The Next Block Down

Western Gulls sit in a line on the pitched roof of the old neighborhood temple waiting for the demented woman two houses east to throw bread out her broken dining room window with glee.

Crows in bare trees, on wires carefully avoid the opportunity for entanglement a pair of tied together shoes thrown up there by the gamer college boys across the street presents.

Somebody’s father who can’t smoke inside the restored tinderbox historic apartments sweeps the sidewalk with ferocious intensity that shows up the grounded crabapples next door.

Pink buds strain south towards the low winter light on the unruly camellia bush, ignore battered bikes, abandoned art projects in the messy yard it is trying to grow out of.

Serene, the perfectly painted in olive with two-color accents well-heeled four-plex on the corner shows her restoration with clean dignity as the roots of the huge mimosa tree facing her make their forceful way to China.

Quietly, the low slung house full of light, first library in the neighborhood, endures benign neglect from the active young couple who paid way too much for her at the very top of the market.

The heart of this small world resides in the proud yellow house built next to the temple for a non-Jewish caretaker who could then do maintenance on the Sabbath. Not showing her age to strangers she reigns…

Watching over us with good will and humor she would comment to anyone who knew to ask that life is about enjoying every moment we have and accepting loss with cheerful well-groomed grace.

Early December

Concessions of Grace

The barefoot nuns
considered unmarriageable
by their wealthy families
laughed in the garden
as they tended particular myrtles
and their exotic flowers
that would dry into cloves

Tonight the chapel master
was returning from Italy
with new music for them to sing

Elsewhere, the territorial spirits
were taking dominion over
the steadfast but ever-changing moon

To them it is all a texture of sounds
They stand resolutely in front
of the gates of paradise stuck open
with the grit of ages

Conversing with the fates
what they do not have
is visible everywhere

The seductions of certainty
Red-twigged dogwoods
Mr. Saltmarsh and Mr. Squadron
build a particle accelerator
out of a kitchen chair
a clothes rack
a pie pan

Let the bear decide
The nuns pick oranges to preserve
for the children on their Saint’s Day

Their bruised hands push cloves
into the fragrant flesh
one by one

The Nobel Prize

I am very happy that Tomas Transtromer won the prize! I so admire his work. Truly I do.

Post Reading High

Thanks to everyone who came to the reading last night! I had fun.

It was the first time I have ever had this long a time slot to read my poetry in (35 minutes) and it was an interesting and useful exercise in preparing for the reading to create a narrative line that bound the poems together. In this particular case the narrative was about my complicated and rewarding relationship that was all about poetry with Andrew.

So many times, most times we go to a reading and the poet reads one poem, maybe with a little comment and then another, maybe with another comment and in the end we get a somewhat disjointed view of the body of work.

And reading is all about the body.The physical body and the body of work.

As far as I am concerned it is about respect too. Respecting the folks that have shown up and are listening to you. I have just barely heard a number of featured readers in the last five months or so since I have been back in the mix. Mumbling, never looking at the audience, swallowing words, etc. etc.

I know reading in public is difficult. It takes a different skill set then writing the darn poems. But please, if you are going to do it, think a little about the experience of your audience...

This morning I feel this unusual for me sensation of delight and accomplishment.

Absolutely lovely.