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5840. nuplanetone - 12/18/2006 6:28:42 PM As I do every year I thought I might write a winter poem. But try as I might, it seems the season here in the Northeast keeps attempting to resemble Spring. False starts, of course. Global warming? Global warfare! Spooky.
Anyway, I have arrived at a New Year’s resolution and since it includes all of you, I will announce it here. I have collected all of the poems I have put up in here, (and any I could find from Slate) and was amazed to realize that there are more than a hundred of them. So, I vow to create a chapbook entitled: NuPlanetOne/The Mote Poems. Or something along that line. I was equally amazed at how unfinished most of the poems really are and how many of them were illogical and in need of reworking. I want to be done with it by next Christmas. I’m hoping that I have at least fifty poems worth reading at years end. Partly to ease the financial investment and mostly in hopes I consider at least that many of them worthwhile. Discouragement, encouragement, ideas, or who cares, greatly appreciated.
And since it is so Spring like up here these days, this is one I reworked leaving only 104 to go.
Cobblestones to Heaven
There is such a relaxing exhaled feel
As I take in the warmth and odors
Of this fresh Spring morning glistening
Beyond my window. Seductive
In its complacency yet busy
Constructive little bugs and birds are
Finally at work on flowers with the hue
Of the perceivable spectrum. I am listening
Watching. Amazed at how it begins
At how it wins me over. Sucks me
Back into its eternal promise. A blue
And endless sky spread out with white
Puffs as if they were cobblestones
To heaven. That perhaps I might
Hopscotch up like a happy smiling boy
Allowed to start again. No phones
Today. Because I am looking
To where the furthest cloud
Drifts to the ground. I am looking down
Now half way up. I will jump and land softly
In a bed of buttercup and forsythia
And with hands nestled behind my head
I will doze and dream and compose
Something violet besieged with daffodil
And propose that Spring, that life
And all the things that fill us with joy
Perpetuate. Then hop on up to heaven.
5841. alistairconnor - 12/18/2006 7:44:51 PM What a gratifying project! I would love to see that on paper.
Dumb question : what is a chapbook? 5842. NuPlanetOne - 12/19/2006 6:32:28 AM Thank you Alistair, and hardly a dumb question. Here is a general description: ‘A chapbook is an informal self-published book that can be used for your own poetry or favorite recipes of your family.’
Further, there are numerous printing concerns here and there that will produce varying degrees of quality and design. They offer templates and or follow the design specifications you request. Usually one needs to order a first printing of a hundred or so copies. It is up to the poet to peddle the merchandise, setting a price per book that might allow him to recoup the initial investment, anywhere from 300-1000 bucks, depending on the amount of pages, graphics, ect. In most cases one places the order, irons out the details, and interested parties order through the printer or a designated web portal. Some folks take delivery of their first printing and go store to store hoping to catch fire. Others, like universities and poetry sites sell them off their websites. It’s all the rage these days, so I am told. Anyway, I bet wabbit could figure out how to do something like that on our homepage if everyone really wanted a copy. Otherwise I will get them to you guys one way or another.
Wabbit, please pardon my presumed assumptions about your abilities or participation.
5843. NuPlanetOne - 1/1/2007 6:13:22 PM A rewrite for the occasion.
What the dickens has gotten into me?
Happy New Year! I’m Scrooge throwing up
The window. You there! What day is this?
Do you know that poor unfortunate every
God damn bad thing in the world down the
Street there? Ya, that’s the one. Here, here’s a quarter
Go fix it. Now hurry. And with good music
And in a flurry the world had its happy ending
I am sending out for food. Screw it. Poor people do it
We can build a road right through it. Because
Today is different. It’s a new year. Two skinny
Arms on the snowy sills looking at the cold
Sunshine. How many more New Year’s days
Do I get Lord? Can I drive a new Ford if I change
My ways? The angels and other things you sent
Me last night, or was it last week, you know
The peek you gave me at my miserable and
Preposterous ending. Well, that’s me in the window
And I’m changing. I can feel it. And a Merry
Christmas to everyone! They all heard it. They
Were all stunned, even if they only glanced
Then merrily danced on their way. What could I say
To change that Lord? What if it perchanced
That I fell screaming, pleading that they stop
And listen. Then they would stop to see what
The dead guy looked like splattered in the snow
Forget that Lord. I’m a new man with a New Year’s
Resolution. I learned it hard and I learned it slow
I’m going to run in and get dressed and fix everything
But damn! If things don’t look pretty much the same
Out there. Forget that lord, I’m a born again optimist
So twinkle a star over Bethlehem and bless little Tim
And though the future ain’t promised and my chances
Are slim….It’s a new year!
5844. arkymalarky - 1/1/2007 7:40:36 PM I love starting off another poetic Nu Year! 5845. NuPlanetOne - 1/29/2007 5:50:13 PM 24 Hour Blues
There is something dogging me
A heaviness. A dread
Feelings of emptiness
I must be depressed. Finally!
I know what it is
This feels like the blues
Are these the blues?
I need an instrument
To play them on. A Saxaphone
I need an analyst
To dig into my past
How long do they last?
Should I sit by the window
On a passing bus
Staring out into space
No. I will sit alone in a booth
In a café and brood
I won’t order food
What if I do smile?
It must be a grin
A sad looking grin
Of chagrin. Self pity
And if it lasts a day
Who are you to say
Get over it?
5846. NuPlanetOne - 1/29/2007 5:51:43 PM ...and this one reworked and done for the chapbook.
The Plume
What I remember most, now
Is stepping out into the night
Morning really. The streetlight
Infused, reflected off brick
And panes and windshields
Held in the air an incandescent
Masterpiece. Still. Quiet
Truly a different universe
Instantly apart and separate
From the weight and plumes
Of the incessant aura in the building
Where we had lived. Together.
How that world had enveloped me
Stepped out with me
Came to become my burden
A yoke. Breathing in a bubble
Stale, oppressive, exhaled. A sigh.
Almost phobic, your world spiraled
Not sickly. But gradually
You cooled and hardened. Had
Defined features. Cast a shadow
Were in real time a pedestrian
Yet clearly recognizable to me
As a stranger. You had found a spot
For me. Held me in the plume
I had to break free.
How shall I describe the clarity
The release. The calm
The crystalline reflection sparkling
In the damp pavement as I moved
Toward my car. Each separate
Noise, distinct. As if my ears
All my senses, awoke and
Detected something familiar
It felt instantly I had come back
From somewhere. And I felt the panic
That something was left behind
Something important, indefensible
Something left to fend.
And although I stood trying
Reaching in, groping to find it
Feel it. It was not there
I knew suddenly, so hopelessly
I could never go back in
I would see you in one dimension
Opaque. And it startled me
That such a thing could happen
That nothing could revive it
And though I was worried sick
That you would be alone
In that surreal and artificial light
My tires left wet glistening tracks
On the asphalt.
5847. NuPlanetOne - 2/3/2007 6:53:36 PM Betrothed
You want gut wrenching angst
Drenching flows of suicidal woes
Kids in conflict with mom and dad
As if they had nothing to thank about
As if being bad was the only way
You could make them say anything real
That dad can shout and mom can pout
Something to make it feel better
To send off a letter. A mail. That because
You fail Humanities you are incomplete
Yet they greet you sheepishly at holiday
The visit back home where you are the
Gnome in your room changed to office
Changed to broom closet. Closet antichrist
You are. That would twist the neck of
A proselytizing son of a bitch and which
One of you sweet mom or dad won’t twitch
When I marry that fuckin jerk.
5848. Ulgine Barrows - 2/7/2007 8:51:59 AM That's an odd post for you, NuPlanetOne.
None of your usual earth tones, more of the orange/red. 5849. NuPlanetOne - 3/10/2007 8:04:23 PM Commitment
The occasional gleeful screech of a child
Carried down wind as its mother chases behind
Hardly another soul along the beach except
A dog running around and around its master
Gulls, and off the horizon a tanker doesn’t move
Moving across the edge of the globe because I
Keep checking it. You are sitting in white sand
Away from me and I am on the breakers tossing
Smooth rocks over your head. Stop it you insist
And I ask if you meant the rocks as you twist about
And look surprised. You get up and walk down
Toward the water and just then the dog and master
Go by you and the dog splashes and you jump back
That huge smile you give to animals widens your
Face and you bend and pat the soaking thing
And it leaps up and knocks you onto your butt into
The water. Your screech as playful as the child
Upshore and as if no one else existed you hug that dog
And coo and carry on like old friends. I sink back
Against the breaker stones and search for the tanker
That got swallowed by the distance. A gull perched
Higher up on my right screams something at me
And bobs its head holding its wings open. The sun
Breaks from behind a wad of clouds and I go lazy
Like a Sunday paper and try not to think or smoke
But the argument is way too fresh and I should
Have left my smokes in the car and I would have
To finish the argument anyway. You are talking
Now to the master and parting and heading back up
The beach. The smile is a smirk and you sit back in
The same spot and face me shaking your head then
Spin around back toward the water. The mother is
Chasing the child now and catches it where the dog
Had splashed you. They roll and wrestle and hug and
She carries the kid away. Let’s get a dog. I said.
5850. jexster - 3/22/2007 2:44:11 AM Yesterday NewsHour featured a Canadian philosopher who received a Templeton Award for his work on the spiritual element in politics and history. His view is that traditional power and economic models are insufficient to understand human conflict.
Tonight, first in a series Poetry of the Middle East
There's a lot to be learned from the artist - poets, painters, novelists especially in turbulent times. Time and time again, they seem to anticipate the deeper trends that others miss.
Think there's something here too. 5851. Ulgine Barrows - 4/5/2007 7:54:47 AM "Commitment
The occasional gleeful screech of a child " 5852. Ulgine Barrows - 4/5/2007 8:02:06 AM That's not poetry
I love/hate my son
When he was 3, I couldn't urinate
or change a tampon
by myself
without him smacking my door
Now, son is 12
And cleaning up
after himself is a foreign concept
that I smack his door with 5853. NuPlanetOne - 4/21/2007 7:49:12 PM Billions
Earth time, the observation
A sun rise, a sunset
Time, the concept
A life, a death
Forever, the hope
More time, given time
Always, the conundrum
No birth, no end
And just things
Awake and observing
Living things
And empty space
Where it all swirls
About a galactic center
Who, what or why
Swirling along with it
Billions of balls of swirl
Perhaps swirling about
A greater unfathomed center
And time, the river
No estuary, no source
Just a current.
5854. Ulgine Barrows - 4/25/2007 7:25:38 AM I see purple when I read that, NuPlanetOne, maybe some blues. 5855. NuPlanetOne - 5/19/2007 3:54:38 PM If you live long enough
Memory, after all
Is a short term thing
A bodily function
You sit in a room
Your head
And are allowed
A big picture
On each facing wall
The big reminders
With lots of small
Pictures around them
Snippets of images
That evolved out of
And along with
The big pictures
Sections of your life
And as the walls fill
You look them over
And see where you are
Who you are
And what you could be
The small pictures
Various traumas, joys
Accumulate, distract
But you organize
And keep them connected
Eventually, the big pictures
Get brighter
Take over a wall
Soon only the big pictures
Remain
If you live long enough
You will just have
A few big pictures
Hopefully, just one
A comfortable idea
Of what it all means
Now, the other walls
Will be needed
To connect the passing
Minutes
Concerned with muscles
And minor routine
And perhaps
You might only
Recall, squinting
Those exuberant montages
That built the big pictures
And experience yourself
Not as a single entity
Nor even as an imbued spirit
But with a clear recollection
That explains everything.
5856. NuPlanetOne - 5/25/2007 4:03:55 PM Chieftains
What God is this
Who calls for vengeance
And rewards the taking
Of innocent lives?
What prayers are these
That ask forgiveness
For lesser sins
Than one that is offered?
What morals are these
That shape pain into hate
And prey upon suffering
For gross worldly gain?
That God would speak
And again bring the word
And remind these men
The tribe is not a temple.
5857. Seamus - 6/8/2007 7:58:24 PM I have enjoyed these re-writes that you are doing for your chapbook, Sir Nu.
I quite like this last one, Chieftains. The anger is so sincere, so palpable, that it simply flows. And there is nothing I want to do when I read it but permit it to flow over me.
And this:
And remind these men
The tribe is not a temple
is powerful. Do you consider this a "political" piece? In any event, well done, Nu! It is good to see you.
And hello to Ulgine, alistair, Rick, wonk, jex, arky and anyone else who may be looking in. Mac, conas tá tú?
5858. Seamus - 6/8/2007 8:07:06 PM For Mac:
An excerpt from Eavan Boland's "Colony":
Witness
Here is the city—
its worn-down mountains,
its grass and iron,
its smoky coast
seen from the high roads
on the Wicklow side.
From Dalkey Island
to the North Wall,
to the blue distance seizing its perimeter,
its old divisions are deep within it.
And in me also.
And always will be.
Out of my mouth they come:
The spurred and booted garrisons.
The men and women
they dispossessed.
What is a colony
if not the brutal truth
that when we speak
the graves open.
And the dead walk?
5859. NuPlanetOne - 6/25/2007 7:38:19 PM Seamus…definitely political. All about me and all of us here, really, we are faced with our young ones contemplating enlistment. It’s hard to give advice and encouragement when we know that on average 3-4 troops meet an untimely end over there every day. Then, of course, how do we downplay patriotism and duty merely because it is a loved one who would offer themselves up to a tour of duty that surely includes harms’ way. On the one hand, I feel the evil of this war to be ghastly and illogical. Indefensible, suicidal, fundamental drones, that is, truly unique. On the other hand, I think of the insane diabolical logic of the Third Reich, and I realize that evil, however it puts its coat on, will always be the same enemy to freedom and democracy. Our vested, global, corporate interests, unfortunately, always seem to become a cottage industry and dissect the serpent evil into pieces that further their bottom line. Something like that Oz Oilman hiding behind George in his quiet corner over on Pennsylvania Ave. Human nature?
Then there is the grand cosmic significance of it all. Players just strutting the stage in this, the best of all possible worlds. Always good and evil, sick or sane. And there amongst it all, you and me scribbling our poems in hope of making it all sensible. Ha! 2 more pints, we’ll get it right. Always good to know you lurk here and about my friend, ciao.
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