Thank you so much, Deborah Carr and the WFNB, for inviting me to write about the KIRA Creative Experience. I appreciate your kindness and interest. Here, for my regular blog followers, is the link to the appropriate page.
Creativity
Photos
Photos
After eight years of retirement
I still have most of my books.
I keep them in the basement,
where no lights shine on the shelves.
Every day, when I come down to read,
I find more books than the day before.
I think they copulate in the dark.
At night, when I turn the lights off,
I can hear them all chattering,
and clattering away. At first, I thought
they were faking it, like human beings.
Now I am not so sure. What are they doing
as they lie there beneath their covers?
Books, a generic term:
I fear the dictionaries are worst,
lining things up in alphabetical order.
Then I wonder about the mysteries,
the philosophies, the religious tracts
that are hell-bent on controlling others,
but are notorious for not controlling themselves.
Whatever are they up to, I wonder,
as they rustle their pages and mutter
to each other on their shelves.
I have a collection of art books
with pictures of unclothed statues ,
not to mention real, naked people.
I am afraid to look at the photos.
Mont Blanc
Mont Blanc
(for Chuck Bowie)
“But what is that stick-like thing
between notebooks and mouse?”
“That stick-thing by my mouse,
as you so elegantly phrase it,
is my Mont Blanc fountain pen.
It’s also a metaphor app.
You stick the blunt end in your ear
to wind up your brain,
then you carefully clean
the tip on a piece of paper.
If it leaves suitable marks,
you read them like Runes
and use them to create metaphors.
You can also use it to conduct music
or to take a thin, blue line for a walk.
It’s very useful for poets who don’t like
staring at computer screens, and with one
they rarely suffer from writer’s block.”
Heart
Heart
(sonnet for Hanna and Cherry)
club-foot the pigeon feet
burned off by frost and lime
cracked this egg shell in its cup
the world’s heart overflowing
this silver spoon carved from milk
-tops pecked by morning birds
who placed it in my mouth
song of the blackbird
sung from the corrugated iron roof
where he whistles his virtuosity
playing cards placed face down
who holds the jolly joker
with his floppy cap and jingling bells
who holds the red ace key to my heart
Words
Words
Waxing gibbous:
gibberish to most, or jabberwocky.
How now the moonraker
dragging the village pond for gold,
or the witch on her ducking-stool
accepted by God if she drowns,
but burned alive if she survives
and the Omnipotent rejects her?
Words rise and fall like trout to flies.
In words, out words, taboo words,
code words, the ebb and flow words
that see conversational tides
rising and falling, waning gibbous
beneath a failing lexicon, sacrificed
at the altar of barbaric speech to appease
the new gods and falsify the old:
nuance, shades of meaning, language,
meta-language, para-language,
raised, a supercilious eyebrow,
that lip curled in the snort of a sneer.
Dreams
Dreams
Sometimes, when we dream
there is neither time nor space:
all things are ever before us.
That child’s swing in the orchard
suspended from the apple tree,
primroses and bluebells
at the garden’s edge, delicate
their dance in morning’s light.
That old woman in the kitchen,
humming her morning hymn
as she bakes the breakfast bread.
That old man in the evening,
scything weed and dry grass.
Time’s fragility dwells ever
in our bones, not our minds.
Though dreams fade fast
with morning’s light, our day-
dreams will rule the day,
and we can still dream
those other dreams, at night.
Roger
Roger
Writing in the Red Room at KIRA
I sit at my desk in the Red Room
overlooking Passamaquoddy Bay.
Minister’s Island peeps through
its bandage of low, thin mist.
Sunshine illuminates me
as, pen in hand, I write in my book.
Timeless, that photo, these words.
I will sit forever by that window,
deep in thought, writing in sunshine.
Losing Weight
Losing Weight
First, you must study Nature.
It will make you aware that trees
lose weight by shedding in the fall
their useless leaves. Do they ever
grieve you wonder, when winter
winds strip twig and branch?
That dog who owns your heart,
he sheds his coat and shakes
away both water and fleas.
Dogs can lose weight
whenever they please.
Don’t bother to diet.
Step fully clothed
on the bathroom scales
and weight yourself.
Step off, and shed your clothes,
leaves, twigs, branch, and fleas.
Then naked to the world
step on the scales and weigh again.
I bet you’ve lose a pound or two.
Believe me … and try it.
Twits or Tweets
Twits or Tweets
(A Roger’s Rant)
Poor poets of today
sweet birds reduced
one hundred and forty letters
the song you tweet
oh twitter away your tune
your readers will not swoon
over anything longer
than the shortest rune
and if go on you must
the tv commercial calls
thirty seconds to adjust
words for everyone’s lust
sound bytes bark louder
than sonnets now beware
the dog byte of radio
and tv making a mockery
of all you once held good
no film rights for a sonnet
no actors no models
on the cat walk no talk
of moneyed contracts
honeyed words that brook
no contacts with either
upper or lower class
none of whom today
would stoop to make a pass
at passing poets
or offer to kiss their arse
Coffee House
I have not been very active on the reading scene for some time now, so I welcome this chance to appear in public behind a microphone and with a book in my hand.
My thanks to Jane Tims for organizing this reading and creating the poster.
If anyone is in the area, please drop in and visit. I’ll be on my best behavior.
I promise.
rogermoorepoet 