Friday’s Fish Supper

June 1, 2012

by Joseph Milosch

I remember the shade of the kitchen light,
my mother wearing a green sweater, john’s
jean patch on his sleeve, my white sweat shirt,
and Dave wanted to fight for his right
to wear his red flannel undershirt.

Mike laughed as his teeth sliced
syllables of his speech.
Dan wiped tomato sauce
from his lips and cheeks.

He flipped a drop
right on impeccable Sue’s blouse.
Mary bit the tip of her braid
and pulled her dress over her slip.
Folding her hands in her lap,
she looked at the light, rather
than let Sue know about the stain.
Dad, his tie pinned with a ruby clasp,
smiled, unaware of the game.

Finishing his pipe, he spoke
about the apostles being diligent.
We bowed our heads, said grace,
kept a moment of silence
as steam from the blue gill
became almost invisible.

Meditation at the Church of Our Lady of Guadeloupe, Mexico

June 1, 2012

Joseph Milosch

The Benedictines built the rock wall surrounding their monastery. It was five feet tall. Each rock picked from the roadside in spring. Each rock culled for its regular shape and its shade of brown, gray, or gold.

Father Martin used it as an example of celebrating God through work. A graying man, his eyes were horned-shaped rays darkened by his tan, and enlarged by his wire rimmed glasses. Fall was his favorite time of year. As the rocks warmed in the sun and cooled in the shade, he would become philosophical. Pointing to the wall, he’d say, Faith is like those rocks, its heats up — cools — and grows warm again.

Other times he spoke from his heart. Celibacy is a superficial argument. Of course men like woman. God made it so. Don’t use women as your excuse not to become a priest, or blame them for your loss of faith. If you need proof of God’s existence, watch a sunset. None of God’s other creature’s can appreciate a sunset. — Not birds. dogs. horses. Cats don’t admire a bird’s feathers — they don’t wear them in their fur. God only lets man see beauty because it’s God’s way of revealing himself. Mark my words. Everything is beautiful because beauty is God, and he’s in everything.

I

The Mississippi south of Saint Louis.
The Souix Saint Marie in October.
The Grand Canyon from a tent
along the banks of the Colorado.
Santa Fe. Niagara Falls. Puebla, Mexico.

Coyotes standing in the shade of a surgarro.
Quails pecking through oak leaves.
Red tail hawks. Golden eagles. Gray whales
blowing off the coast of Baja.

Sometimes holding a handful of duff,
I watch a spider crawl from the rubble
and wonder why I don’t feel God’s presence.
Sometimes, I wonder if I ever felt him.

(stanza break)

Once maybe in December.
After confession.
On the steps of St. Joseph’s.
At twelve or thirteen.
Two feet of fresh snow had fallen.
A light snow continued.
Mother came outside.
The street light lit up her hair.
She placed a gloved hand on my shoulder.
Kissed me on the forehead.
Her breath smelled of Certs.
A light snow continued to fall.

II

Confined as I am between the bricks
and bones of my church and head,
it is hard to feel comfort;
and faith is always on the other side

of stained glass windows, carved doors,
and the crucifix with blood dripping
from the toes of the Son.

Sometimes I become fearful
when I believe I’ll rot alone in my grave.
Sometimes I’m anxious of my body
testifying against me
when I alone with God.
Always I’m half and half,
knowing the light of stars passes through me,
and heaven is full of saints.

Little Book about Big Things:

June 1, 2012 § Neal Whitman § Poetry Prof.

short poems with a long reach

by Neal Whitman, Poetry Prof

Now and then, in this 1st of the month “Poetry Prof” feature, I reaffirm my belief that poetry is a family: I profess that all who write it or read it are related. This month I want to tell you about a distant cousin, John Carley. He and I have never met, and, as far as I know, he has no idea who I am. But, this past month, another one of my “poet-cousins,” Lorin Ford, let me know about a book John put together with members of his poetry family: the Little Book of Yotsumonos published by Darlington Richards Press (yes, “the” in the title is lower case).

You might be wondering, “What the heck is a yotsumono?” In this book, we learn that yotsumono is a Japanese word meaning “four topics.” In this collection, John proposes to write linked verses comprising a (1) beginning, (2) continuation, (3) change, and (4) conclusion. Each poem in this collection is a collaboration of two poets. As conceived by John Carley, one poet kicks off a yotsumono with (1) a 3-line haiku. The second poet responds with (2) a 2-liner that complements it. Then the first poet (3) links to the 2nd verse with a 3-liner, but in a way that breaks away from the 1st verse. Finally, the second poet writes (4) a 2-liner that links to the 3rd verse, but not specifically to 2nd verse, while, at the same time provides a resolution to the whole poem. A bit hard to imagine in theory, yes? So, here is an example from this book which John partnered with six “cousins” – it is my favorite in this collection, one John Carley wrote with Lorin Ford.

Picture Window

my hybrid primrose
struggles in the sleet –
picture window

the busker’s melody
Made in Ireland

pikes and pennants
waving bravely
march on down the years

each gnarl a face
in this blackthorn cane

I found that this short poem had a long reach. As I paused between each verse, I had the experience that was promised last month on the Yatsuhashi, the Zig-Zag Bridge, in the Japanese Friendship Garden in San Jose, California. It is said that when you cross a zig-zag bridge, bad spirits cannot zig-zag and thus fall in the water. I think you might find your own zig-zag bridge in the Little Book of Yotsumonos.

I began this month’s essay with my profession that poetry is a family. I love that John Carley, called on his poet-relatives in Australia, New Zealand, and the United States, as well as his home country, the UK, and that his publisher is based in Ireland and South Africa! [www.darlingtonrichards.com]

Next month I will write about another short form of poetry, zip haiku, invented by John Carley.

 

New Year’s Haiku

May 29, 2012 § Neal Whitman § Poetry Prof.

by Neal Whitman

Okay, champagne bottles are in the recycle bin and the confetti has been swept. This year I thought we would go a week past New Year’s Day to celebrate Saint Distaff’s Day. No, there was no such-named saint. On January 7, the day after the twelfth day of Christmas, women in Olde England returned to work… “women’s work” to include spinning and other domestic chores. The men did not return to “men’s work” such as ploughing ’til the following Monday. Male folk, with time on their hands, played practical jokes such as setting on fire the roving ready to wind on the distaff of his wife’s spinning wheel. Women were prepared: a bucket of water to douse the fire… and the prankster. Henceforth, Saint Distaff’s Day!

by her spinning wheel
a straw basket with roving
soon yarn for a scarf

After the Disaster

May 26, 2012 § Fred Longworth

by Fred Longworth

Do not try to save the day.
Allow it to slide off the edge
of the earth and into the gutters
below the horizon.

Let the maintenance crew
sweep it into baskets
and burn it with dead leaves.

Later, as the workmen hasten
westward, following the debris
of other sunsets, hail them.
Ask for the ashes.

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Winter Haiku

May 23, 2012 § Neal Whitman § Poetry Prof.

by Neal Whitman

short day winter walk–
fog settles across the bay
cutting trees in half

Neal Whitman is a member of the Yuki Teikei Haiku Society of San Jose and the Haiku Poets of Northern California. Though contemporaries vary the syllable count, Neal likes to stick to the traditional 5-7-5 structure and to use a “kigo,” a word or phrase associated with the season such as “winter walk.” 

If on a Winter’s Night a Patient (Cherita Sequence)

May 20, 2012 § Chen-ou Liu

by Chen-ou Liu

time stands still

on the old clock above
the counter in the ER

I wait
patiently
for my turn

walking out the door

casting no glances
we pass each other by

then disappear
snow traces the weight
of each burden

Autumn Haiku

May 17, 2012 § Neal Whitman § Poetry Prof.

by Neal Whitman

I lay awake cold.
My left thumb rests on my chin
below chestnut moon.

Neal Whitman is a member of the Yuki Teikei Haiku Society of San Jose and the Haiku Poets of Northern California. Though contemporaries vary the syllable count, he likes to stick to the traditional Japanese 5-7-5 structure.

Kingyo are Japanese words associated with each of the five seasons (New Years is considered its own season). In English, we call these words “kigo.” One autumn kigo is “chestnut moon.” The moon, not quite full, holds particular beauty.

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Three Short Poems

May 14, 2012 § Martha Christina

by Martha Christina

Memorial Day

Two starlings
glide from my roof
to my neighbors’.
The sudden breeze
of their wings
just enough
to stir the flag.

Shaking Hands

grasp, clasp,
tentative press,
the faintest whisper
of cuff to skin.
Hello, the mouth says,
I’m so glad
to meet you.
But the eyes say
Not here, not now.

Early October

The maple, still lush
with green leaves,
sways toward the house,
sways away. That quickly,
quicker, death and life
trade places.

Neighbors bear
their offerings
of casseroles and cakes,
under a sky so blue,
it wounds.

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Conversation with a Muse

May 14, 2012 § Kristine Remick

by Kristine Remick

The storm driven darkness pulled shadow onto surfaces where the contrasts turned them to art. Ordinary things cast spectral gray shapes on the luncheonette’s friction worn Formica and scratched country patterns. Salt. Pepper. Chrome napkin holder. Thunder rattled the diner as the storm built outside.

“What if I did?”

The hooded woman with her long dark sweater coat shrugged at her acrylic paint stained companion.

“What if you did? It wouldn’t be the end of the world – might even be the beginning of one?”

She sipped her dark roast coffee delicately from the plain porcelain cup, refusing to elaborate further. Her companion leaned back drawing a sinewy hand through chic sweaty brown hair. His expression was one of puzzled irritation; a study in artistic suffering.

“I could ruin everything, I could show everyone that I am not worth what I charge. As if what I do, can be had for free if you’re willing to plead.”

The woman turned her shadowed face only slightly toward the artist, pausing before taking another sip of coffee, “Then don’t make them plead.”

Thunder rolled and there was a flash of lightning that gave the scene a sudden strobe photo effect.

“Are you saying I should volunteer one of my works without being asked?” He sighed, leaning on the backrest of red swivel stool, “If it’s so important why don’t the people who would buy from the auctions, give their money without it. They have more to give than I do.”

Although most of the woman’s face was in the darkness of her damp hood, the tilt of her head implied one eyebrow had risen, “Do they?” Her slender form and full lips hinted at a sultry young woman, but her voice was full of distant unanswered mystery. The people with money have one thing to give. Art, on the other hand, can give so much more.”

Lightning flashed twice and the thunder on its heels shattered the quiet conversation. She was a model of calm decorum and composure, while he sprawled, uncomfortable in his own skin.

“Why me?”

“Why not you?”

“It could ruin my reputation as a salable artist.”

“It could make your reputation as a kind human being.”

“There are so many good causes to contribute to, why this one?”

“There are so many good causes to contribute to, why not start with this one?”

“I wouldn’t be making a dent in the problem.”

“It would be better to give up on a cause rather than giving a little? What are you really afraid of?”

“Who says I’m afraid?”

“I just did. So what are you afraid of?”

The young man shrugged and looked out at the fading storm as the extreme bass grumble of thunder vibrated across his skin. “I don’t know. What if people don’t like my work and won’t buy it? What if people look at what I do and compare it to the major artists who contribute to the cause? What if I’m just wasting my time by contributing something for this problem that is so huge I can’t fathom the amount of help those on the front lines must need?”

She paused at the jumble of questions and took another sip of warm coffee, “ ‘what will people think? What if people compare? What if I waste my time?’ – then you follow these questions with the idea that the problem is so huge it is unfathomable” She turned to him, her face still in shadow, “do you see how small and petty your fears are next to the realization of the full extent of the problem?”

She turned back to face the pastry coolers behind the lunch counter, “Here is a question that should cause you some consternation. What if everybody like you does nothing, no one contributes, and those on the front lines don’t even get the help that the many people like you would have given because they are too self involved to even give a little? You give because it is the right thing to do. You give to show that you are aware that someone is fighting on the front lines. You give what you can, and when possible, the best of yourself, for the worst of the problems.” She fell silent as lightning flashed in the distance. “Not everyone will, but everyone should.”

He fidgeted uncomfortably and tried to change the subject that he, himself had initiated.

“What kind of name is Miss Nina Peach?”

“It suits me …for now.”

Opus at Fifty

May 11, 2012

By Joseph Milosch

I dreamed I was running
in a field with a girl
dressed in light shorts.
Her tanned legs flickered
and our feet flashed faster
than echoes of falling footsteps
as flies became fireworks,
imitating centuries of supernovas.

I dreamed we were running
in a field
without any flowers
or clover blossoms.
We ran on grass
Kentucky Blue Grass.

We ran through a field of line dancers.
They wore white tennis shoes
like Billy “White Shoes” Johnson.
The people laughed silently;
their teeth became fireflies
as their head bobbed to the beat.

Running through a field
and between people line dancing,
my hand lightly brushed
the backside of a brunette woman.
It was an accident. Somewhere
a rainbow leaped to hear darkness fall.

I dreamed I was running with a girl
through people line dancing in a field.
There was silence. It was early evening,
later than dusk.
The wind threw the fragrance
of millet and poppy.

I dreamed I was running on my toes
I stepped lightly like I was seventeen.
The air blew in my hair.

In my hair!

Revision

May 11, 2012 § Paul Hostovsky

by Paul Hostovsky

There used to be
a live chicken
in this poem,

there was a glacier
and a sailboat,
the Pacific Ocean

sloshing between stanzas,
and me like Adam
saying, Here am I,

to God who was also
near.

Untitled Palindrome

May 8, 2012 § Michael Constantine McConnell

by Michael Constantine McConnell

Dog-bard, a wall arose. Soon, a red, nude man-era stole Gail of deli, and, lo, my tit-net carts bade, trap millions’ parts, but a snag rose many fits, and I’d reward no cabs. Eve[n] Eve’s bacon drawer did nastify names, organs, a tub, straps. No ill-imparted, abstract-entity mold nailed foliage. Lots are named under a noose’s oral law – a drab god.

66(words)/259(letters)

Solitary Reaper

May 5, 2012 § Paul Hostovsky

by Paul Hostovsky

Wordsworth was a wanker

I am writing
on the bathroom wall

at the summer writers’ conference
where all of the poets are sitting around
in their little tranquil groups

circle jerking
in my imagination: the blue-
haired lady with her notebook spilling

in her lap, the English teacher with his muscular
sensibility, the diffident housewife, musty
pastor, gay accountant, haiku bicyclist and me

all squirming and sighing with the pleasures
of words
and the spontaneous

overflows
of powerful feeling
emanating

from what we recollect
or maybe
make up as we go along.

Another Dream Of You As A Lifeguard

May 2, 2012 § Martha Christina

by Martha Christina

We’re in water
up to our armpits
and I’m afraid
of going under.
But when you
put your hand
on the small
of my back,
what can I do
but float?

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