flahute » words

Poetry Friday

flahute — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 00:44:58 +0000

THE POEMS I HAVE NOT WRITTEN

I’m so wildly unprolific, the poems
I have not written would reach
from here to the California coast
if you laid them end to end.

And if you stacked them up,
the poems I have not written
would sway like a silent
Tower of Babel, saying nothing

and everything in a thousand
different tongues. So moving, so
filled with and emptied of suffering,
so steeped in the music of a voice

speechless before the truth,
the poems I have not written
would break the hearts of every
woman who’s ever left me,

make them eye their husbands
with a sharp contempt and hate
themselves for turning their backs
on the very source of beauty.

The poems I have not written
would compel all other poets
to ask of God: “Why do you
let me live? I am worthless.

please strike me dead at once,
destroy my works and cleanse
the earth of all my ghastly
imperfections.” Trees would

bow their heads before the poems
I have not written. “Take me,”
they would say, “and turn me
into your pages so that I

might live forever as the ground
from which your words arise.”
The wind itself, about which
I might have written so eloquently,

praising its slick and intersecting
rivers of air, its stately calms
and furious interrogations,
its flutelike lingerings and passionate

reproofs, would divert its course
to sweep down and then pass over
the poems I have not written,
and the life I have not lived, the life

I’ve failed even to imagine,
which they so perfectly describe.

— John Brehm

Poetry Friday

flahute — Fri, 29 Apr 2011 11:45:36 +0000

so you want to be a writer?

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

— Charles Bukowski (1920 – 1994)

Poetry Friday

flahute — Fri, 18 Feb 2011 13:38:54 +0000

THE ARMY OF TRUTH

Words? Those sounds the world despises.
Words in poems?
Even more to be disdained!
Ah, how feeble are your powers
to defend
all the truth that man denies!

Thunder crack and lightning flash
      at its presence!
Hosts of angels should come swooping
down from heaven to the rescue
      far and wide
spread the knowledge of its glory.

Oh, why can it not come winging
      from on high?
Truth, that with a starry birth
wears a helmet brightly gleaming
      wielding swords
fiercely sharp instead of feathers.

Oh, why then does it not pitch camp
      tent on tent
white on every mountainside?
Oh, why then are not its heroes
      strongly ranged
to keep mastery over life?

The fort of darkness is well guarded.
      Superstition
rests secure on stony columns.
Numerous as Egypt’s serpents
      round truth’s temple
range the black-clad guards of error.

Forward, though, you feeble lines!
      Words are armies!
On this earth your victory
was promised by the Lord, Light’s father,
      when you serve
Truth itself, his child, alone.

Onward, words, you sons of truth!
      En avant!
In the end the hearts of men
will be your victorious home.
      Then your light
will with courage bear them on.

Forward, with your boldest faces
      Words of truth!
For the greatest power on Earth
has been granted you by God:
      Because never
Could you die in Truth’s pure mouth!

Courage take then, all you small ones!
Truth’s great cause
Only triumphs in defeat.
Storm the bitter heights of lies!
Raze them to the ground with Truth!

— Henrik Wergeland (1808 – 1845)

A contribution …

flahute — Thu, 07 Oct 2010 23:11:59 +0000

… for National Poetry Day (Thursday, October 7, 2010):

AS YET UNTITLED (a work in progress)

Composing words of romance, verses as yet unformed.

Visions of hair, long, dark and curled,
Of laughing Van Morrison eyes.

Freckled skin, kissed by the sun,
Slender curves, longing to be caressed.

A heart, offered freely, given totally,
Not accepted.

Fleeting moments of joy,
Once grasped, but slipping through fingers, still,
Cherished a lifetime.

Video Poetry (business as usual edition)

flahute — Sat, 25 Sep 2010 13:19:13 +0000

SAGE FRANCIS – THE BEST OF TIMES

It’s been a long and lonely trip but I’m glad that I took it because it was well worth it.
I got to read a couple books and do some research before I reached my verdict.
Never thought that I was perfect.
Always thought that I had a purpose.
Used to wonder if I’d live to see my first kiss.

The most difficult thing I ever did was recite my own words at a service,
realizing the person I was addressing probably wasn’t looking down from heaven.
Or cooking up something in hell’s kitchen trying to listen in
Or eavesdrop from some another dimension.
It was self serving just like this is.

Conveniently religious on Easter Sunday and on Christmas.
The television went from being a babysitter to a mistress.
Technology made it easy for us to stay in touch while keeping a distance,
’til we just stayed distant and never touched.
Now all we do is text too much.

I don’t remember much from my youth.
Maybe my memory is repressed.

Or I just spent too much time wondering if I’d live to have sex.
Fell in love for the first time in 4th grade but I didn’t have the courage to talk to her.
In 8th grade I wrote her the note but I slipped it in someone else’s locker.
Considered killing myself ’cause of that.

It was a big deal.
It was a blown cover.
It was over for me.
My goose was cooked.
Stick a fork it me.
The jig is up.
I blew my chances, the rest is history, our future was torn asunder.
It became abundantly clear that I was only brought here to suffer.

At least I didn’t include my name.
Thankfully, I wrote the whole note in code,
And it had 10 layers of scotch tape safety seal making it impossible to open.
Plus, it was set to self destruct.
Whoever read it probably died…laughing.
I wonder if they lived long enough to realize what happened.

A year later, I came to understand that wasn’t love that I was feeling for her.
I had someone else to obsess over.
I was older.
I was very mature.
I forged my time signature while practicing my parents autograph ’cause I was failing math.
Disconnected the phone when I thought the teacher would call my home.

I checked the mailbox twice a day at the end of a long dirt road.
Steamed open a couple envelopes like I was in private detective mode.
If you snoop around long enough for something in particular you’re guaranteed to find it.
For better or worse that’s how I learned that it’s best to just keep some things private.
It was the best of times.
It was the end of times.

It was the best of times.
It was the end of times.
I was always on deck, I was next in line.

An only child with a pen and pad writing a list of things that I could never have.
The walls in my house were paper thin.
Every squabble seemed to get deafening.
If my memory serves me correctly I made it a point to avoid and forget some things.
Probably to keep from being embarrassed.
Never meant to upset or give grief to my parents.
Kept my secrets…hid my talents…in my head, never under the mattress.

Therapy couldn’t break me.
Never learned a word that would insure safety.
So I spoke softly and I tiptoed often.
The door to my room was like a big old coffin.
The way that it creeked when I closed it shut.
Anxieties peaked when it opened up.
As if everything that I was thinking would be exposed.
I still sleep fully clothed.
It was the best of times.
It was the end of times.

It was beautiful.
It was brutal.
It was cruel.
It was business as usual.

Heaven.
It was hell.
Used to wonder if I’d live to see 12.

When I did I figured that I was immortal.
Loved to dance but couldn’t make it to the formal.
Couldn’t bear watching my imaginary girlfriend bust a move with any other dudes.

Tone Loc was talking bout a “Wild Thang” but I was still caught up in some child thangs.
Scared of a God who couldn’t spare the rod.
It was clearly a brimstone and fire thang.

Pyromaniac.
Kleptomaniac.
Couldn’t explain my desire to steal that fire.
Now I add it to my rider.
Like “Please oh please don’t throw me in that patch of brier!” It was the best of times.
It was the end of times.

The school counselor was clueless ’cause I never skipped classes.
Perfect attendance.
Imperfect accent.
Speech impediment they could never really fix and I faked bad eyesight so I could wear glasses.

Considered doing something that would cripple me.I wanted a wheelchair.
I wanted the sympathy.
I wanted straight teeth so then came braces.
4 years of head gear helped me change faces.
It was the best of times.
It was the end of times.

Now I wonder if I’ll live to see marriage.
Wonder if I’ll live long enough to have kids.
Wonder if I’ll live to see my kids have kids.
If I do I’m gonna tell ‘em how it is.

“Don’t listen when they tell you that these are your best years.
Don’t let anybody protect your ears.
It’s best that you hear what they don’t want you to hear.
It’s better to have pressure from peers than not have peers.
Beer won’t give you chest hair.
Spicy food won’t make it curl.
When you think you’ve got it all figured out and then your universe collapses…trust me, kid…
It’s not the end of the world.”

An interim post

flahute — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 23:07:44 +0000

An interim post just so that there is something between my last Quote of the Day, and my next Poetry Friday … there’s been a lot going on in my head lately that I’m still trying to wrap my brain around so I can put it in words. Should be able to write more this weekend.

Poetry Friday

flahute — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 07:22:42 +0000

WORDS AND THE DIMINUTION OF ALL THINGS

The brief secrets are still here,
and the light has come back.
The word remember touches my hand,
But I shake it off and watch the turkey buzzards bank and wheel
Against the occluded sky.
All of the little names sink down,
weighted with what is invisible,
But no one will utter them, no one will smooth their rumpled hair.

There isn’t much time, in any case.
There isn’t much left to talk about
as the year deflates.
There isn’t a lot to add.
Road-worn, December-colored, they cluster like unattractive angels
Wherever a thing appears,
Crisp and unspoken, unspeakable
in their mute and glittering garb.

All afternoon the clouds have been sliding toward us
                                   out of the
       Blue Ridge.
All afternoon the leaves have scuttled
Across the sidewalk and driveway, clicking their clattery claws.
And now the evening is over us,
Small slices of silence
                   running under a dark rain,
Wrapped in a larger.

— Charles Wright (b. 1935), American poet.

Awkward words

flahute — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 05:27:31 +0000

Anyone who knows me well knows not only that I have a fascination with words, but also love to debate … I can argue semantics for hours, much to the dismay of people around me at times.

I’m pretty sure that’s why a friend of mine gave me a book this past summer; because I was driving her crazy with my insistence on using the right words … but I wonder if she knows how much I’m actually enjoying reading it?

Sol Steinmetz’s Semantic Antics: How and Why Words Change Meaning, published by Random House, “shines a light on the often complex evolution of the meaning of words” according to Jesse Sheidlower, editor of the Oxford English Dictionary.

For example:

AWKWARD

Before 1400 there was a word in English, awk, meaning “the wrong way, backhanded,” that was of Scandinavian origin, probably old Norse afug. Though the word had fallen out of use in English by the 1600s, it survived as part of the compound word awkward, meaning “turned in the wrong direction, upside down,” literally, “toward the wrong way.” From the idea of doing things the wrong way, a new meaning, “ungraceful, uncouth,” developed, as in Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida (1616), where Ulysses says: “And with ridiculous and awkward action … He pageants us.” From this sense came the current meaning, “lacking dexterity, clumsy, bumbling,” applied to persons and things, as in an awkward gesture, an awkward situation. “I have not seen a more clumsy, awkward, and unhandy people.” (Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels)

Of course, when I whip out this newfound knowledge, people look at me like I’m crazy … which leaves me feeling, well, awkward.

Oh well, what’s a guy to do?

Video Poetry (Sage Edition)

flahute — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 22:44:27 +0000

SAGE FRANCIS – GOT UP THIS MORNING

It’s not that what we’re doing is wrong
But let’s try to keep this a secret
Between me, you, and the song
A menage a trois that sings to me
Sinfully
When god plays along

What you want with a woman who won’t do what you say?

I was sweet on her
She was sweet on Jesus
We slept with a blanket barrier between us
Master of her craft, I had her laughin’ like hyenas
When I asked her if she’d marry an elitist
Staggering genius in lace
With the grace of a drunken monk
The mask isn’t seamless cause her face says something’s up
But I don’t dare ask her I just listen
Switchin’ to my good ear and adjusting my position
As she discusses Ginsberg I listened and learned
As she dispersed his words I just resisted the urge to do like he would
Whatever he wanted, if she allowed me to
She dangled that carrot then asked me:
“What would Bukowski do?”
Oh don’t go there
He’d make you his mom and then completely lie about it in a book later on

Got up this morning
Didn’t know right from wrong

Spirits were lifted when she whispered something French in my ear
Tension was there
When I responded in English it sounded less sincere
The sex in the air couldn’t be left alone
So welcome to the Terrordome
A bedroom full of pheromones
Where nothing that we say is set in stone
If I thought it was for posterity I’d already be writing better poems
But I’m talking in extremes
Best this and best that
Best not regret anything that ever gets said to this hell cat
Creepin on all fours
Ready for combat
With secretive wars sneaking her claws in our contract
Bending every which way but loose with no proof that anything that we’ve suggested to this day is the whole truth

Got up this morning
Didn’t know right from wrong

I heard her chemical romance was a medical slow dance
Said my advance was sexual
Held my genitals with cold hands
Set up the Coke cans
Broke out the Red Ryder
Then one by one I tried to knock down everything that’s dead inside her
She used to treat street dividers like a balance beam
Arms spread wider than the legs in her dad’s magazine
Re-enacting the pages that she got trapped between
I used it for kindling and then spilled the gasoline
Now I’m your water boy
I fetch it from your cheeks just like tennis balls
Smell the stench of your weakness on the bedroom walls
Somebody careless let em vaporize
“Who let these fall to the floor from your poor vacant eyes?”
Disintegrate
This ain’t a great first impression
But I work better on pages, they say words are my profession
Let me spell it out in simple language
Plain English
I want your suicide to be a book of mine that I never finish

Got up this morning
Didn’t know right from wrong

What you want with a woman who won’t do what you say?

Roubaix Memories

flahute — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 14:04:28 +0000

Joe Parkin, over at 6 Years in a Rain Cape has a nice little essay contest going on right now. The winner’s prize is a Cervelo Test Team kit (bibshorts, jersey, gloves) in either black or white (depending on size and inventory availability). Suggested length is 500-1000 words, but Joe says he isn’t really counting.

Here’s my entry, but not even close to 500 words. If it can’t be told in haiku and yet still capture the essence of the race, then it’s not worth telling. That’s not really true, but it let’s me feel superior for a few seconds. And since it is Poetry Friday, what’s another little bit of verse gonna hurt?

I call it “Roubaix Memories”

Andrei Tchmil solo
Muddy Roubaix, ninety-four,
Bunny hopping curbs.

If that isn’t the essence of a true Flahute, then I don’t know what is …