Category: poetry

How to Paint a Cloud: A Valentine’s Day’s Sonnet

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Its harder than it looks; it isn’t just
White on blue. The underpainting lies
Beneath the dark as well as the light.
It really isn’t a matter of just
Slathering on the white. In fact,
By far the harder thing to do
Is coming away from the bright shades
With greys and burnt umbers and you
Must remember that the brush moves
Always from dark to light dark to light.
Love must be a lot like that, you think
Preparing your canvas just right. But really
Love is just one of the tiny, curvy vees
A bird winging itself into sight.

For Chaucer, TSE, and Annanya: An Amaltas Poem

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Summer without the heat: just sunshine and glory
Every bunch dripping with molten gold, chandeliers
Lighting a delirious dance in some glad apsara’s story
I’ve read of many Aprils now, cruelest of months
Or sweetest, depending on your poet. My ears
Have become tuned to its many songs, a daily
Epiphany, you might say, when each small, mundane
Thing beckons you to its lay. April is the Amaltas month
Each poem an exploding bloom of the secrets of the day.

Kleifarvatn

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Today I went to Kleifarvatn again
I’m not sure what I wanted to see.
The mountains around it bulged with
Strange colours, ochre and rust, bent
As only hardened lava can be. Even
The sandy shore reared away from
The whipped waters, blinding the black
Shores brown. I let the hair blow into my eyes.
“Look”, I said. “How astonishing, the ropey
Ground. How it rippled as it flowed.”
The mists hid almost everything, but I saw
The water’s edge, white-frothed and clear.
“I’m so glad you could see this,” I said to my friend.
“I always bring everyone here.”

Paper Writing – Some Simple Answers

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For oft when on my couch I lie, my
Laptop on my extended knee,
Over the screen I often spy, some
Things that it fills my heart to see.
Not a host but enough stalks of
White and gold daffodils; dried
Roses from last spring, yellow
Amidst candles purple and blue.
The paper almost writes itself. This
Mellow afternoon, it’s easy to do.

Paper Writing

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The floors are swept, the crystal dusted,
The cushions plumped, the carpet adjusted.
I’ve sorted my drawers, I’ve braided my hair,
Put the dog in the garden and the cat on the chair.
Fresh flowers are in the vases, the books are on the shelf –
Now why hasn’t that paper written itself?!
I’ve procrastinated, discussed it with friends,
Intended to read the articles I need to meet this article’s ends.
I’ve sat in cafes, nursing crises existential,
Cursed my limitations, doubted my potential.
Prayed to gods, demons, a giant and an elf
But that stupid paper still isn’t writing itself!
Am I doing something wrong, I suddenly think
Clutch my heart, feel my stomach sink.
Have I missed something out, forgotten to do
Some critical, important activity or two?
Why do my senses fail, my enthusiasm taper?
What must I do to be done with this paper?!

A Dog’s Life

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Dogs can be trained to not beg.
This is what we were told, and it’s
Probably true. Whack’em on the nose
Admonish in stern voice. Let them know
Entreating for food is not a choice. The
Owner’s parent, however, is harder
To train. My dad refused point blank. “Teach
Your dog not to ask”, he said. To be frank,
That was all we got for our pains. Each
Pet knows – as does every grandchild –
Who will be firm and who will be mild. Our
Current dog looks at my mother-in-law
Lifts up her eyes and holds out her paw
Gets pheasant and beef, sometimes chicken
Gives undiluted adoration and a good finger
Lickin’. The cat can’t be bothered to wait:
He sits in her lap and eats from the plate.
Moral of the story, word to the wise
Dogs are parents make the best allies.

An Invitation

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I want you to come see where I live
To be familiar with all the things I see
Every day – the view from my kitchen
Window, the loft-space in the garage, the
Way the sun comes in on a late night in
The summer; see in a new light all
The things I brought to this new home
From the old. If you see it, old friend,
It is possible that it will end this terrible
Feeling that I am far away. Maybe it will stay
In your mind, sisters and brothers, nieces
And nephews, cousins, family, all the pieces
Of who I was and where I am, joined this way
Will go from this home when you visit my old one
And then maybe we will have done
With the alienation of distance and time
And this foreign land will be a little more mine.

The poem writes and makes itself mine

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(an homage to my DR community – this poem is made entirely of lines from poems posted today)

A turn of phrase or metaphor
For the times cannot be found.
I wish I could learn to talk to trees.
What have I done to deserve this?
It’s an old hackneyed question.
The axe and the blight
The pause and the gush
Scattered twigs
A quilted screen
Yours for the taking
More than I
Can hold.

Portrait of a marriage at twenty-two

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No smiling, were the instructions for the
Model. He tried to straighten his face. It took
A few tries and even so, the laugh lines will
Add a twinkle that won’t be easy enough to
Trace. Make sure there is enough light and some
Decent shadowing, we were told. So we went
Into the kitchen where the evening sun kindles
The homey concatenation of appliances and plants
Candles and bowls, things to use and things to
Hold, into scattered embers and points of shine.
‘Be careful what you place the subject against.’
The kitchen wall, canary yellow, carries well the
Slants and flow of light. So bright, the green-grey
Eyes that look straight into mine. The gold-brown
Dwindles, puts up a good-natured fight with the
Twenty-two years, the encroaching white. I know
My brush will never catch the warmth of the
Shadows, how they’re just another kind of
Glow. But this portrait is just beginning and I’m
Really more than willing to keep it simple and
Take it slow.