Quasimodo Gets Revenge for Esmeralda

3 Word Wednesday: Caustic. Hunch. Sacrifice.

Frollo sacrificed
her to hide his caustic guilt.
The hunchback killed him.

Note that this refers to the novel by Victor Hugo, not the cartoon by Disney.

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National Poetry Month is upon us

This year I'll be observing it with (among other things) a project I've had in mind for some time.

In Neil Gaiman's Sandman (and if you don't know what I'm talking about, go get it), there's a single-issue story titled "Calliope". In which the Muse Calliope is enslaved and abused by a human, Richard Madoc (he's a writer, y'see). She calls for help on Morpheus, the Lord of Dreams. Morpheus appears to Madoc in a dream and asks (warns) him to let Calliope go. Madoc refuses, complaining that without her he can't write as he has no ideas.

Fine, says the Dream Lord. You want ideas? I'll give you ideas...

Waking from his nap, Madoc commences to babble as ideas crowd into his head. I won't explain what happens next: if you've read it you know, and if you haven't, I won't deprive you of the pleasure of seeing it work itself out.

But here's the thing: the ideas that Madoc babbles are good ones. Morpheus plays fair. So this month I'm going to try to write a poem around each of the ideas Madoc spits out. I'll post them under the label "Madoc", and eventually put up a final post with all of them (probably an expandable, as it'll be quite long).

Hang on. It should be a wild ride.

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Sand Dollars for Pesach

Five petals more delicate
than geraniums.

Baby fingers clutching at
a basket's rim.

A handful of hope thrown against
a rocky shore

delivered up safely.
A miracle.

For Chanukah give me gelt,
for Pesach,

give me a sand dollar.

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Awoken Rhythm

The pendulum evokes a rhythmic walk:
a sound of steps that cross, recross the floor.
It drives the hands that travel round the clock

but cannot move itself past tick and tock.
A clockwork slave, a prisoner of war,
the pendulum is choking. Rhythmic walk

down unlit passages. A midnight stalk
that searches faces but can't find a door.
The sliding hands that grope around the clock

are searching for an exit. Hear them knock
against the glass that cages in the poor
sad pendulum. Its broken-rhythmic walk

is ripples bumping boats against a dock
while tides erase the footprints from the shore,
while hands are hurling gravel at the clock.

Prisoners: the key is in the lock,
or in your hand. No jailer can endure
the swing of the awoken rhythm. Walk
away while glassy faces stare in shock.

--for Miss Rumphius: animating the inanimate.
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Wag's Revue

Issue #5 is up at Wag's Revue. Includes the responses to their syllable sestina challenge, as well as lots of other good stuff.

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details

they say the devil's in the details
but God's in the design
and there are angels at the borders
but there's space between the lines

when the tapestry unravels
all the threads are in a knot
and the pawns can't find the lineup
and the rim can't find the shot

there's no attendant at the toll-booth
there's no freeway exit sign
and the devil's in the details
and God's in the design

no-one knows the rules for scoring
this existential game
and we think we know the culprit
but it could be just a frame

and we think there's something out there
what it is is not defined
there's an angel at the border
but there's space between the lines

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Maple Syrup Spring

It's almost maple syrup time. Each year
I walk the streets in spring and smell the air
as flowers open, petalless and green.
They smell like stacks of pancakes ripening
toward country breakfasts. Candle flames to wicks
adhere, and draw up golden liquid wax
just like the bees that burn in early sunshine
clinging to the maple blossom's stamen
sucking at the nectar, honey-sweet.
Too drunk to sting, they crawl upon my sweat-
damp forearm. I have no equipment-- taps,
lines and buckets, syrup-boiling vats--
nor even probing mouthparts, like a bee
but maple flavors every breath for me.

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Openings

Today a plain tulip bud opened
and revealed itself all streaked and pied.
Today a pair of cotyledons unfurled
and an acorn began to dream it was an oak.
A pair of little boys on a sloping lawn
fissioned into twenty-two men
a loud-voiced announcer
and an arena seating thousands.
Two girls and a stick-horse
rode herd on two thousand head
and their hooves shook the prairie
and bruised the delicate sky with dust.
A pen trembled in my hand.

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Broken Ivory

Biting down on belief
like a stone in a mouthful of rice
you can break teeth.
Biting down
can send a shock through you
like chewing tinfoil.
Biting down is dangerous.
There you are trucking along--
busy with this and the other thing--
wham! You bit down!
Suddenly people you've known all your life
start to wonder if you're crazy.
“No no, I just have this stone in my teeth--”
your sheepish grin is full
of broken ivory.

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Fireflies

He saw her dimly silhouetted
against the window. Outside, skies
darkened over hedges netted
with the flicker-dance of fireflies.

Love lost its hold. He could not meet
the question lurking in her eyes.
Brilliant tears could not compete
with the flicker-dance of fireflies.

Insect terrorists with tiny
bioluminescent bombs, spies
blinking some encrypted sign, he
thought the flicker-dance of fireflies.

Quick! The Flit! No hesitation—
take these evil bugs by surprise!
Hell-bent on extermination
of the flicker-dance of fireflies

he rushed outside. A summer night,
transformed to beetle Hell. Her cries,
unheeded in his deadly fight
with the flicker-dance of fireflies.

There may be hope. He can be cured,
with proper care. The doctor's wise
to his delusions. They've ensured
that the flicker-dance of fireflies

is banished from the well-groomed lawn
around the rest home. Still, he lies
awake and staring until dawn,
dreads the flicker-dance of fireflies.

Using the form definition from Poetic Asides, which differs from other kyrielle definitions I've seen in specifying a number of syllables per line (8), rather than a meter. It came out close enough to iambic tet-- yet not quite iambic tet-- to make my skin itch. I will probably rewrite this at some point to either make it truly metric, or not metric at all.

Please note that fireflies are correctly beetles, not bugs or flies.
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Indeterminacy

Every day I stand at his side.
I wipe the board: clouds of chalk particles
burn the inside of my throat.
I clean his pens.

He tells me he dreams
of clouds of particles. Burning clouds
over the Black Forest. He was accused
of being Jewish—but "acquitted"
because they needed him
for the Uranium Club.
He crumples up equations
and tries again.

I empty the wastebaskets
and burn the papers. I know the direction
his thoughts are taking.
He dreams of burning particles.
He thinks Germany can't build a bomb
in time to win. He's uncertain.

My position is secure
but I have no direction. If he were certain—
one way or another.
I would act. Or not act.
My orders are to prevent the bomb
by any means
by any means necessary
I empty the wastebaskets
and burn the papers.
I dream of burning particles.

Every day I stand close to him
but he knows nothing of the direction
my thoughts are taking.

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Bombings

3 Word Wednesday: Pulse. Shard. Weary.

weary survivors
pick bloody glass and steel shards
from still pulsing wounds

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Butterfly Watching (revised and illustrated)

It's early yet. So far this spring, I've seen
some little household moths and one
brave fritillary at Alberta Park.
The pupae that the caterpillars spun
and hung from branches in the days between
the autumn's last light and the winter's dark
are mostly still unopened, presents wrapped
in precious stuff. When summer tears the silk
they'll come: the black-and-yellow scalloped shapes
whose shadows interlocked and overlapped
against the unmarked linen of the drapes
that flowed as smooth and pale as mother's milk
that night among the February gales,
the night I dreamed a flight of swallowtails.

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Loaf

lazy bread waiting
for the stimulus of heat
reclining, rising

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A Victorian Elopement

As escapes went, it was nonpareil.
Not content with furtive fumbles
behind the ferns in the conservatory
they fled the grounds altogether:
hand in hand, mirror-studded
costumes flashing in the mist.
Turquoise and magenta curtains
rattled at the motor-coach's window—
"Strumpet! Strumpet, I say!"
The chaperone threw down his cup in fury
all too late.

words courtesy of Read Write Poem
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In Praise of Mountains

I cannot live without mountains.
I cannot live without looking up
but the sky is too high, and it hurts my neck.
Praise God for mountains.

There's clean water in the heights
combed from passing cotton clouds.
Praise God for mountains.

There's a black dog-tooth shape
against a flaming sunrise.
There's a pale silhouette
under a rising moon.
There are shoulders lifting under green forests.
Praise God for mountains
for they rise above.

From the steel canyons of the city
they rise above
From the dusty sagebrush flats
they rise above
From the green valley of orchards
they rise above
Praise God for mountains
for they rise above.

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Blades of Light

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Dead Grass Moon

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True Modesty

3 Word Wednesday: Modify. Obedient. Veil.

obedient souls
modify their behavior
and don't need to veil

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Horse Shadow

the grey horse grazed across a hill
in shifting cloud-shadows and dappled sunshine
hard hooves among stones and grass
the grey horse moved over granite
like slow water over gravel
the lines of its legs were song-shining ripples
the grey horse on the green hill
cast a crippled shadow in the westering sun

Beloved, I have been neglectful
but not unfaithful. The soul remembers
what the laboring flesh forgets.
Under a blossoming magnolia at dawn
I call Your name into the echoing
halls of time. Memory is crippled
by the weight of a body. It's
a horse-shadow limping out of sight.

--for Read Write Poem's "hinge" prompt.

As described in the prompt, the "hinge" would fall between the stanzas, but I think it's much more effective if it comes at the end, surprising the reader by linking what had appeared to be two unrelated ideas. But possibly the "hinge" idea is derived from the "volta" or turn in a sonnet, which is supposed to come slightly more than halfway through the poem.
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Earth-Shaker, Father of Horses

It seemed that Poseidon
trembled in his sleep and shook
his bed. The walls of the world
quivered; water raced
around the globe in silent hills.

No horses came forth
from the water this time;
the straining froth birthed only
flopping fish. No chariot
raced through the shallows.

He sleeps again. The Bull
stays quiescent at his feet.
For now.

--for Weekend Wordsmith
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Confluence

Confluence: a place where rivers join
and waters test each other's shade and heft.
They partner, but don't mix, like warp and weft
or heads and tails on each side of a coin.
This strange and color-bifurcated flow
may last for miles, until the waters blend
and sweep, a single torrent, round each bend
absorbing tributaries as they go.

We met, but shared no language. We were fluent
only in our mother-tongues. For years
we worked for understanding. Sweat and tears
resulted in relationships that were congruent.
Confluence: a point where rivers merge,
where streams of language and of thought converge.

Confluence of the Rio Negro and Rio Solimoes
--for Sunday Scribblings

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Random Queen

Rain after drought and the ancient puddles
find their old boundaries rapidly filling.
The pattern they make on the ground looks random
to an eye that's confused by their liquid glitter.
The clouds overhead are heavy as the velvet
bolts on display down at the town market.

The queen is enthroned at the gate to the market
and the heavy robe of her high office puddles
around her feet. Its sleeves are banded with velvet.
A servant stands at her left elbow, filling
inkwells. Cut-glass decanters glitter
on the bench, casting off rainbows at random.

She's Lady Luck; she's the Queen of the Random.
She rules every sale that takes place in the market.
Her twelve-percent cut coats her clothing in glitter.
Her lapdog is drinking spilled wine from red puddles.
She offers up bread to the beggars: it's filling.
She offers them roses as red as her velvet

with thorns sharp as cat's claws hidden in velvet
and poison on one or two, chosen at random.
Business is business and quotas need filling
in the death-life arena we're calling the market.
The walkways are dotted with scarlet puddles
and strangers pass with their eyes a-glitter.

On the market stalls, jewelery glitters
resting at ease in cases lined with velvet.
Shoppers step carefully, avoiding puddles.
The gate-guards yawn and toss coins at random,
determining who's to be let in the market.
Empty slots never go long without filling.

The Queen shows her teeth: all of her fillings
are solid gold and blind with their glitter.
Behind her, silence falls over the market
and the merchants pull raincoats over their velvets.
There's thunder above and lightning strikes at random,
fat drops falling into swollen puddles.

Fat cats rest in puddles of velvet.
When you've had your fill of glamor and glitter
ask yourself if the market is random.

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Domino - by Steve Perry

Well, he said he would, and by God he did...
Steve Perry sings "Domino"

Having a poem set to music is a whole new experience for me. Thanks, Steve!

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Amazing Grace

3 Word Wednesday: Amaze. Frail. Sacred.

the flesh may be frail
but the soul remains sacred
o amazing grace

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Domino

Watch this. It's breathtaking.

I'm just the next one in the row
Knock me over, you know
Where I'll go

But you never know where it will end
As the motive force travels from handle to hand
And a ball might roll and fall in a hole
(It looks just like chaos but it's under control)
Or maybe a hammer will drop from the ceiling
Send a manikin reeling
Knock me over and a bucket might overflow
I'm a domino

I'm just the next card in the pack
I'm a ball rolling helpless on a spiralling track
Knock me down and a garbage can spills
And a fan blows a parasol halfway to hell
While the screens fly apart for the show
I'm a domino

I'm a marble they tossed in the ring
To bring down a tower and make a golf club swing
The typewriter's typing but all that it writes
is the next move in this Goldberg device
A piano comes down on a string
Oh, the guitar would play its own tune
if it could get rid of those tinkling spoons
It's a glass harp in a concrete room
And I'm a ball on a spring
What do I know
I'm a domino

I'm only a link in a chain
Like hand-in-hand monkeys all dancing in pain
I'm boxes and barrels heaped up and unstable
a hopper of nerf-balls, a broken-legged table
a shattered TV-screen that hangs from a cable
the ghost in a Lego machine
I'm a hapless event in a sequence that's framed
by paint-guns and domino rows
I'm a domino

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Strobe Light

The day wrapped itself in peach-colored ribbons
like a gift from God to a still-sleeping world.
A hard gold gleam on the eastern horizon
brought crows tumbling like black banners unfurled
through the grey air into dawn incandescence.
They quarreled over theological fine points
shaking their feathers, shedding casual iridescence,
rainbows breaking from the blackness of pitch.

Each day, unnoticed and unpretentious
these are the miracles that move across the globe.
Light out of darkness and color out of black
between the on and the off of a strobe—
between the closing and opening of a blink—
call us to rise from sleep, awake and conscious.

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