Patriotism

Pablo Casals: The love of one's country is a splendid thing. But why should love stop at the border?

In The Present

I can’t claim to be a good judge of my own poetry, at least not in the present and not very often. Since it’s mine, I love almost everything I write when it’s current, but Time is the real judge, even if it’s still just my opinion. If I find a poem that’s many years old, that I can barely remember the process of writing, and that I still like, then THAT’S the sonofabitch that I know was pretty well written and it makes me feel good that no one bothered to kill me before I could write it! (I may not be the Ultimate Egotist, but he/she doesn’t live very far from here!) Since last year, I’ve written more poems in a short span of time than ever in my life—at least a hundred poems so far when most years or even most decades since the ‘70’s, I never produced that many. Sometimes I’ve been so tongue-tied that I only produced 4 poems in a year or 10 poems in a decade. For one decade, at least, I have the excuse that I’d taken up writing short stories instead. At times I realized that there had been whole decades where no one I knew at work or play, except for old friends, even knew that I wrote. I guess I didn’t care if any of them knew. As a perpetual elitist, maybe I thought that they wouldn’t know what to care about if they knew. Though I like many of my new poems very much, it’s hard to know, once again, if they’re really good or if they simply please me in the present. To please myself is probably the only reason I write, so I guess things are working out. p.s. Some people wish some of my poems were more cheerful, and so do I—but it isn’t very often true of me, so I don’t try to write it. I used to have a greater sense of comedy in some of my writing, and I miss that, I admit.

My Old Friends

My old friends, Sometimes I think I don’t know What any of them are for anymore. Does that sound too utilitarian? Whatever it is, I guess They may think the same or worse of me, For the same facts are true Going one way as going the other. What comes and goes doesn’t change much. I sometimes like to think That there’s something real And yet there’s something in the mirror, too, Something that’s distorted, perhaps not really there, But I expect I’m wrong, as I am about so much. I’m just a resentful cur, Who feels no one’s as down as I am— Not as beat down, or as let down, or as down on himself— For now, that’s all the barking at the moon that I can bear. rcs. Current draft: 2/27/2010 Created on 1/28/2010 6:38 PM

Poetry Can Be Used

Poetry can be used To look at the small moments Or the big picture, Whichever you like, whichever applies. One minute I’m up to my eyeballs In the concrete details they say construct reality And the next I can’t keep again above the mist of abstraction That always floats like less than feathers in my mind. rcs. Current draft: 2/26/2010 Created on 2/16/2010 11:44 AM

Any Good

(Bad Dreams)

It doesn’t do me any good to dream of a good game Or to get depressed about it Or to say it aloud or instead be silent Or to portray it in poems laid out like a fan of Canasta cards, All alike on one side, over and over again, While we’re always freezing the pile Until one can meld and go out, then count the cost. I might as well have drowned in drool last night As to get hung-up in this hapless countless dream where I’ve fallen down the stairs running like a dog in his sleep, And into a fan blade in the final moment of the dream That chops me up like lettuce until I wake wetly, Then I meld and ache because I find I can’t go out. rcs. Current draft: 2/25/2010 Created on 2/20/2010 10:51 AM

All Lost Souls

All lost souls show themselves eventually, If not perpetually on display. Whether on stage or in the firmament Many stars excel or show their beauty For a while, but time does not last. Time will exceed their grasp. For the lost, the light fades in and out And keeps the audience constantly guessing— We see the light but know the star may be already dead. For some, the light burns very brightly at the start of life, For others at the end—but always it is quenched, Whether when expected or by early notice. rcs. Current draft: 2/24/2010 Created on 1/18/2010 7:23 PM

Lines by Willie The Shake

Macbeth: To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

In A Vacuum

I guess I’ve lost the depth of contact With most of the people I used to know Who cared to read my poetry, Who had the taste and the propensity To review and critique and recommend, But now I guess there’s not enough proximity. It’s said we see ourselves too much through others’ eyes And I find that no less true with my own writing. It’s hard for me to judge it or care for it If too much of it occurs in a vacuum. Whose fault it is I know—I can only blame myself, And so I squirm. rcs. Current draft: 2/23/2010 Created on 2/17/2010 10:51 AM

Even Poetry

Even poetry isn’t this unpopular, So I guess it’s me. First you’re alone, is the first thing we learn, Then others die and you feel a greater sense of it. Then after all you die and you’re alone again. Like an actuarial clerk, I spend more time Keeping track of life with pencil and ink Than living. rcs. Current draft: 2/22/2010 Created on 2/15/2010 11:48 AM

Typing With Mittens On

Have I mentioned my new "convertible" red mittens? No, they're red on both sides, but there's a "pocket" for the fingers that can be lifted over the fingers or OFF of them when I need to feel things such as keyboards or car keys or sugar-free cookies. My fingers still get somewhat cold, but it's an improvement to the general warmth of my hands. And covering up or removing the finger pockets can be done more quickly than removing the gloves I'm used to using. Even with the pockets removed, the knit extends halfway down the length of each finger, so it's taken a while to get used to the additional resistance that I experience trying to move my fingers to the right keys, but it can be done. I know some of you may be thinking, like my cousin, why don't I just turn on the heat out here in the study and quit being stupid?! Answer: because neither you nor my chummy cousin have offered to pay the subsequent heating bills.

U.S. Congress

I wish all these dumb greedy bastards and smart-ass SOB’s In the U.S. Congress would just wake up dead one morning. After all, what could it hurt? How long could it take to replace them all With someone just as vile—23 minutes?

May Have To End

They may have to end it all By putting me in jail. Or I may have to put an end to them And end up in jail. I don’t have much courage Or I’d be able to make a plan Or make a break for it Or remake myself Or insist on another take— Anyway, just get somewhere I could Buy my way out of here once and for all! I could abide the horror of loneliness If only I could avoid how long it is. I guess that’s the Hell they speak of. It’s failure to start that pins me here as I am, So it would seem a little wild to see myself turned After all this while into some kind of sucker for success. Unlike those Dostoyevsky characters I used to read, I don’t see anyone around I should murder yet Except of course myself And that’s an unpleasant option. rcs. Current draft: 2/18/2010 Created on 1/17/2010 8:50 PM

The Everyone Soliloquy

Everyone I ever loved has drifted away— I can only guess they must have had their reasons. I deserted some, I must admit, but I guess I never felt that they were being left alone. I’ve been wrong about it all before, though— Maybe everyone is alone behind the mask, behind the mesh, And we can only see it from inside, not outside, The cruel flesh and flash of hope. Now I am he whose soliloquy sounds as alone As that of any other tired or timid man Who has dropped by the side of the road And waits for, yet rebuffs, the touch of Any holy man or passerby who nods or speaks. I guess they wait for me as well And have lingered long, just as disappointed With the sounds of one more man speaking to himself, One more man who doesn’t care for holy men or passersby Unless they’ve paid the toll. rcs. Current draft: 2/18/2010 Created on 2/15/2010 11:48 AM

Too Sensitive

Tell the world that I was too sensitive, That’s the only explanation I have, Even though it’s stupid. The problem was never what was too expensive Or too far away or too beautiful for me— It was just as is. Maybe I was undeserving, but that’s not the reason why Nothing could ever go right or come to me anew Or ever stay in my darkroom. It was just bad DNA Or some kind of kinetic or intuitive or intrinsic madness, Not to mention that I just resent being interfered with. rcs. Current draft: 2/17/2010 Created on 2/13/2010 11:51 AM

Being Useful

Young Hollywood men who brag at length About their sex and drug lives Have no excuse for existence And their yammering TV critics even less. They all make a living being useless. I myself expect some useful mobster To show up at my doorstep with a shotgun any moment And humorlessly blow my ass to hell. rcs. Current draft: 2/13/2010 Created on 2/13/2010 11:32 AM

The Unconscious

I carry a cane these days And sometimes observe the expressions of others. I wonder if people and dogs and cats Keep expecting me to use my stick on them. It’s what I think about a lot for my amusement, Not so much to strike them, But sometimes to just tap or wave it Until I have their bloody attention! Still there are some people Who need a serious beating And there are some pets That need to be nudged or whacked. I wasn’t consciously planning, though, To carry out the verdict. rcs. Current draft: 2/16/2010 Created on 2/4/2010 11:58 AM

Struggle Between Hot And Cold

For some reason it’s colder out here In my study than it is outdoors. People who see me walk down the sidewalk From the house to here must think me Greatly overdressed for it IS often warmer outside Than my cold quarters here would ever suggest. As I step over the threshold And shut the door behind me, I think for a second that I feel A small draft of cold air strike me Before I realize that it’s me who’s Brought a small draft of warmth inside And if there’s any struggle, this heat I bear will lose. rcs. Current draft: 2/16/2010 Created on 2/14/2010 3:46 PM

Witness And Judge

There’s a thousand ways to die, they say, And that may be so. There’s only one kind of death when a parent dies, And that is hard-to-bear. We go on with our pursuits and affairs Or let the time play out for life And try not to think of it, But it never really goes away. We avoid such questions as “What would your mother think?” or “What would your father say?” We spend a lot of time silently hoping That no one’s watching today. They aren’t apparent So we can’t see how they take it When we start to wheedle or whine or lie and cheat And that’s somehow worse than when They could still get in our face for it! They’re the kind of ghosts we dread, Worse by each individual’s standard than if Frankenstein, Hitler, and a lady with a beard All showed up at your birthday party With pamphlets and sticky kisses, Then very disgustingly licked All the dessert forks and the cake knife, too! It’s bad enough to be you or me, however the wind blows, Without having a constant witness and judge in our head! “Oh, quit that! Get that finger out of your nose! What would your Daddy have said?” rcs. Current draft: 2/15/2010 Created on 2/10/2010 12:01 PM

To My Cousin, Distant And Near

I wish I could be a better friend to you Or be more help with things, Instead of this lump of clay That knows how to talk. As we get older, I realize, Talk gets even cheaper Because the old stuff’s been proven So often to be so worthless. But I’m not gonna kiss you, So that’s that! rcs. Current draft: 2/15/2010 Created on 2/15/2010 11:48 AM

Is It Safe?

You ask me if your emails And other info left on the Internet are safe, And I don’t know the answer. To the best of my knowledge, No one is ever safe. Are we in jeopardy? Who can say? We can but wait. In the meantime, if I were you, I wouldn’t even cross the street Or ride the express to Heaven’s Gate. rcs. Current draft: 2/14/2010 Created on 1/19/2010 12:41 PM

Lucille Clifton

Did you ever hear the name Lucille Clifton? She died yesterday before I’d ever heard of her. I surfed somewhere on the Internet Where they quoted one of her poems in full. Yes, I liked it, and so I read a second one— And now I regret never knowing her name, Never knowing Her at all. She was a black woman eleven years older than I am And probably had little in common with me Except poetry, which is to say, At least a portion of Everything! I think the world is poorer now, though I don’t know any way to inform them Except by writing this, even when I’m unsure How anyone will ever know who I am! Maybe in an ideal world One poet will lead to another, Like dominoes that fall. rcs. Current draft: 2/14/2010 Created on 2/14/2010 4:27 PM

Another Other Poet's Poem

won’t you celebrate with me by Lucille Clifton won’t you celebrate with me what i have shaped into a kind of life? i had no model. born in babylon both nonwhite and woman what did i see to be except myself? i made it up here on this bridge between starshine and clay my one hand holding tight my other hand; come celebrate with me that everyday something has tried to kill me and has failed.

Jackass (On Valentine's Day)

I was just thinking that I'd ask you If you have any clones of yourself You could spare, maybe one Who could avoid the detrimental effect Of being the object of my desire On Valentine's Day. I just want one who could come and entertain me! However, as most men discover most of the time, A woman is seldom the kind we want her to be And probably neither are clones! In short, if I'm a jackass with a real woman, How could I improve the outcome with a specious one? rcs. Current draft: 2/14/2010 Created on 1/20/2010 10:43 AM

Silver Spoon

A silver spoon gives satisfaction, they say, But so does a wooden one, in a pinch— It’ll keep you from starving just as well. Meanwhile, more misery is shown On the TV news than you can reasonably process And you’re tempted to not care or maybe not Even notice the wretched children of the earth And their disasters. It seems as though there are some Whom shaking earth and bad stars from afar may strike Repeatedly, without even pausing to aim. “Nothing’s fair!” the heavens submit Before anyone can even dial 9-1-1. All this while God himself subsides And Madonna thrills the world Because she sleeps with younger men And we worry ourselves sick that some other celebrity Has hair that may be falling out fast beneath his faux fur hat. rcs. Current draft: 2/13/2010 Created on 2/12/2010 12:56 PM

Portrait Of A Painter

I cannot say how much I admire How much you attempt And how much you accomplish As if you had plenty of time to spare. If I had the time myself, I think I’d rush by Just to fall in love with you For a moment or an eon, But as it is, I barely have time To say that I’d like to! (How fine it’d be, though, to be in love With a lady of such finesse, Who paints so much more Than her own eyes and lips!) rcs. Current draft: 2/12/2010 Created on 2/9/2010 4:01 PM

Poison

I'm not a curmudgeon--just ill at ease and therefore vindictive and vicious. Plow me back into the soil and I'll poison the planet. That's how I see it, anyway.

Lady Severe

The mature woman pictured on the Internet Was probably only a little older than me, Yet I realized I’d been thinking of her To myself as “the old doll on that blog” And thought I should take a second look. She does look a little severe, I thought, But she’s still pretty foxy, whatever her age, And it wouldn’t be much to confess that for a while I dreamed about a roll in the hay with her or Even just an exploratory kiss Between Mars and Venus, so far apart, Or between this circus clown and Her Majesty! Of course, I’m about as likely to meet a Queen As some mythic movie star like Marilyn Monroe Or some historic heroine like Joan of Arc. I can’t help but wonder if she’d be very angry If I very politely lifted the hem of her dress?! Bless her, she looks like She hasn’t been kissed for way too long. Maybe she’d like it, despite her words and glances, Even if it mussed her hair or wrinkled that dress. I could chance it. (Take a cha cha cha chance!) Her hard earned wrinkles Would not dissuade me, I’d give it a try even if I had to climb over a fence! But of course there’s my own wrinkles, and I’m no prince. I might fail to impress her at all— She might rather kiss a snail. Sometimes these things can sneak up behind you Or you look up and she’s such a Beauty Right there in front of you! You wish suddenly That you were a handsomer and a richer man And that your quiet charms were evident Instead of all your faults! With all her own life and death problems to distract her, She probably wouldn’t be ready for my sudden clumsy onset Or my neuroses trying to climb on top of her. My apologies, dear Lady Severe, For being so rude—but fuck it, I don’t care. I’ll just remain very quiet over here, Though I’m tired of solitude, And you can keep your head buried in that book And I’ll dream deep about parting your legs And we won’t have to face anyone or discuss any look! Still I wish you would talk to me, Talk to me, talk! Just because I was born like this, With ennui and awkward conversations already in my head, Doesn’t mean I like the stupid shit I talk about! rcs. Current draft: 2/11/2010 Created on 1/18/2010 11:41 AM

The Air I Breathe

Maybe I’m wrong and it’s my solitude That I need most of all. It has long been the air I breathe And it might not gladly suffer a sea change. So, should lady luck in a watery manger Slip into a mermaid suit with an aqualung And manage to please me with her underwater dance In spite of all the danger, There is no telling How much or little influence Might come to fruition between us And spoil the front of my pants! rcs. Current draft: 2/11/2010 Created on 2/6/2010 7:36 PM

Too Much In My Head

I suppose I live too much in my head And not enough where people can see I’m making a mess, But there’s nothing to do and nothing to say That would make it turn out all right. It would still just be fucked up. If you worked in Washington D.C., You could make a bill out of it, But it’s improbable you could make a poem about it. rcs. Current draft: 2/10/2010 Created on 2/8/2010 2:13 PM

I Have Turned Loose

I have turned loose of everything, I sometimes think, And it’s close to being true. Whatever remains isn’t much, Doesn’t justify my attitude, Won’t rectify my course And in hard times won’t even help me Rationalize my way out of a paper bag! I’m trapped and haven’t hung on to much Beyond the pettiness of the physical world. Not much of that, either, but Any character or any morality or any well-being, That’s certainly all gone to hell, Or quite diminished, and that’s as good as gone. Gonna buy a new dump-truck, Gonna Make a new plan, Learn to spell my name right, Empty my trousers of sand. Whatever else there is, I misspent it or I abused it Or maybe I simply misspelled it. I outlasted some parts of myself in an ill wind That blew no one any good, yet There is no merit or gain in any of that! I’ve reached an age where near companions Say, “You’ve made it this far, so why worry?” I don’t know why and I don’t know why not, either. I wish I could give it all up, Just fling aside my attachment to it Like it was a soiled old work-sock, But I can never pitch it far enough! It lingers still! Gonna buy a new dump-truck, Gonna Make a new plan, Learn to spell debt and debtor right, Empty my bedpan of sand. rcs. Current draft: 2/8/2010 Created on 1/15/2010 5:00 PM

I Can’t Say

I can’t say I write the kind of poetry That I’d like to be known for, But it’s all such poems as I might read And might enjoy if they were someone else’s And no one was looking over my shoulder. rcs. Current draft: 2/9/2010 Created on 2/1/2010 3:34 PM

Past Readers, Present Poems

I wonder where all my past readers have gone? I don't check my Site Meters very scrupulously or spend much time at decoding them, but the numbers are worse than they used to be. Also, when I was popular (or just stumbled across with frequency), I used to have more comments from strangers as well as more comments from steady readers, both of which indicated that some visitors did more than glance at the posts with glazed eyes. I have to confess that I liked that! Things have changed. Gossip says that Twitter and Facebook and such have drained away readers from the blogs, and that may be true. I think my glamor and appeal have simply evaporated, leaving me as some kind of unattractive canker sore on the buttocks of the universe! Even so, it's all good, for it's left me with more time for writing poetry, a craft that will, equally with blogs, NOT earn me a living, get me laid, or pay for my front-row ticket in heaven, but it will please me on occasion to have constructed or created a few more things that are "new under the sun"! If you also write and would care to swap critiques, I'm not sure that it would be "great", but I am a little interested. The worse thing I will say to you is that I may not have anything to say at all, but you could try. If you'd like to tell me what you like most or dislike most in one or more of my recent poems, I would be interested to hear it. My ego is a pretty large one, so you probably won't kill me. I'll just get petulant, at worst. I am tired of writing so much in a vacuum, though. And if you'd like to risk it, I'll see if I can say something constructive about your writing.

Look Straight

What good does it do to be this way When we know how little good it has ever done, Whether on graveled streets or paved, Whether on the way out the back door running from the cops Or the weary way back in through the front door from coffee stops. Everybody kick-start, try to look smart, look straight, Everybody toke right, ride steady, break apart smooth, And try not to get caught or get too greasy while we wait, For the road to your execution and mine, says the gypsy teller, Is straight ahead—it’s “already grimly near and grimy”, she laughs. rcs. Current draft: 2/8/2010 Created on 2/5/2010 7:17 PM

Pejorative Words

I feel so tired, I feel like I’m struggling with the whole world. I probably am. I have always been uncooperative, Single-minded, stubborn, even relentless. I don’t suppose that there are many “nice” words for it— They are probably all pejorative and unforgiving, But still I like the things I think! I always have. But I don’t like feeling tired without perspiring And I don’t feel like I can keep on slogging. rcs. Current draft: 2/08/2010 Created on 1/21/2010 2:31 PM

What Kind Of Gun

I don’t know what kind of gun Or guilt you’d bring to bear If you came here for a long-delayed revenge or If instead you departed where you were among the hounds For your own impromptu comfort, But I can’t go around being worried about it, About whether you hit or whether you miss. For all I know, such an endeavor Might be doing me a favor If you just sweetly kiss my ass goodbye And blow my brains out in a hurry. rcs. Created on 2/3/2010 1:18 PM

Astrological Ann

Ann was both mystical and star struck, But she studied at a physical science on the side To keep her feet firm on the ground While she searched the scape of our eyes And the scope of the solicitous skies For ever-brighter stars!

Remembering

I can’t get my hat on right in a hurry (Not one of the six or seven that I own) Or button my shirt up straight without delay Or remember when my battery was charged Or when I changed my pants Or which pocket my keys are in Or if the yardman comes on this or the next Thursday Or even if this is Friday when the garbage truck comes! I guess it’s possible I may have ALL of them right, But I’d rather remember!

Guilt

Raskolnikov sits on the toilet and thinks, “Nobody sees me here. But if I was the Invisible man full time, would I then lose all restraint?” Despite his stink, he still smells paint—it simply will not fade! “If I could disappear, though, none of that would matter!” But his chance of being fully invisible, He found, was slim or next to none. Everywhere he went, he saw, they’d see him or smell him. Sometimes they seemed to sense him When he wasn’t even there! Raskolnikov takes to his bed in a sweat, Then wakes up with a start and far too loudly mutters, “Does it matter, does it matter— Whether I’m as guilty as I feel Or as guilty as I think?” rcs. 3rd draft: 08/14/03 ©2000 Ronald C. Southern