It’s Sunday, which means it’s time for (more) original poetry. This week’s selection was written almost exactly a year ago & was one of a set of seven poems all based on a “food” theme. As is the case with many of the sequences I’ve written in my time, I intended more, but that didn’t happen. Pasta Allelulia is a real recipe, as regular readers here know. You can find the recipe in non poetic form here.
Please be sure to visit other Original Poetry Sunday participants:
Amazing Voyages of the Turtle
Apogee Poet
Poetikat’s Invisible Keepsakes
Premuin T.
Secret Poems from the Times Literary Supplement
Yes is Red
Kat’s poem at Poetikat & René Wing’s prose poem at Yes is Red are both from yesterday, but they count in my book. Also, please be sure to wish Kat a happy 2-year blog anniversary!
Pasta Alleluia
Lots of people I haven’t understood in this lifetime—
& I haven’t seen olive trees gesturing in breezes
overlooking the Mediterranean like evacuees from Bullfinch
except unmoving—the people I haven’t
understood in this lifetime but loved—& holding my hand a few
inches over the sauté pan I can tell the oil’s ready for the
garlic Eberle grew in the two rows she harvests in June—because the
people I loved I haven’t understood, I was busy thinking
about them—lightly browned, the garlic’s set aside, & chopped morels
our friends left for us added now with ground pepper—of all the
people I haven’t understood & have said I loved
—as the mushrooms wilt & soak up oil—
I haven’t walked where the forest burnt last summer, that’s
where the morels have sprouted amongst the blackened
lodgepole pine—of all the people I’ve loved
nearly the best & almost the worst & not
understood for a minute—& Eberle’s pensive in her garden
picking the spring mix—a simple balsamic dressing—of
all the people I haven’t understood & wanted to—
the chopped Kalamatas add lots of salt—about two dozen—&
the pine nuts & the oregano I never measure—
& Dani says, “I wouldn't wish writing poetry on anyone"—
tho there’s nothing else just now—keep the water at
a simmer so it’s ready for the pasta & it’s time
now—of all the people I haven’t loved well—a
guitar song I wrote for Eberle after a quarrel—the lonesome
train tracks leading everywhere past the Russian Olive groves
including
Los Angeles—on the guitar she gave me like
love itself she gave me—of all the people I’ve loved yes I’ve loved
some of them like a guitar perhaps—salting the water—
& there’s another language amongst people who love
& a language to speak about it—talking all night like an
alleluia like a mandocello—
the people I haven’t understood—the pasta’s drained &
tossed—this is so far the hardest poem
before the next poem in this lifetime
John Hayes
© 2008-2009
Showing posts with label Original Poetry Sunday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Original Poetry Sunday. Show all posts
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
"French Toast"
With apologies to all, I have to say I don’t have a new poem for Original Poetry Sunday—the ghazals feel a bit stalled right now, but I haven’t decided what this means—so I’m posting one of the poems I wrote last spring. Especially in light of yesterday’s “autobiographia literaria,” I thought this might be interesting.
Between late June & early July (about two weeks) I wrote seven poems, all on a “food” theme; in addition to “French Toast,” there were also the following:
While I believe all seven are good poetry, I do feel at a bit of a distance from them for a variety of reasons. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy it—& hey, French Toast is always great for your Sunday brunch…. & be sure to check out the following other blogs (at least) for Original Poetry Sunday:
Amazing Voyages of the Turtle
Apogee Poet
Poetikat's Invisible Keepsakes
Premium T.
Secret Poems from the Times Literary Supplement
Yes is Red
FRENCH TOAST
Goldfinches camped out & hectic atop the yokes of
dandelions asked the musical question I
couldn’t catch—the world grows larger some days
the fruit trees blooming white & pink & rustling with
sparrows— the world gets smaller—a kitchen beating free-range
eggs with a fork in a red glass mixing bowl &
how much cinammon & nutmeg whisked into the eggs these things are
measured in pinches like a dream I dreamed dreaming What
larks! everything’s a laugh—
meadowlarks giggling in the pasture just now
this orange & blue marmelade morning L’amour la poésie
means nothing more than the world transformed thru a lonesome
Hank Williams’ whippoorwill yodel or the paired low C’s vibrating
over a mandocello’s mahogany soundboard
a scrumptious breakfast with sunshine
pouring Grade A fancy amber through the matchstick blinds a peal of
lovely laughter a rupture in the world’s brown eggshell—
the world grows large again back at the ranch I’m
dipping wheat bread into the egg mixture the unsalted
butter skating across the cast-iron skillet the egg-soaked bread
sizzles in goldenly—& orange wedges drip on blue plates my blue
heart my red heart my golden heart opens & closes &
shrinks & grows— the world I know the people I
hold in my heart as it grows & breaks—the
world is el corazón in a Mexican painting the
brown eggshell broken & full & inscribed—the
goldfinches scattering into the blue from the blossoms &
the French Toast’s served with Grade A fancy
light amber like a window—the golden crust this morning
is everyone’s sweet eggshell heartache
John Hayes
© 2008-2009
Between late June & early July (about two weeks) I wrote seven poems, all on a “food” theme; in addition to “French Toast,” there were also the following:
- Strawberry Rhubarb Pie
- Potato Salad
- Pasta Alleluia (a bit of an “in joke” here—a name for pasta aglio é olio)
- Macaroni & Cheese (this has been posted on the blog here)
- Fondue
- Greek Salad.
While I believe all seven are good poetry, I do feel at a bit of a distance from them for a variety of reasons. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy it—& hey, French Toast is always great for your Sunday brunch…. & be sure to check out the following other blogs (at least) for Original Poetry Sunday:
Amazing Voyages of the Turtle
Apogee Poet
Poetikat's Invisible Keepsakes
Premium T.
Secret Poems from the Times Literary Supplement
Yes is Red
FRENCH TOAST
Goldfinches camped out & hectic atop the yokes of
dandelions asked the musical question I
couldn’t catch—the world grows larger some days
the fruit trees blooming white & pink & rustling with
sparrows— the world gets smaller—a kitchen beating free-range
eggs with a fork in a red glass mixing bowl &
how much cinammon & nutmeg whisked into the eggs these things are
measured in pinches like a dream I dreamed dreaming What
larks! everything’s a laugh—
meadowlarks giggling in the pasture just now
this orange & blue marmelade morning L’amour la poésie
means nothing more than the world transformed thru a lonesome
Hank Williams’ whippoorwill yodel or the paired low C’s vibrating
over a mandocello’s mahogany soundboard
a scrumptious breakfast with sunshine
pouring Grade A fancy amber through the matchstick blinds a peal of
lovely laughter a rupture in the world’s brown eggshell—
the world grows large again back at the ranch I’m
dipping wheat bread into the egg mixture the unsalted
butter skating across the cast-iron skillet the egg-soaked bread
sizzles in goldenly—& orange wedges drip on blue plates my blue
heart my red heart my golden heart opens & closes &
shrinks & grows— the world I know the people I
hold in my heart as it grows & breaks—the
world is el corazón in a Mexican painting the
brown eggshell broken & full & inscribed—the
goldfinches scattering into the blue from the blossoms &
the French Toast’s served with Grade A fancy
light amber like a window—the golden crust this morning
is everyone’s sweet eggshell heartache
John Hayes
© 2008-2009
Sunday, May 31, 2009
“the past didn’t go anywhere”
Sunday is upon us again, which means more original poetry for Original Poetry Sunday, the excellent idea hit upon by Sandra Leigh of the excellent Amazing Voyages of the Turtle blog. My offering is the latest in my series of ghazals.
I believe the following blogs (at least) are “officially” participating this week, but everyone’s welcome:
The Amazing Voyages of the Turtle
Poetikat’s Invisible Keepsakes
Secret Poems from the Times Literary Supplement
Yes is Red
You also can find daily poems at Apogee Poet, & frequent poem postings at Keeping Secrets, Pics & Poems (there’s a very good one up there today already). Dominic Rivron posts some very good poems, tho not on any regular schedule, & the same can be said for TotalfeckingEejit & Mad Aunt Bernard of Mad Aunt Bernard’s Tortoise Poetry, as well as Willow of the popular Life at Willow Manor. There are also poems occasionally on the excellent blog Radish King, which is written by poet Rebecca Loudon, & which always contains very high quality writing, & also on Premium T., which, like Radish King is well worth a visit whether there’s a poem posted or not.
Of course, there are any number of poetry blogs out there, but these are ones within my experience. Hope you get a chance to visit them & enjoy their poetry.
“the past didn’t go anywhere”
the story I told about the mourning dove’s coo in
the draw a low grey clarinet note washed over by
sparrows’ silver chatter the grapefruit sunrise the one
pink poppy coming awake amongst orange poppies the
irises purple & yellow & maroon a metal spiral
staircase outside an old white farmhouse a teardrop
mandolin posed on the lawn near the young catalpa’s
teardrop leaves—the story I told about red red shoots of beb
willows in the draw & the stream’s liquid song thru the
underbrush a purple chord on an archtop guitar in a per-
petual evening—& the lilacs’ whispering evening even at
6 a.m.—the story I told about the mourning dove’s coo in the
beb willows & the sparrows’ rippling conversation—ok
I know “the past didn’t go anywhere”—the stream’s liquid
song the cowbirds’ liquid song a horse trailer rattling up the
dirt road—the story I told didn’t go anywhere in
the grapefruit sunrise—traveling into the past to avoid
death—we talked about that & sex which is perpetually
now—the mourning dove’s gray coo in the grapefruit
sunrise wasn’t the past it was a memory drenched in the
stream’s liquid song over slate grey rocks where per-
petual past & future embrace in a liquid moment
John Hayes
© 2009
quote is from folksinger/songwriter Utah Phillips
I believe the following blogs (at least) are “officially” participating this week, but everyone’s welcome:
The Amazing Voyages of the Turtle
Poetikat’s Invisible Keepsakes
Secret Poems from the Times Literary Supplement
Yes is Red
You also can find daily poems at Apogee Poet, & frequent poem postings at Keeping Secrets, Pics & Poems (there’s a very good one up there today already). Dominic Rivron posts some very good poems, tho not on any regular schedule, & the same can be said for TotalfeckingEejit & Mad Aunt Bernard of Mad Aunt Bernard’s Tortoise Poetry, as well as Willow of the popular Life at Willow Manor. There are also poems occasionally on the excellent blog Radish King, which is written by poet Rebecca Loudon, & which always contains very high quality writing, & also on Premium T., which, like Radish King is well worth a visit whether there’s a poem posted or not.
Of course, there are any number of poetry blogs out there, but these are ones within my experience. Hope you get a chance to visit them & enjoy their poetry.
“the past didn’t go anywhere”
the story I told about the mourning dove’s coo in
the draw a low grey clarinet note washed over by
sparrows’ silver chatter the grapefruit sunrise the one
pink poppy coming awake amongst orange poppies the
irises purple & yellow & maroon a metal spiral
staircase outside an old white farmhouse a teardrop
mandolin posed on the lawn near the young catalpa’s
teardrop leaves—the story I told about red red shoots of beb
willows in the draw & the stream’s liquid song thru the
underbrush a purple chord on an archtop guitar in a per-
petual evening—& the lilacs’ whispering evening even at
6 a.m.—the story I told about the mourning dove’s coo in the
beb willows & the sparrows’ rippling conversation—ok
I know “the past didn’t go anywhere”—the stream’s liquid
song the cowbirds’ liquid song a horse trailer rattling up the
dirt road—the story I told didn’t go anywhere in
the grapefruit sunrise—traveling into the past to avoid
death—we talked about that & sex which is perpetually
now—the mourning dove’s gray coo in the grapefruit
sunrise wasn’t the past it was a memory drenched in the
stream’s liquid song over slate grey rocks where per-
petual past & future embrace in a liquid moment
John Hayes
© 2009
quote is from folksinger/songwriter Utah Phillips
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Original Poetry Sunday – Ghazal 5/23
It’s Sunday again, & still more poetry—another ghazal from yours truly for Original Poetry Sunday. Hope you enjoy this & also check out other possible participants (based on last week) like Sandra Leigh at Amazing Voyages of the Turtle (Sandra's poem is already posted—please check it out here) & René Wing at Yes is Red. Anyone else who wants, please join in, & let someone know so we can check out your work.
Stay tuned—there’ll also be a post this afternoon.
Ghazal 5/23
the electrical chirp of cicadas at 3:00 a.m. a warm
sky swarming with sparks of stars
a time prior to sleep’s invention in the hollows of an
archtop guitar trembling an A six chord thru the f-holes
a time prior to lilacs & the columbine petals’
violet gentle stare the white eye streaked purple
a glossolalia of crickets amongst holly
leaves in a Virginia backyard dusk August 1984
the cigarette smoke growing moths’ wings the
white web lawn chairs the green air asking for grief
the locus of sleep’s invention amidst a
flurry of spectral butterflies grazing the columbines’
eyes—I’m mostly awake—sparks of stars
scintillate thru crepe myrtles prior to meaning’s invention a
blue & green & gray chord plucked on an archtop
guitar in the purple void—a columbine’s eye
lidded in electric night—always sparks of stars al-
ways a time before time was a time after time
John Hayes
© 2009
Stay tuned—there’ll also be a post this afternoon.
Ghazal 5/23
the electrical chirp of cicadas at 3:00 a.m. a warm
sky swarming with sparks of stars
a time prior to sleep’s invention in the hollows of an
archtop guitar trembling an A six chord thru the f-holes
a time prior to lilacs & the columbine petals’
violet gentle stare the white eye streaked purple
a glossolalia of crickets amongst holly
leaves in a Virginia backyard dusk August 1984
the cigarette smoke growing moths’ wings the
white web lawn chairs the green air asking for grief
the locus of sleep’s invention amidst a
flurry of spectral butterflies grazing the columbines’
eyes—I’m mostly awake—sparks of stars
scintillate thru crepe myrtles prior to meaning’s invention a
blue & green & gray chord plucked on an archtop
guitar in the purple void—a columbine’s eye
lidded in electric night—always sparks of stars al-
ways a time before time was a time after time
John Hayes
© 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Original Poetry Sunday: "Ghazal 5/16"
Sandra Leigh of the fantastic blog, Amazing Voyages of the Turtle has come up with the excellent idea of Original Poetry Sunday, & as my contribution I'm posting the latest poem in the ongoing Ghazal series; as per the title, it was written yesterday, tho it received a rather extensive revision this morning.
Which leads me to the observation that a poem can seem to be technically polished—the "sounds" can seem right, the images can seem to be arresting—but if it's not "true" to itself, it remains "bad poetry." In the original version, the poem was much more "lush" & dream-like, but it really called for a more direct presentation. While technique is crucial, technique by itself can't redeem a poem that's untrue to itself. What this poem "wanted" to be about was a moment that passed between a friend & myself many years ago; in a sense that moment encapsulated much about our relationship—misunderstood "rejections" springing from self-consciousness & jealously guarded personae coupled with a tendency to "poeticize" events & to become trapped in imagined narratives. Such "imagined narratives" are perhaps an inherent danger of the poetic course I've pursued for the past 30 years & more. Of course, when we continue to cast events in a false light, that's when poetry becomes deception in the sense stated by various philosophers—when we cast events in the light of awareness, that's when poetry can, I believe, be part of healing. This all has been part of an ongoing argument with myself about poetry for more than 20 years.
On a lighter note, I've been thrilled to see all the poems being written in the blogging community I feel a part of, & I think Sandra's Original Poetry Sunday will not only highlight this, but also inspire others to try their hand as well.
I hope you enjoy this & all the other Original Poetry Sunday posts.
Ghazal 5/16
waxing crescent afloat within a white nimbus—
nothing’s distinct—a tremoloed note on a
mandolin & the willow limbs’ gray resignation—an-
other night amongst visitations convinced I’m really there—
a Virginia cottage house on a street “that
really went no place”—a silence with eyes singing
hysterically & I said Let’s dance taking her hand &
she turned aside— another visitation across pages
of poems singing You must change your life—
a walk thru muttering streets thru a white fog—I
keep writing the same poem for how many
nights & years & mornings a streetlight’s white
nimbus beyond an electric typewriter’s midnight hum in a
Virginia cottage house—a tremoloed mandolin a hysterical
silence becoming a blurry nimbus the weeks & years
& hours of the same poem repeated a
visitation becoming dawn’s twilight a
tremolo on a mandolin this whitening morning
Which leads me to the observation that a poem can seem to be technically polished—the "sounds" can seem right, the images can seem to be arresting—but if it's not "true" to itself, it remains "bad poetry." In the original version, the poem was much more "lush" & dream-like, but it really called for a more direct presentation. While technique is crucial, technique by itself can't redeem a poem that's untrue to itself. What this poem "wanted" to be about was a moment that passed between a friend & myself many years ago; in a sense that moment encapsulated much about our relationship—misunderstood "rejections" springing from self-consciousness & jealously guarded personae coupled with a tendency to "poeticize" events & to become trapped in imagined narratives. Such "imagined narratives" are perhaps an inherent danger of the poetic course I've pursued for the past 30 years & more. Of course, when we continue to cast events in a false light, that's when poetry becomes deception in the sense stated by various philosophers—when we cast events in the light of awareness, that's when poetry can, I believe, be part of healing. This all has been part of an ongoing argument with myself about poetry for more than 20 years.
On a lighter note, I've been thrilled to see all the poems being written in the blogging community I feel a part of, & I think Sandra's Original Poetry Sunday will not only highlight this, but also inspire others to try their hand as well.
I hope you enjoy this & all the other Original Poetry Sunday posts.
Ghazal 5/16
waxing crescent afloat within a white nimbus—
nothing’s distinct—a tremoloed note on a
mandolin & the willow limbs’ gray resignation—an-
other night amongst visitations convinced I’m really there—
a Virginia cottage house on a street “that
really went no place”—a silence with eyes singing
hysterically & I said Let’s dance taking her hand &
she turned aside— another visitation across pages
of poems singing You must change your life—
a walk thru muttering streets thru a white fog—I
keep writing the same poem for how many
nights & years & mornings a streetlight’s white
nimbus beyond an electric typewriter’s midnight hum in a
Virginia cottage house—a tremoloed mandolin a hysterical
silence becoming a blurry nimbus the weeks & years
& hours of the same poem repeated a
visitation becoming dawn’s twilight a
tremolo on a mandolin this whitening morning
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