The New Formalist

Five Poems

Damian Balassone — Tue, 01 May 2012 04:01:19 +0000

The Sleeper

The kids are rolling on the grass,

the sun is sinking low,

but look! a man is sound asleep

beside a lurking crow.

His white-grey hair conceals his eyes,

but not his wrinkled face,

slouched upon an old park chair,

detached from time and space.

His slumber is his sanctuary;

he is not made for this world

of lingering from nine to five,

collecting earthly pearls.

It’s those who can’t enjoy their sleep

who lives are plagued by strife,

if you don’t enjoy your sleep

you won’t enjoy your life.

Dream on sleeper, you will fly

to mountains, rivers, canyons,

who gives a stuff what people think:

if you can’t be there, imagine.

The Young Man at the Bus Stop

The young man found the crowded stop

in flannelette and mustard cap,

the bus would take him to the crop

where he would meet the working chaps.

Just yesterday he finished school,

the day before he felt the cane,

his father labelled him the fool

and said that he deserved the pain.

But school was now a distant star

and Rosa’s face, a teary blur,

and loneliness became his scar

whenever he remembered her.

And still the bus stop crowded more,

the expectation filled the air,

the rumbling sound, the flapping door,

the coldness of the driver’s stare.

The young man stomped his cigarette

and made his way towards the queue,

a widow brushed his flannelette

and scampered for her window view.

And on the bus he saw a seat

beside a slick-haired businessman,

who spread his arms and stretched his feet,

deterred, the youngster chose to stand.

The morning sun was on the rise,

it peeked above the distant hills,

the driver shut his weary eyes,

awaiting for the bus to fill.

And when it filled, the engine roared—

the bus let out a grieving cry;

the young man dreamt of days before,

and here he knew his youth had died.

But school was now a distant star,

and Rosa’s face, a teary blur,

and loneliness became his scar

whenever he remembered her.

Dandaloo

From the humble Murrumbeena,

past the ever-flowing Yarra,

through parades of autumn Moomba,

he aspired to golden sands.

Rode the waves of Gunnamatta,

dreamt of golden Coolangatta,

wooed the girls of Wangaratta,

in this Anglo-Saxon land.

Left his darling in Yallambie,

watched the sunset at Kilcunda,

netted prawns in Mallacoota,

travelled west towards alpines.

Pinched tobacco in Porepunkah,

fought the flames in Yackandandah,

caught the view from Kosciusko,

on his way to Jindabyne.

Cruised the curling Murrumbidgee,

stoned the crows of Wagga Wagga,

heard the mocking kookaburra––

which he did not understand.

Passed the swamps of Cootamundra,

climbed the mountains of Katoomba,

paced the fields of Goondiwindi,

in this Anglo-Saxon land.

Saw the lofty peaks, Kuranda,

swooping currawongs of Daintree,

blushed at stories of the yowie,

hitched a ride to Kakadu.

Stood in wonder by Nourlangie,

fished for giant Barramundi,

crossed the gorges and the deserts

till he came to Ningaloo.

Fled the ghost towns of Kalgoorlie,

trespassed through the Maralinga,

took a breather in Barossa,

and a well-earned sip of wine.

Stomped the grapes of Coonawarra,

chased a pigskin in Dimboola,

gathered apples in Mildura––

his life a pantomime.

Swam the waters of Echuca,

paddled-steamed to Yarrawonga,

stretched the boundaries of Wodonga,

here the boy became a man.

Dreamt of darling in Yallambie,

headed home to Murrumbeena,

past the ever-flowing Yarra

in this Anglo-Saxon land.

Byron Loved the Sea

Wordsworth loved his twilight lakes,

Yeats the wild duck and the drake,

Lawrence glorified the snake,

Churchill loved his V;

Keats composed seraphic odes,

Frost preferred untrodden roads,

Larkin spoke of awful toads,

but Byron loved the sea.

To some, Rimbaud provides the thrill,

or Baudelaire at vaudeville,

or Blake and his Satanic mills,

or Dylan’s haunted trees;

or Teddy Hughes’ creepy crows,

or Sylvia’s cataclysmic woes,

or Robert Burns’s red, red rose,

but I like Byron’s sea.

Tennyson penned dedications,

Pope perfected rhymed quotations,

Shelley praised the cloud’s formation,

Poe loved Annie Lee;

Whitman loved his leaves and moss,

Coleridge the albatross,

Ezra couldn’t give a toss,

but Byron loved the sea.

≈

Have you heard him praise the sea?

the image of eternity,

the life-force in the soothing breeze,

oh how Byron loved the sea!

And how that lame boy loved to dwell

where pounding white-foam breakers swelled,

and the story he most loved to tell

was how he swum the Dardanelles.

Song of a Deaf Poet

When you see me all alone,

I hope you understand

that though my ears don’t hear a thing

the spirit rules the man,

and the harp of David dwells in me,

his strum is my command,

though ostracised from crowded rooms,

I dance on desert sands.

The Crowning of the Blessed Virgin with a Wreath

Marcy Jarvis — Sun, 01 Apr 2012 16:54:00 +0000

Mother Mary greets us on May Morning.

Mourning not, she smiles to see us come.

Coming with a basket of blue glory,

Glory unto her; May is her month.

He Answered Me

Marcy Jarvis — Thu, 01 Mar 2012 18:40:30 +0000

He answered me! My grain ran straight away

through me into my lower half; I felt

my hips receive his message and my back

relax into my seat as if a belt

were holding all this sifted sand aloft

inside my breast, inside my brain till this:

He answered me and turned me upside down

and left my top a vacant hourglass.

Seven Poems

Juleigh Howard-Hobson — Thu, 01 Mar 2012 17:58:47 +0000

Coming Upon A Stone Circle at Sunset

Old Birch trees, whose white branches weave and sift

The brilliant evening twilight, huddle deep

Around these circled stones. The old grove shifts

As leaves and chilly breezes slightly lift

And rustle. But these grey stones silent keep

Their secrets: no wind reveals, no evening shade distills

Why they stand, encircling each other, in these hills.

With ancient reasons more astute than ours

These stones were brought here, then precisely set.

Each in its place. Time moves, things change, rains pour

Suns rise and set, winter storms blow and roar,

These, encircled, change not. Only men forget.

And now we watch as deepened shadows show

How much we’ve lost of what our fathers’ fathers know.

First published in The Voice (Asatru Folk Assembly)

Ruined Cemetery

Violets no longer grow in the shaded places

Here and there among the thick Victorian stones

And the more recently enterred. There are no traces

That there ever were violets there. And these old bones

Won't tell you much, even if you should ask them to,

They can't. Their mouths were closed too many years ago,

They slumber now beneath some thorny weeds and a few

Dried out bits of yellow grass. Nothing much can grow

In here now; they do not water, nor do they prune.

It's all a tangled mess of burr covered stems— long

Busy with the task of wearing down the graves. Soon

There will be nothing here to see but them. It's wrong

Perhaps, of me to care so much, my bones don't lay

Beneath rough weeds. But, part of me still knows: they may.

First published in Lucid Rhythms

I'll Keep My Ghosts

I'll keep my ghosts. Each morning down we go

Through the hallway, where they begin to show

As grey reflections of themselves in frames

That do not answer when I call their names

But swirl and curve around me, to and fro.

Sometimes, in this house that they used to know

So well, their unseen numbers swell and grow

Until I am overwhelmed. All the same,

I'll keep my ghosts–

By choice–for what else would I have? Hollow

Spaces between walls?Albums? And sorrow

That has no feeling to it left? Who blames

Me for my preference? I make no claims

That they bring only joy, but even so

I'll keep my ghosts.

Won 2010 Poetry Society of New Hampshire Spring Contest

First published in The Poet’s Touchstone

Winter Clouds: Liverpool

Behind the jagged winter trees, the clouds–

Grey clad and thickly edgeless–merge and form

A vast dim dome with no relief at all;

Just sky gone ashy white and blank. A shroud

If you will, a winding sheet that holds storm

And keeps back the light until cold drops fall

Beneath and coat the branches as they fall

With ice that does not sparkle under clouds

That allow no light, allow no shine. Storm

And wind and cold may descend –any form

Of dark and dismalness within this shroud

May come, but nothing shiny…light….at all

Lies here these days. None may be seen at all

Of brightened mornings or afternoons that fall

Into brightened twilights. For this dull shroud,

This thick mantle of unremitting clouds,

Shuts away the world from every thing: form,

Beauty, light, all is gone from here. High storm

And denser gloom, then another high storm

That brings more gloom, have filled the season. All

The sky is filled with them; their lack of form

Creates a backdrop to grey days that fall

With no substance to them beneath the clouds

That cover everything. The swollen shroud

That smothers the light, the smothering shroud

That both comes after and foretells of storm,

Looms and glooms above us through these days. Clouds

Touching clouds, stretched out across the sky, all

Thickly spread and set with dull rains that fall

Without relief and within a formless form—

Even harder rains cannot break this form

Of ill-formed grey blankness, seamless grey shroud.

Rains fall, but nothing changes as they fall

Rains storm, but nothing alters as they storm.

The clouds remain, endlessly, after all.

Clouds upon clouds remaining as if clouds

Were one form of endless form. Hail, snow, storm,

Wind: nothing shifts the shroud that covers all

As cold dim days fall …beneath this dome of clouds.

First published in Liverpool800

Autumn Craft

The jars of jam are lined up on the shelves.

The grain is ground. The cheeses stored away,

Waiting for the winter. Each one of ourselves,

Weaving out this seasonal interplay,

Casts her own spell, designed so that the whole

Holds steady, and completed, right on time.

We watch the sky for clouds, our ribboned pole

For winds, our pond for ice. The pantomime

Of squirrels clutching nuts and climbing trees

Reminds us of ourselves, we laugh and then

We work some more: we pickle, and we freeze

What we don't can or hang to dry. The men

Coming in, stamping from the snowy woods,

Sense that everything is laid by, snug and good.

First published in 14by14

The Last Werewolf

Who would have thought a broken branch could tell

So much to anyone? They tracked you down

Through these woods, picking up your scent, (the smell

Of sauerkraut mixed with an earthy brown

Fug of the land), and watching for some signs

That would lead them to you. You were alert,

You fled quickly, away from paths, through pines,

Ash, oaks… You should have made it, too, expert

In this place that you were, dodging them in

Rivers and through brush. Their lack of knowing

The ins and outs of these woods must have been

An added gift to help with your going;

They lost your trail so many times. Their hounds –

Heads down, circling themselves — found no one,

Their guns flushed out only squirrels and round

Small hares that fled in panic. Still their sons

Dashed out ahead and looked for signs of you.

There shouldn't have been any there…but then:

They came across that broken branch. A few

Seconds is all it took to call the men.

Guns were cocked. Dogs were set. And you were through.

Forthcoming in The Cycle of Nine (RavensHalla Arts, Fall 2012)

The Luck of the English

In th’olde dayes of King Arthour,

Of which that Britons speken greet honour,

Al was this land fulfild of faierie.

The elf-queene, with hirjolycompaignie,

Dauncedfulofte in many a grenemede,

—Chaucer

Know this: you have never been here alone.

We are always here as well. Beneath, be-

Hind, beyond…. because every root, and stone

Can be a door. Hidden, but close, are we.

Dwellers of wind, of stems, of underground–

Inside, under, over and among, all

Along and astride. We dwell. We surround.

We mingle. Part and apart from you. Wall,

Door, gate, lock, makes no difference. We are

And are not the same stuff as you, we move

As thoughts move: in and out, here and there.

Some sense us, but no one will ever prove

Us. All you can do is know that you know:

We live with you, above, beside, below.

First published in Soundzine

Karen Kelsay’s “Lavender Song”, Fortunate Childe Publications, 2011

Leo Yankevich — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 14:17:24 +0000

Oh, to live in a world where nasty modernism never took place: where rivers never flowed with dark undercurrents, where dragonflies never alighted flowering manzanitas, and where a bloody axe in the attic never found its way into a poem. Such is the world we find in Lavender Song, the latest collection of verses by the California poet Karen Kelsay:

Among the Boughs

Tonight, the slow release of summer rain

sweeps through my pear tree. Gentle is the sound,

the metronomic lullaby that rolls

across each limb and patters on the ground.

Outside my room, traversing streamlets run

along the open pane—I try to count them all.

And leaves are soaked a darker green, while buds

appear to peek between the lattice wall.

The sent of blossoms filters through my screen.

I lie awake, yet, caught up in the romance

among the boughs, where whispers hum to me,

and all my evening thoughts have learned to dance.

Of course, this is a blue-haired projection, a neo-victorian poetry that prefers the well-kept garden to the overgrown forest, Eden to the fallen world, harmony to cacophony.

Kelsey writes traditional verses that hearken back to the great poems of the late 19th century when iambic pentameter was the major mode of poetic expression. Although she often uses enjambments, rarely does she introduce substitutions into her verses. She prefers a pentameter line that is easily recognizable as such. Rarely, too, does she abandon the metronome by introducing variation in the stresses of her feet.

The poems in Lavender Song are like sturdy barquentines ready to set sail over the horizon towards the 22nd century.

Four Poems

Ann Eichler Kolakowski — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 05:01:54 +0000

On the Final Day of Winter

The Trailside Anvil Chorus joins in song,

each member barely bigger than my thumb.

Their pleading voices, frozen for so long,

now rise above the humus. Not the thrum

one might expect, this lusty serenade’s

like frenzied jingle bells. Who will succumb

to such a ploy? Where are the gypsy maids?

Il Trovatore on a hidden stage,

performed in sun-warmed mud and new-sprung shade

would doubtless please the operatic sage

who penned it. Verdi, after all, means green.

Sing on! Desire will reap a handsome wage:

The tenor soon shall have his froggy queen.

Charm Bracelet

These fragile links once spanned a wrist

much smaller than my own.

Ten charms distill her days in miniature:

long marriage, family, a faith secure.

All she had loved and known

engraved and captured with a twist.

I slip it on and snap the clasp,

then finger all the charms.

How often had I wished it could be mine?

This symbol of life’s circular design

is all that links our arms:

her loss I’ve just begun to grasp.

Greatness Never Goes Out of Style

—Cadillac advertising slogan, 1965

The sun wakes up on Cadillac,

the highest point on the East Coast.

Its endless granite eyes cast back

the seaspray with a flinty flash.

Like ants, the tourists thread its trail

to find a peace they cannot name.

The mountain bears a Frenchman’s name–

Antoine Laumet de Cadillac.

His life was full of trial and trails

that led to Michigan, the coast

of Loosiana, too. News flash:

he founded Detroit, and was paid back

when GM’s auto execs reached back

in time and stole his fabled name.

The car for those with cash to flash

was henceforth known as Cadillac:

status symbol from coast to coast.

The King’s was pink; it left a trail

of squealing tires behind, a trail

of screaming girls: “Elvis, Come back!”

The King just wished that he could coast

through life in shades and change his name.

He gave his mom the Cadillac.

Soon he left in a drug-hazed flash.

A man named Stanley had a flash

of inspiration: build a trail

on 66. The Cadillac

Ranch, each buried car a throwback

to honor Caddie’s golden name.

The tourists come from coast to coast

to Texas, where they gawk and coast,

then stop amid the frozen flash

in time. They pose and spray their names

on rusted hulks that form the trail

of roadside oddities. Then, back

to work, the ghosts of Cadillac

all coast along their daily trail

and flash in sunlight, forth and back.

The name endures all: Cadillac.

Lucky

—Walter Reed Army Medical Center

December eighth, two thousand seven:

Malone House glows with artificial cheer,

the way one would expect at an almost hotel

that serves the almost well.

Here, where wounded troops deploy to learn

again Activities of Daily Living,

my Girl Scout troop constructs a lobby fortress

from Samoas and Thin Mints

as other groups unload plush bears and racks

of puffy coats that suffocate in plastic.

Lucky, says my daughter.

The guests begin to gather, some with shiny

body parts – a hook-for-hand, one leg

that’s pieced and propped by steely scaffolding.

And then a family, the wife

(she can’t be more than twenty) pushing the chair.

Impossible to look away as the toddler

climbs upon the lap

no longer there: the khaki legs cut off

below the crotch and crisply folded shut,

just like a sack that holds a young boy’s lunch.

—2nd Place, 2011 Baltimore City Paper Poetry Contest

Four Poems

Aleksey Porvin — Sat, 01 Oct 2011 05:55:45 +0000

***

It seems so far from whence it came, its two

inscriptions barely made out by the eye

at night—a vague sign on an avenue,

hanging above the heads of passersby.

Yet still it sails towards my window pane,

brushing snow for luck, a letter sent,

though, without any memory retained

of what it does or doesn't represent.

Who is aboard? Tell me, or please explain.

What lies behind the words Fresh Bread, like freight

that hints it’s time for light to come again?

(Sunrise the pretext/union worth the wait.)

You who direct my words towards warm light,

you are both very masterful and holy,

breaking the back of this cold winter night

and this code (but not with the letter’s body).

Translated from the Russian by Leo Yankevich

***

People roam the stalks

searching for new life there,

and each just talks and talks—

as if all is prepared:

among them all the chatter

is an old dirty wall

(no wallpaper—dusty litter—

still glued before the fall.

Rolled-up is a stalk

whose creaking sound is white,

as if it wished to mock,

were march woods in the light.

Yet nothing can renew

a homestead been undone.

(Better if the glue

were fiery setting sun.)

Translated from the Russian by Leo Yankevich

***

A storm cloud strikes a street

with hail to mask despair

(a passage to this earth

with no choice in the air)?

The creation, liberty

here, the movement within

brightly lit, only

street lamps and summer din?

Hailstones, feel the choice?

At evening seen by all:

it comes abruptly, weightless

in the waterfall.

And you, before your fall,

can touch a street lamp's beam

amid the misty noises

and follow light to dream.

Translated from the Russian by Leo Yankevich

***

Woods, too tired to walk into the white,

did you not find a way to warm up

to the blue amid the branches, wound

round pines along a squirrel run?

The opposite with people. They must squeeze

their bodies into heavy clothes,

and yet they do not manage to get warm—

their blood squeezed slowly into numbness.

In people, too: a body with no room

for the warming of the soul, even

a body with sufficient ease of movement,

even when it’s comfortable.

What shall I be wound round by? On tree trunks

in a clearing there is a squirrel run,

striving for a soft and fiery height

higher than the eye can see.

Translated from the Russian by Leo Yankevich

Five Poems

Joseph S. Salemi — Sun, 10 Jul 2011 18:42:06 +0000

Critical Judgment

Young Wordsworth was an egotistic twit

Who thought the cosmos turned upon his soul.

I’m glad I never met the little git

But still he wrote good poetry, all told.

Alexander Pope Comments On “Beach Blanket Bingo”

There’s not much chance of bedding Gidget

When you are a crippled midget.

To Dorothy Parker, On Behalf Of Men

You’re wrong—we’ll make passes

At girls who wear glasses

As long as they’re lasses

With cute, curvy asses.

Ballade Of Health Food

God save us from the health food freaks,

That enervated pallid crew

Of nerdy little tightassed geeks

Who live on tea and veggie stew.

I wish I even vaguely knew

What drives these dopes to munch dry seeds,

To dine on stuff that tastes like glue,

To live on cornflakes, bran, and weeds.

Just gaze upon their hollow cheeks,

Their skin devoid of glow or hue.

When one of them pipes up and speaks

It sounds like death is overdue.

These morons seem to take their cue

From quack physicians whose dull screeds

Insist that one should only chew

On cornflakes, tasteless bran, and weeds.

The young, the middle-aged, antiques—

All sorts are strict adherents to

A diet of dried beans and leeks,

Of fruit juice, yogurt, sprouts. Now who

The hell would choose that witches’ brew

To satisfy his body’s needs?

No person ever thrived or grew

On cornflakes, withered bran, and weeds.

L’envoi:

Prince, advice from me to you:

The state’s endangered by such creeds.

Go after them. String up a few

Who live on cornflakes, bran, and weeds.

Financial Advice To Poets

A poet is a silly sod

If he thinks he’ll earn a wad

Of money from his verse transcendent—

You’d make more as a john attendant.

This has been the decree of Fates

From Homer up to Butler Yeats:

Obscurity and empty purses

Shall dog poor fools who write in verses.

You only turn this trade to bucks

By teaching it to dumber schmucks.

Nine Poems

Patricia A. Marsh — Wed, 01 Jun 2011 04:01:42 +0000

Window Peeper

startled

by the motion

censor lights you installed,

your landlord stumbles down the walk

cursing

Remember…

…old tricks

your brother played

yesterday–-April fool!—

but don’t miss the new laughter in

his eyes…

On Second Thought

Remove

your flannel robe

from the Give Away box:

a welcome shower turned once more

to snow.

Cross Country

bedbugs

vacationing

in a Winnebago

caused the family reunion

to suck

A Neighbor’s Best Friend

Dang dog!

Give him a bath

and he itches to go

rolling in cow-flop and week-old

road-kill . . .

No Windows Underground

Sis watched

the sun go down

with a crippled miner

who lived across the road until

daybreak

Status Cymbals

MY B

F F PRISSY

BADONKADONK SED SHE

UNFRENDED ALL 1003

UV US

Disconnected

Love called

and I answered

with a pre-recorded

message: “…busy right now…call back…"

later

Trying Mother’s Patience

(An exercise in monometer)

She counts

from one

to ten

and, then,

to ten

again.

But when

she counts

from ten

to one

. . . . . run!

Five Poems

Leland Jamieson — Sun, 01 May 2011 04:01:35 +0000

Magical Balaclava

I’d worn my balaclava when I took
a walk this morning. It was zero— cold!
No doubt folks thought I was some kind of schnook . . . .
Surprising warmth, though, started to enfold
my windpipe as my body’s heat cajoled
the arctic air to drop gelidity—
as frost-pearls knit of breath’s humidity.

The Peach

(Visiting a friend in “Peach Country,”
Rockingham, North Carolina.)

For T.T., who spoke the truth without
exaggeration. Thanks for the invitation.

Your peach tree limbs are laden near to breaking
with fruit, and in the breeze we’re swept by scent
of what the sun has quietly been making—
inviting us to eat ’til we’re content.

I gently grasp the fuzz, not yet the fruit—
when it drops in my palm with all its weight.
Turning it over, truly, it’s a beaut.
I stroke its blushing face and salivate.

(Looks nothing like the choke-down deeply bruised
gas-ripened radiated peach in stores.
My wallet and my palate, long abused,
gave up that store-bought fruit not fit for boars . . . .)

One bite of this squirts juice up in my eyes
and down my chin. You laugh, and rhapsodize.

Consciousness, in Passing….

René Descartes’ “I think, therefore I am”
appeared self-evident until Jean-Paul
Sartre observed it was a subtle sham:
“The consciousness ‘I am’ is not at all
the one that quips ‘I think.’” Still, thoughts enthrall
most egos ’til approaching our own deaths—
feeling ‘I am’ with just our last few breaths.

Against All Ohms

For E.K.J., an electrical engineer’s
engineer, on his 47th birthday.

The joy we dads take in our kids
as they grow up is hard to show
among conflicting egos, ids,
and superegos in the flow.
Few things are what they seem to be,
and fewer turn out as we’d think.
The teenage personality
hangs up a sign: ‘Back Off, Please, Inc’.

Since we’d not quicken splinters’ smarts—
perplexed, more puzzled as we watch—
we do back off with aching hearts
as they let belts out, notch by notch . . . .

As each new step becomes a stride
we are electrified with pride.

Connundrum of Movement

(After Zecharia Stitchin’s Earth Chronicles.)

How take The Unmoved Mover, moved to make
the Anunnaki—and the likes of us?
What moved this? Love? Too utterly opaque!
The Unmoved Mover moved? Ridiculous!
It won’t save us to read Leviticus.
Yet human eyes turned outward may, when ashen
at what they see, be moved to feel compassion.