REGULATOR A: love song to an analogue clock

REGULATOR: love song to an analogue clock

I have such a tick tock
pendulum clock on the kitchen wall.
Though it came with you, I’ve called it mine
(after all, it sat in my lap,
my fat, pregnant belly shielding it from the shock
of a stone paved road, gone to seed)
since it was brought from where you were
to count your. my. our. time.

Like my grandfather’s banjo clock
but older and cheaper,

MADE IN JAPAN
A
REGULATOR

with face of printed paper,
case-wood painted
to look like wood,
tiny gilded flowers faded.
A late addition atop it sits:
(India slender not China round)
a small, golden Buddha
from a town just north of BEE. Be. Being. Was.

I’ve grown so accustomed to the sound
I notice it only, when paying attention
(like now).
Reliable ghost of the town bells,
which ring the mass and the hour / half hour
(though my clock, by choice, does not).

I am like my grandfather these days
(awake at 5 by 9 asleep);
I don’t, like he,
get out a shortwave radio and
listen for Greenwich’s distant beep,
add six to arrive in Central Texas,
then wind and set my clock
on a given day each week.

I can hear the beep on the BBC’s
un-crackling web-cast
but I rather look past,

where my clock’s hands have stopped time
on its foxed paper face,
to the prescient clock on the town’s bell tower.

I open the round glass,
open the pendulum case,
remove the dark and heavy, little key,
turn ten times counter clockwise in its given notch,
remove the key and hear the
hollow clonk
as it touches the bottom of the case
in point.
Not closing it,
I raise my finger and catch
time’s arrow-tipped minute
hand and turn it clockwise until it twins
the tower time.
I try to keep my index fingertip
from touching the foxed paper of the stopped face
not wanting it to scar,
over time.

I close the glass
over paper
over scissor-like hands and

set the round, bronze
pendulum swinging
on its slender, stem of lacquered lath.
Check for a tick equidistant from the tock,
close the case and turn the lock.
Time springs
into action,
A REGULATOR.

copyright Bonnie M. Broussard, all rights reserved.

Seed Catalogue: by Bonnie McClellan

Russian Lavender
and spring rhizomes.

Meaty white
lily bulbs,
waiting,
to ease forth their sweet green tongues;
gasping into bloom
at the first pressure of March’s holy breath.

ENGRAVING (for Angel and Ronit): by Bonnie McClellan-Broussard

ENGRAVING

Grief must sometimes be taken in sips,
like coffee too scalding and bitter to swallow.

Each new grief holds within
an elder one in-nested.

The ‘no’ un-screamed arises:
is shattered, then compressed.

The terror of resignation
(winter’s hard companion)

reverberates down through
calcified strata all the way to

the first pearlescent grief:
a burst balloon, a lost gift.


INCISIONE

– il dolore a volte dev’essere preso in sorsi,
come cafè troppo bollente e amaro da ingoiare. –

Ogni nuovo dolore racchiude
un vecchio innesto.

Il non-urlatò ‘no’ sorge:
va in frantumi e si comprime.

Il terrore di rassegnazione
(dura compagna d’inverno)

riverbera verso in basso, attraverso
strati calcificati, fino all’arrivo

del primo dolore perlescente:
palloncino scoppiato, un dono perduto.

Angel Pfeifer Raiter, poeta : 11 dicembre 1979 – 3 febbraio 2012
Ronit Dovrat, pittore: 12 maggio 1955 – 15 dicembre 2011

Bonnie McClellan-Broussard
Copyright 2012 all rights reserved

The Store (For Matthew): by Bonnie Broussard

The written version of this poem has disappeared. Find a reading and a link to other work by this poet below:

To listen to a reading of this poem, click on the player:

To read or hear more work by Bonnie McClellan-Broussard, click HERE

Orphan Poetry or Paradise Regained: Still life with Romance (Natura Morta)

Still Life with Romance (Natura Morta)

For my sister Robin Glynn (1962-2006)

My world, if full – is full of sunlight and bees.
We both know that Courbet was a communard;
without looking down.
I hear the water in his painting singing below.

A plover calls.
The soft scent of not wisteria,
The Pollack swirls of dried grass,
Make no shape, no pattern.

Acquacheta / still water

Fat unthinking bees hover.
My sister says it must be a sweet life if I’m pissing on rose petals.

There is that air about it:

The Romance

Begun at 38 instead of 21 when one is meant to have the grand adventure;
At 21 when it is impossible to imagine how sharp pain will taste when you let it age.

And so it begins:

I was in love with a sculptor, born in Louisiana, who now lived

near the Adriatic coast. I came to live in the hills outside Florence

looking to find the shape of my soul and to unwind the threads of

our love…

How much of that is real and how much a hollow in the light?

Sitting on a bench in front of a small cabin that
I share with a bulb on a wire, a suitcase and a family of rats;
Drinking grappa, smoking Gauloises,
Watching the sun set over the Tuscan hills.

This is real
No more and no less real than
the romance
Driving from DeSoto to Irving, Texas.
Having de-composed my ordered, still life.

Cutting down through weak and inconsistent flesh,
To find the white, persistent honesty of bone.

Orpan Poems or Paradise Lost: X. Virgil/Vigil

Virgil / Vigil

Will you boldly walk with me the road our good intentions paved;
Or stand balking, faint
    with fear at that long path from there to here
Trusting my hand, like Virgil’s to lead you through the gates?

Orphan Poetry or Paradise Lost: IX. Water from a Stone

I have pounded myself out

on the rock of this memory,

cracked open and drained out;

is there water left

in this stone?

Orphan Poetry or Paradise Lost: VIII. Enchanted Rock / The Ides of March

Enchanted Rock / The Ides of March

I will remember the branches and the light
filtering through the locust grove.
You will remember the emerald brilliance
of the grass.
We will remember together the unyielding line of granite
that still gives way over time:

the fine fullness of the moonlight across our whiteness
the vermilion flash of the cardinal
Cool air rolling lightly over and under everything like water
filling our mouths with flower petals
tasting of honey olive oil fresh bread

The sacrament of breath.

Orphan Poetry or Paradise Lost: VII. Tishomingo Granite

Tishomingo Granite

From the Quarry at Tishomingo
Comes this Pre-Cambrian intrusion
Begotten when the first rain dropped on boiling rock.
Only later to be named
With sounds recalling some child’s summer game.
These random elements, the stuff of stars
Cooled by Bowen’s ruled order (though he was not invented yet)
Pyroxene first, then salmon coloured plagioclase;
Last, cloudy silicate of common quartz
All this a billion years ago.
You know I loved you even then;
The day this rock was formed.