the gurgling begins again when the flies flew backwards
upward in prose attacking my toes
i drew up my guard against them
streamlining tunnels and bathroom walls
all covered in shes and alphabets
nonwithwhich the sandwich threw
colored horizons simple as day
and the samitch blew out its dimples
over the ham fried display
where people toss and pray
nothing found in the hay
touchscrews and alabaster
tried cried by the moon
and the waning wind wooed
this and that over and out
transister stores closed
best buys open
geek squads wait
ready to pounce
catnip computer junkies
cowboy riders
hotwax sandwich
where did you go
im talking to you
where you go
and all that was left was the
closets doors and chests
the wool
pulled over my i's
denis streeter 11/19/12
Monday, November 19, 2012
life spills
all the olivers in a row
stand sideways to dance
in equilibriums temple
of minds sordid past
greek emeralds and swedish mime
glazed temples of sweat
god being the gold
the letter missing
the familiar path left behind
in the snow flakes of being
blinder than binders sent from the shell
altogether distraught
what the hell
in the readers laughter
to punctuate verse
no wordsworth
waking up counters
the worlds tick and tock
showing up with spoons and forks
nothing to slather
ill have the leather
pass me the letter
unfold unrolled
ladders up
its a long one
disaster hit
too late for buns
you showed up
in the after after
leaving me before before
in townships harm
chapels fall
becoming igneous rock
unrecognizable
like you when you die
and the life of your spirit
is in the doctrine
is in the imagining.
denis streeter 11/19/12
stand sideways to dance
in equilibriums temple
of minds sordid past
greek emeralds and swedish mime
glazed temples of sweat
god being the gold
the letter missing
the familiar path left behind
in the snow flakes of being
blinder than binders sent from the shell
altogether distraught
what the hell
in the readers laughter
to punctuate verse
no wordsworth
waking up counters
the worlds tick and tock
showing up with spoons and forks
nothing to slather
ill have the leather
pass me the letter
unfold unrolled
ladders up
its a long one
disaster hit
too late for buns
you showed up
in the after after
leaving me before before
in townships harm
chapels fall
becoming igneous rock
unrecognizable
like you when you die
and the life of your spirit
is in the doctrine
is in the imagining.
denis streeter 11/19/12
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Thanksgiving
I just finished Brian Doyle's book "The Low Life: 5 Great Tales from Up and Down the River". Take a look at my previous blog titled "The Low Life" on August 9, 2012. Briefly Brian Doyle is a wonderful Canadian writer who spent his life in Ottawa up and down the Gatineaux River near Low. It follows the life of fictional characters he created in this region from 1895 to about 1995. I'm going to read the following passage at Monday night poetry...from "Up to Low" (1982). Some character background...
Young Tommy - the hero
Baby Bridget - his friend with her poor arm
Mean Hughie - a mean and troubled man. Baby Bridget's pa
The Hummer - a flood victim
Mean Hughie is dying of "the cancer" and has disappeared from his large family. In this part of the story Young Tommy and Baby Bridget find him...
I won't be able to read this without crying...
He had made his own coffin and climbed into it.
He was trying to die.
His coffin was made of slab wood and barn boards. The frame
was made of grey two-by-fours from the rack of the old hay wagon.
It was too big for him now. He made it to fit himself before the
cancer got going faster in him and made him so small and light and
thin.
I had the feeling that I could have reached down and lifted him out
like a long bony baby.
And when he spoke his voice was so small it sounded as if he was
talking over a telephone while you were holding the receiver away from
your ear.
"I shouldn't have hit you that time you lost your poor arm," he said
with his tiny voice.
His voice was so small that he sounded as if he were away down in
the bottom of a well somewhere. Away down in the bottom of a mine
shaft somewhere.
"I shouldn't have hit you that time you lost your poor arm," the voice
said.
Then, like somebody way inside a cave somewhere or someone on
the other side of the dam, the voice, again.
"I'm sorry, Baby Bridget."
Baby Bridget put her ear closer to Mean Hughie's lips to make sure
she heard.
"I'm sorry, Baby Bridget, I was so mean."
Baby Bridget looked at me through her hair. She was asking me with
her eyes if I was listening. Did I hear what Mean Hughie was saying? Did
I hear the same thing that she heard?
I leaned over the side of the coffin a little more. Mean Hughie was
too weak to hang on to the side with his claw anymore. He let his head
back down.
"I'm sorry for what I done to you, Baby Bridget." His voice was as
thin as paper. Baby Bridget leaned over and put the stub of her short arm
near her father's hand. His fingers felt it and they curled around it and
he groaned. He closed his eyes and stroked her arm, petted her arm with
his fingers.
Then, Baby Bridget, in the nicest, most gentle, soft voice I ever
heard, the kindest voice, the most forgiving voice I ever heard, answered.
"It's alright, Pa," she said, she whispered, she breathed the words
close to her father's ear.
"It's all right, Pa.
"It's all right, Pa."
I got up and moved over to a stump quite a ways away so they could
be alone. It was getting to be a beautiful morning. The sun was shining
right through the cracks between the logs of Ramsay's old house. A cou-
ple of chipmunks were chasing each other somewhere in the bush.
Old Hummer had said there was healing here. Old Hummer said
Baby Bridget's friend was strong. I was the friend.
Strong?
What could I do? I knew her arm wouldn't come back. I knew she
would be disappointed. I knew she would get up off her knees after a
while and turn around and her arm would be exactly the same.
Strong?
There was nothing strong I could do. All I could do was sit there and
watch. A big crow called out from the top of one of the knotty pines. I
looked up and spotted him. He called again. How lucky he is, I thought.
Up there, away from everything, fly away whenever he wants.
"I know, old crow," I said up to the crow, "that there'll be no heal-
ing going on here." I must have been pretty exhausted, talking to
crows.
I looked down again and saw Baby Bridget standing up beside Mean
Hughie's coffin. Everything was quite hazy because my eyes were full of
the bright blue sky behind the crow.
She was walking towards me.
I could tell that Mean Hughie was dead.
I was trying to focus my eyes to see if her arm had grown back. I
knew it was a stupid hope to have, but I couldn't help having it. I was
feelng more sorry for her than I ever felt about anything before.
Her arm came into focus.
It was the same as before.
I was trying to think of something smart to say. Something that
would make her feel good. Tell her a Frank story maybe. No. Sing a lit-
tle bit to her maybe. No. Throw a rock at the crow. No.
"He said he was sorry he was so mean to me," she said to me, looking right
at me, her eyes full of water.
"He said he loved me and he was sorry." Her eyes were big with
water, but she looked good. She had a nice look on her. It wasn't a happy
look. But it was a kind of nice look.
Then all of a sudden I knew. I knew what that crazy old Hummer
meant. Healing.
Healing. There was healing. But it wasn't her arm that got the heal-
ing. No. Not the arm.
It was the heart.
The heart got healed.
Baby Bridget's heart!
pages 390-2, The Low Life: 5 Great Tale from Up and Down the River, from "Up to Low"
by Brian Doyle.
When I look at Thanksgiving, I am thankful for this deeply resonant writing.
Young Tommy - the hero
Baby Bridget - his friend with her poor arm
Mean Hughie - a mean and troubled man. Baby Bridget's pa
The Hummer - a flood victim
Mean Hughie is dying of "the cancer" and has disappeared from his large family. In this part of the story Young Tommy and Baby Bridget find him...
I won't be able to read this without crying...
He had made his own coffin and climbed into it.
He was trying to die.
His coffin was made of slab wood and barn boards. The frame
was made of grey two-by-fours from the rack of the old hay wagon.
It was too big for him now. He made it to fit himself before the
cancer got going faster in him and made him so small and light and
thin.
I had the feeling that I could have reached down and lifted him out
like a long bony baby.
And when he spoke his voice was so small it sounded as if he was
talking over a telephone while you were holding the receiver away from
your ear.
"I shouldn't have hit you that time you lost your poor arm," he said
with his tiny voice.
His voice was so small that he sounded as if he were away down in
the bottom of a well somewhere. Away down in the bottom of a mine
shaft somewhere.
"I shouldn't have hit you that time you lost your poor arm," the voice
said.
Then, like somebody way inside a cave somewhere or someone on
the other side of the dam, the voice, again.
"I'm sorry, Baby Bridget."
Baby Bridget put her ear closer to Mean Hughie's lips to make sure
she heard.
"I'm sorry, Baby Bridget, I was so mean."
Baby Bridget looked at me through her hair. She was asking me with
her eyes if I was listening. Did I hear what Mean Hughie was saying? Did
I hear the same thing that she heard?
I leaned over the side of the coffin a little more. Mean Hughie was
too weak to hang on to the side with his claw anymore. He let his head
back down.
"I'm sorry for what I done to you, Baby Bridget." His voice was as
thin as paper. Baby Bridget leaned over and put the stub of her short arm
near her father's hand. His fingers felt it and they curled around it and
he groaned. He closed his eyes and stroked her arm, petted her arm with
his fingers.
Then, Baby Bridget, in the nicest, most gentle, soft voice I ever
heard, the kindest voice, the most forgiving voice I ever heard, answered.
"It's alright, Pa," she said, she whispered, she breathed the words
close to her father's ear.
"It's all right, Pa.
"It's all right, Pa."
I got up and moved over to a stump quite a ways away so they could
be alone. It was getting to be a beautiful morning. The sun was shining
right through the cracks between the logs of Ramsay's old house. A cou-
ple of chipmunks were chasing each other somewhere in the bush.
Old Hummer had said there was healing here. Old Hummer said
Baby Bridget's friend was strong. I was the friend.
Strong?
What could I do? I knew her arm wouldn't come back. I knew she
would be disappointed. I knew she would get up off her knees after a
while and turn around and her arm would be exactly the same.
Strong?
There was nothing strong I could do. All I could do was sit there and
watch. A big crow called out from the top of one of the knotty pines. I
looked up and spotted him. He called again. How lucky he is, I thought.
Up there, away from everything, fly away whenever he wants.
"I know, old crow," I said up to the crow, "that there'll be no heal-
ing going on here." I must have been pretty exhausted, talking to
crows.
I looked down again and saw Baby Bridget standing up beside Mean
Hughie's coffin. Everything was quite hazy because my eyes were full of
the bright blue sky behind the crow.
She was walking towards me.
I could tell that Mean Hughie was dead.
I was trying to focus my eyes to see if her arm had grown back. I
knew it was a stupid hope to have, but I couldn't help having it. I was
feelng more sorry for her than I ever felt about anything before.
Her arm came into focus.
It was the same as before.
I was trying to think of something smart to say. Something that
would make her feel good. Tell her a Frank story maybe. No. Sing a lit-
tle bit to her maybe. No. Throw a rock at the crow. No.
"He said he was sorry he was so mean to me," she said to me, looking right
at me, her eyes full of water.
"He said he loved me and he was sorry." Her eyes were big with
water, but she looked good. She had a nice look on her. It wasn't a happy
look. But it was a kind of nice look.
Then all of a sudden I knew. I knew what that crazy old Hummer
meant. Healing.
Healing. There was healing. But it wasn't her arm that got the heal-
ing. No. Not the arm.
It was the heart.
The heart got healed.
Baby Bridget's heart!
pages 390-2, The Low Life: 5 Great Tale from Up and Down the River, from "Up to Low"
by Brian Doyle.
When I look at Thanksgiving, I am thankful for this deeply resonant writing.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Sometimes an answer
Startled by the moon
Cowed to the side
Blasting holes seven days wide
Cant elope without my pay
Lattice works to reach the moon
Starts to weave and starts to loom
Two feet up, four feet down
The strings kept swaying, pulling in tide
Moonbeams howl and crow
Wolves shiver muffled voices
Climbing lattice work
Four feet up, two feet down
Reaching the top
Voices call voices pray
One foot per day
A week goes by
Moonbeams tug and bury
Mary
Denis Streeter 11/10/12
Cowed to the side
Blasting holes seven days wide
Cant elope without my pay
Lattice works to reach the moon
Starts to weave and starts to loom
Two feet up, four feet down
The strings kept swaying, pulling in tide
Moonbeams howl and crow
Wolves shiver muffled voices
Climbing lattice work
Four feet up, two feet down
Reaching the top
Voices call voices pray
One foot per day
A week goes by
Moonbeams tug and bury
Mary
Denis Streeter 11/10/12
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Time change
I've been reading Swedish poet Gunnar Ekelof.
The night ate day and the day ate night
Nocturnal screams in dust and ashes
Wax effigies ourselves
Dreams in disguises
As razors slice moonlight
Gathering emotions second by minute
The moon wax lines
How they roll
Catch
How they mend
Resetting sight lines
Gathering emotions second by minute
When time ate day and day ate night
Eight into seven
One hour moved.
Denis Streeter 11/8/12
The night ate day and the day ate night
Nocturnal screams in dust and ashes
Wax effigies ourselves
Dreams in disguises
As razors slice moonlight
Gathering emotions second by minute
The moon wax lines
How they roll
Catch
How they mend
Resetting sight lines
Gathering emotions second by minute
When time ate day and day ate night
Eight into seven
One hour moved.
Denis Streeter 11/8/12
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Backwards
I ate with the snails for fasting begun
Backbone and strallop
Years before the hinter games
Hinter and thinter like some grappling in place
Spears and pillows play hide and go seek
Like the snails before
Backbone and strallop to the core
Dawning that magic before telling tales
And the winterforce of summer turns untoward
Tender morsels from the sun when the back goes out
Wishbone and ashes and strumpetting song
Ears to deer to back to bear
And all the bear deer can eat
Watching the propensities who never know
And the laughing gas porter on the side
Sunk sideways under the admiring mire
Script as scrolls can be but backwards
Caught in the timbrel rain
With the fasteners wet and the sweaters uptight
Laughing came unfringed
As the tender morsels lunged forward
Wishboning ashes and strumpetting song
Watching the propensities who never know
With the fasteners wet and the sweaters uptight
Spears and pillows play hide and go seek
All backbone and no strallop
And I ate with the snails for fasting begun.
Denis Streeter 11/3/12
Backbone and strallop
Years before the hinter games
Hinter and thinter like some grappling in place
Spears and pillows play hide and go seek
Like the snails before
Backbone and strallop to the core
Dawning that magic before telling tales
And the winterforce of summer turns untoward
Tender morsels from the sun when the back goes out
Wishbone and ashes and strumpetting song
Ears to deer to back to bear
And all the bear deer can eat
Watching the propensities who never know
And the laughing gas porter on the side
Sunk sideways under the admiring mire
Script as scrolls can be but backwards
Caught in the timbrel rain
With the fasteners wet and the sweaters uptight
Laughing came unfringed
As the tender morsels lunged forward
Wishboning ashes and strumpetting song
Watching the propensities who never know
With the fasteners wet and the sweaters uptight
Spears and pillows play hide and go seek
All backbone and no strallop
And I ate with the snails for fasting begun.
Denis Streeter 11/3/12
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