahead
and you must panting run to nip
his heel’s again!
From the laggard’s place you see
his legs are strong,
now closer,
the golden curl against his neck…
his foot strikes the ground
no firmer than a feather.
He flies but you fly faster!
quick, quick! he casts again –
what now! does he have another?
Your foot falters in consternation and
in fear:
What god’s game is this,
played with magic fruit?
Who is meant to win?
Who is meant to lose?
Ach! Damn, he’s ahead again!
You run,
you run,
you see that he’s begun to lose his wind!
The goal is near; you register the terror on his face
The prayer in his eyes though he’s looking through you,
past – at something else…
his arm
his hand
he drops the final golden treasure
at your feet.
You stop dead
in shock
and then it’s done
in that one
brief intake of breath
he’s beaten death,
and won
the race.
With it comes your hand,
and, unknown to him, your unlucky fate.
But you’re not thinking of that now.
You’re thinking that he’s beautiful;
Strong and slender, perhaps a hands breadth
Taller than you – perhaps, he will make a fine husband?
Together, a matched pair
both swifter and lighter
than air.
Sweaty, your muscles stiff, you hold the unnatural apples in your hands;
gamely hoping they are a blessing…
Hippomenes comes to kiss his prize;
You are tired, his arms are warm.
As you lay your cheek against his own
you hear, for the first time,
the roar of the crowd – they sound
like lions…
poem copyright Bonnie McClellan 2006 first publication in CC Writer
magazine. Fall 2006.
O SALUTARIS HOSTIA
o
SALVIAMO/SALE/MINERAUX
I would I were a wingéd thing
And these white stones not bruised my feet.
From half sky’s arc this groundscape see;
Like girasoleil and moth at once.
Face then Gomorrah’s candled sun,
And false to God like Mrs. Lot
Turn arbre-form in Halite caught;
Qualcosa utile, quotidienne.
Ground down and lightly sown across
Unrisen flower and fragrant oil;
Then in the mouth of Adam lost
Mineral dust to dust returned.
poem copyright Bonnie McClellan 2009
“The eye comes always ancient to its work, obsessed by its own past and by old and new insinuations of the ear, nose, tongue, fingers, heart, and brain. It functions not as an instrument self-powered and alone, but as a dutiful memeber of a complex and capricious organism.”
– Nelson Goodman from “Languages of Art
This poem is one in a series that I am currently writing that takes it’s inspiration from the rhythms and subject matter of sacred texts varied and sundry. It is also the fruit of my continuing struggle as a poet to reconcile the three languages that jostle for position in my work as I am searching for exactly the right word. This particular piece is inspired by the rhythm of the Latin Hymn “O SALUTARIAS HOSTIA”. The content inspired by conversations had with the Artist, Matthew Broussard and the film director, Michangelo Frammartino about Pythagoras’ four states of being: Human, Animal, Vegetable, Mineral. The concept of the observed walk as a transformative experience is also inspired in part by the work of sculptor Richard Long.
Bonnie McClellan-Broussard 