Thursday, November 12, 2015

Windows (Portfolio Poem #5)





I once heard a song (I think it was by Jerry Cole)
There’s a dream for every window in the city, he sang.

Every lit-up window a different story. seven-million
people experiencing
the same day
in a different way.


If every window in the city has a dream (and I have a window)
What’s my dream?


My eyes linger, peering through my own
Outside is pale gray, a chilly mist settling
(condensation clinging to the window-pane)
and fingers of pale light climbing up the sky.


only until this coffee is finished (it is black
coffee growing slowly cold) will I get up,
rejecting the sofa’s embrace, and leave.

I lift the smooth ceramic to my trembling
mouth. (trembling from weariness or caffeine?)
I’m not sure, anymore.


If every window in the city has a dream (and I have a window)
What’s my dream?




Thursday, October 22, 2015

Remembering (Portfolio Poem #4)

The still-life watercolor: seeping toffee
Afternoon. Sun dripping through limpid lace
Conversation frozen over coffee
Drifting shadows dance across your face.

The past now—a foreign country to me
Details hazy and your features a blur

 But lingering: a stubborn marquee
of words—velvety, venomous liqueur.

Not now not now. A tremulous smile burns.
Why do the frantic dervishes return?











Tuesday, October 13, 2015

Happy Birthday (Portfolio Poem #3)

In marriage, she was a free spirited bohemian. 
They lived in a house
called a "legendary lazy little magical bedlam by the sea"
Ours was a love story
Predominantly it could never 
have got onto its rocking feet in those long-ago, mad days.
We knew light. It was essential.
Life-- raw, bleeding
A torment at the bedside as he lingered long
Settled. Life.
They had fought to gain a child.

**For my cut-up poem, I took an obituary from an archived newspaper article in the New York Times from August 3, 1994 (the day I was born), and cut it up to tell a story of birth and life.**

LONDON, Aug. 3— Caitlin Thomas, a drinking and brawling partner in marriage to the poet Dylan Thomas, died on Sunday at her home in Catania, Italy. She was 81.

No cause was given, but family members did say on Monday that her body would be taken to Wales to be buried with the poet's at Laugharne.

Mrs. Thomas, the former Caitlin MacNamara,
a free-spirited daughter of a bohemian family from County Clare in Ireland, married Thomas in 1937. They had three children -- Llewelyn, Aeronwy and Colm -- and lived in a Laugharne boat house, which Thomas once called a "legendary lazy little black magical bedlam by the sea."

"Ours was not a love story proper; it was more of a drink story," Mrs. Thomas wrote in a memoir that was published in 1982. "Predominantly a drink story because without the first-aid of drink it could never have got onto its rocking feet.

"In those long-ago, wrongly romanticized, deliberately mad (they were deliberately mad), absolutely unpardonable days, our primary aim was to get ourselves noticed at any cost: to show off like crazies to gain attention. So we used shock tactics. We knew only too well that is much easier and quicker to get oneself noticed in a bad light. It was essential to give people a legend." 'Bleeding Meat'

She also described her life with Thomas as "raw, red bleeding meat," a torment of mutual infidelity that ended with her violent tantrum at the bedside of the poet as he died in 1953. Thomas died at St. Vincent's Hospital in Greenwich Village after a night of heavy drinking. He lingered long enough, however, for Mrs. Thomas to burst into his hospital room, where the comatose Thomas was being attended by another woman. In a rage, Mrs. Thomas bit an attendant and fought with bystanders until she was subdued.
She found a more settled life with Giuseppe Fazio, a Sicilian movie director. They had a son, Francesco, when she was 49, but she named him Francesco Thomas and fought to gain a share of Dylan Thomas's estate for him.

She is survived by her four
children.

Wednesday, September 9, 2015

Baby Sister (Portfolio Poem #2)

She is a fluttering, fragile
Crystalline configuration
Falling slowly, fusing suddenly
As she lands, miraculously, upon us.

I scarcely exhale when she is placed in my arms
and marvel-- how dainty! how delicate!
But when the shrieking storm comes
I sometimes forget her beauty.

Looking up close, she and I are worlds within ourselves
Both exquisitely, stubbornly unique--
From a distance, though, it is simple to see
We are formed from the same soft stuff.


Tuesday, September 1, 2015

Solo Flight (Portfolio Poem #1)

Sticky strands of hair
clinging to the nape of my neck as I watch
The golden glow of afternoon seeping like nectar
I smell of dirt and pine trees and bubble gum and smoke.

We sit, my friend and I,
Long browned legs dangling off the edge of the rough rope
Of the hammock.
She says something and I laugh and the gum slides, abruptly
Brisk and businesslike, into the back of my throat.

Shocked, I motion, I motion, it’s stuck, my eyes shout
The seconds are stretched and time is oozing
Like that painting by Dali with the melting clocks.
My friend is shouting but it is distant and she is blurry.
And I taste salt
But I don’t know if it’s sweat or tears or both.

She grabs me jabs my stomach her fists thrust
once
and the rubbery pink wad
Goes on its first solo flight
Up and out of my mouth and I gasp
And the air floods my lungs and I cry and laugh
With my friend who is crying and laughing

Sticky strands of hair clinging
to the nape of my neck as I watch
The golden glow of afternoon seeping like nectar 
I smell of dirt and pine trees and bubble gum and smoke.