Posts for June 25, 2024 (page 10)

Usually it comes all at once in a rush,
I struggle to keep up at the keyboard.
Never arriving perfect,
I’ll have to fiddle with a line
here or there or leave it for a time
and wait for the sublime image
to reveal itself.

There are days I forget poems come
from outside me,
and I’ll try to wring one
from the damp rag of my brain.

But these don’t have
the resonance of a bird cry
in forest, nor the density
of a cow in the field.

They are strained,
like dock rope in a hurricane,
the moving man’s muscles
on piano day.

(This poem was made by rearranging text from Family Receipts: the Household Guide or Domestic Cyclopedia, 1915 edition.)

A lady should not compromise her dignity.
Don’t wear evening dress in daytime. 
A lady should gracefully raise her dress above the ankle with one hand.
To raise the dress with both hands is vulgar.
A lady does not seek attention from a gentleman.
Do not use paints or pastes for adorning the face.
A lady should avoid boisterous laughter, undue liveliness in public.
Never yawn or sigh aloud in company.
A lady never allows petty cares to plow lines across her face.
Do not do rough work while wearing a white apron.
A lady should not stand with her hands behind her.
Do not lean to one side in walking. It is not only ungraceful, but it is deforming.
A lady meeting a gentleman will make a medium bow – neither too decided nor too stiff.
Do not go along reading a book or newspaper.
A lady should be frank and cordial towards lady friends, never gushing.
Do not permit yourself to be absent-minded.
A lady does not form acquaintances on the street.
Don’t whistle in public places, nor inside of houses either.
A lady should have a chaperone, a person of mature years, never a giddy girl.
Retain your temper under all circumstances.

Fists beat upon window panes.
The mud is very deep.
If you have anything to say to a lady, proceed singly.
You can take leave at the end of the street.

Puzzle pieces moved by the wind
Knowing if I wait long enough
The picture will reveal itself

holds animated discussions
in the muggy Roman air.
Stalled in the marine layer,
their flights delayed,
they consider a swoop
for espresso,
or the fat fallen oranges
in our wet courtyard.
Their honk-chatter
wakes me from a dream
of home, far-off
memories, strange anger
leaking from bird-quarrel
into stories of sibling
struggles, mom’s
phobias, self-parts
dredged up
and flung
into the Roman
dawn.    

he works nights  arriving with a rumble as the fairy lights strung in my paned sanctuary click on
I’ve taken the time to get to know him  beyond this windowed scrim

it’s a medianed street  traffic 
cartpushers  strollers  rough sleepers  crossing is often not sought
then that one day 
a whim  a light spirit  a boldness be damned 
I stepped
to the middle  then more  then the final bit  stood   
upon his driveway  offering my hello of tart berries
he didn’t say much  I’ve learned this is character not disregard  

he too feels the weight of rubber on road   
sometimes disturbingly discordant to the history he  like me  has spent
that distance to curbs   seems often insurmountable
I’ve found though we share the holding of space for what can come
it’s a recipe
just enough hope 
a smidge of care 
two parts generosity 
a large scoop of humanity
and a whole heap of courage

It would only take

your thoughtful quiet locked within
                six matryoshka dolls,
your curiosity creeps sweetly out  
                with a speech unable of
your surface like stone blown smooth
                against Siberian shores,
your warm hunger kept by waiting
                for table to be set.

my son drew eyeballs in every corner
                and wall of his bedroom
at the age of three,
                and we laughed asking why?

my beautiful son said he was scared
                at night and they helped him
fall asleep so was it
                all right? sure it was all right.

one august ninth I was asked to leave,
                thinking it would be all right.
all right, and we didn’t hug and kiss
                until next winter, the first shell

had fallen tight, I saw it in his painted eyes—

Shutter cocked, hidden in Forest depths