striking too short at Greeks

I can't believe I almost forgot about NaPo! I didn't write a poem yesterday, so will have to catch up sometime later in the month. In the meantime, here's today's poem, a Petrarchan sonnet:

2 April

Clairvoyants cast their futures in clear lines -
a sketch no matter has but which it gains
from artistry; likewise, an artist feigns
her substance who relies on decieved minds,
which perciev'st greatness in a child's designs
and with such painted Fortunes are at pains
to hook the truth from one whose mouth disdains
its very utterance. So Fate thus blinds
us all. And yet, beneath the costumed bawd
a woman sometime sits, and seated dreams,
and dreaming tells the truth: she is no fraud
when in occluded earth reports the gleams
of distant rubies – though her heart be flawed,
stones may be jewels when heat to pith redeems.

3 April

1. destination point

I dreamed last night of roadmaps
of glass in my palms, the dip of my wrist
turned dimpling upward to receive your lips

I have never had faith in erotica before
but sometimes there is a kind of truth in this;
that some messages are only felt in flesh
and some things can't be said. I dreamed

that I threw bottles into the water from the cliff's edge
and watched them fall short; shatter; picked them up

like pieces of ocean where the sunlight hits, and I thought
maybe someday I will remember what this means,
this place, this disappointed beach

the way we walked along the blacktop gleaming
like a skinned palm, like a wave running over pebbles,

like death, the way all roads lead back to this.


2. bonfire night

In autumn, we watch the leaves pile up.
Trees tick down time; they falter always
on the side that meets the sun, first green,
then gold, then slick as mud,
like dandelions half-blown, and naked standing
tell us with their grey-barked flesh
of the year's end, guttering,
filling the edge of roadways with their
hard-won truth. It is tradition, here,
to watch the sun set over the water –
beyond the legal fictions of the clock
there is a grace in time, when seated on the porch
we see the frost-laced stars rise over us,
dead leaves reflected in a river's eye,
and we torch the couches after because we need the heat;
the flick and press of tongue-bright flame,
the smoldering clutch of ashes, kiss of candles.

Yes, you people here really know how to capture my attention. Dreams. Could discuss them for days.

I dreamed last night of roadmaps
of glass in my palms, the dip of my wrist

Very strong opener. Your next stanza reads like an Aside, internal monologue -- really lovely, how it combines 'erotica' into the matter-of-fact tone of 'sometimes there is a kind of truth in this.' Throwing bottles -- likewise mad and daring in its utter straight-facedness. 'maybe someday I will remember what this means' strikes me as the pivotal line here; the end is echo.

And it's so good to read your work again.

4 April

1. they say justice is blind

The law speaks in whispers. We sit, rows deep,
and listen to the rustling of that ancient voice

an old man bent over ink-splashed hands
whose veins are limned with words
his skin spidery with meanings. Watch him –
how ponderous he moves, his old bones
sinewed with injustice and the tendons of guilt,
the ache of histories.

Beside him, morality is a young girl
her hair like corkscrews, playing blind games
with the verisimilitude of men.

Spoiler

I was reading Legal History. Does it show? XD

2. conversations with ophelia

I have avoided you too long. Listen –

they say that sometimes the dead
come back to life, like Shakespeare's ghosts
to ape the manners of their progeny

to impart wisdom and to warn of doom
from those ripe worms which blight
the op'ning bud of prosperity.

I say they lie.

The ghosts we share are living ghosts,
all fat, all warmth, all blood and heart and eye

and with us ever.

. . . . . . . . Shall we ask Yorick his outlook
on eternity? The dead have no tongues;
it is only those who weep that know the shallow-
ness of graves.

Spoiler

Yeah. I blame Hamlet for this one. Shakespeare seems to be on my mind at the moment...

I love you. I'm going to squee happily all month as you post poems. I mean, "it is only those who weep that know the shallow-/ness of graves"? Yeah. It's makes me happy inside. I love morality as a young girl - that's just wicked against law as an old man (I keep getting images of Dead Poets Society in my head, the headmaster character, not Robin Williams).

Beside him, morality is a young girl
her hair like corkscrews, playing blind games
with the verisimilitude of men.

Ohhhhh yes. This is perfect. Thank you so much.

"Conversations with Ophelia"

Hi bubbles,

The first line really drew me in and I think that the dash and the skipped line after "Listen" work really well. I think "like Shakespeare's ghosts" was a little...too solid, if you get me? I'd like a stronger image. I'd put a comma after "progeny" and abandon the line break which follows, as this is the point at which it intensifies and I think that this would work better if you exploited that. I think you should keep the 'e' in 'opening'. I get what you're trying to do, but dropping it makes the line lose some of its force. I love the isolation of "I say they lie." I like the description of the ghosts, but I think "all blood, heart, eye," would work better. I think the reference to Yorick was a bit too much and I'd change the final lines to:
It's only those who weep that know
the shallowness of graves.
I think that this would make it more powerful.

A pleasure, as always.
Jas

bubbles, I remember loving your poetry in like 2004. Seven years have not changed this opinion. The last two are lovely.

Thanks for the wonderful comments, all. I am having such FUN with NaPo this year.

5 April

1. tuesday morning, 8 a.m.

Wager me this – that I have, by and large, walked
five miles in your shoes this morning

down to the corner dairy, the white mist sweeping
gauze-like around the necks of mountains all
green and silent the way your eyes are when they first open

and I will not contest you: morning is the sweetest time
of year. This compurgation of elements bears witness
to the broken peace of summer, winter summoned forth
three times with each new month
to answer for the death of spring. And you, now,

your frozen toes against my legs you whisper
the way trees whisper, all susurration and no substance

smiling, sleepless, as I replace the slippers on your feet.

Spoiler

I have been dying to use “compurgation” in a poem somewhere. Legal history is fucking with my brain, man...

2. anniversary

the white sauce
needs more cream, she
says (her napkin
poised in pinches
between her fingers) he
says I liked it
because he did like
it because she didn't and
while their plates are
cleared away she drinks
(he doesn't drink)
and makes small circles
with her wine glass,
the better to
taste the dregs.

morning is the sweetest time
of year.

Absolutely. I loved the first half of this poem a lot. Well, mostly the part about the mist and the mountains, 'cause it reminded me of what I've seen. Thank you!

Intertextual was great. You probably wrote it from the subconscious, and I probably read it from the subconscious, but I'm not going to contest that I like it because of that.

Would love to see more crazily formatted poetry from you. Of course, this was 'special' because you talk of space, and so you're perfectly entitled; would still be interesting to see what you could do with a topic that had no similar visual metaphor attached to it to give it that intrinsic pun.

Also:

I have avoided you too long. Listen –

they say that sometimes the dead
come back to life, like Shakespeare's ghosts

...


I say they lie.

The ghosts we share are living ghosts,
all fat

Something so morbidly attractive about this.

Intertextual:

There's something so intimate about reading a Word Document as opposed to the forum posts. Y'know, it also helps that intertextual is simply a great piece.

(Intertextual) is crazy good and I am sojealous. D: All of these are splendid, Dolores. I have missed you.

Thanks for the comments guys

7 April

Spoiler

With apologies to Emily Dickinson.