Mr Poe where have you been walking?
alleyways and amid the roses
beyond the inn
Mr Poe you lie
we have seen you in the liquor houses
day and night you drink though you know
it will kill you
I swear on my mother's pure white soul
that it is another
who resembles me
who wishes to destroy me and
what is left of my reputation
Who then?
I do not know his name
but I will find him out
Mr Poe you lie
there is no one
who resembles you
____
This is not a poem, really, but a bit of dialog from a screenplay I was working on in early 2005 for a class. Then in 2006, Matthew Pearl published The Poe Shadow, so I abandoned the work. Unfortunately, I have a lot of work that I've held on to just long enough for somebody else to publish it first.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Ants
The robot arm hovered over the nest, steadied itself against the blast of hot wind, then lowered with tedious care to the ground. The operator, Kell, took a breath and released a few parasilicon beads into the entrance. Counted to ten. Released a few more.
Evidenced by tiny puffs of dust, the foragers were moving around, "sniffing" the beads, likely, picking up the scouts' chemical signatures artfully applied by Kell in the coolness of the lab. In a moment, they would swarm out of the nest, heading in all directions. None would return until they had found something edible. The foragers never made this decision on their own, as individuals. It was a decision made by chemicals, timing, and numbers. Gordon ants on this planet behaved exactly as harvester ants did on Earth.
He waited. His prediction was rewarded by the sudden emergence of dozens of foragers, their huge mandibles clacking loudly enough for Kell to hear.
Gratified, he sat back against the worn seat of the lab, tapped the results with his fingerDroid, and took a thinkbreak.
Overhead, the sun shimmered. One more day and he would be freed from this assignment. He thought of Yuye Wauk, safe in his village. He thought of the desert valley that separated Yuye from the interlopers who had at first built only isolated huts, nonthreatening, merely interesting. But their numbers had soon multiplied. Yuye, of course, had welcomed them, taught them, even took one to wife. Kell did not trust them, with their blunt teeth and droning voices, wingless and weakened versions of the Salixeum. Their temples had already fallen into the sand.
The robot rattled as if pelted by stones. Kell looked up to see foragers tapping energetically on the windscreen. He cursed. Obviously, the worn seals had leaked his scent and the foragers had linked onto it as a source of food. He increased the tesla feed by a notch, and the foragers leapt off the screen. He wouldn't wait to see if they were angry yet, when nothing would stop them from finding, shredding, and carting his body back to the nest. With a nearly human shiver, the robot lifted, shaking off the last of the foragers, and Kell headed back to BaseCamp for the last time.
____
Listen to Deborah Gordon talking about ant behavior:
http://www.ted.com/talks/deborah_gordon_digs_ants.html
Evidenced by tiny puffs of dust, the foragers were moving around, "sniffing" the beads, likely, picking up the scouts' chemical signatures artfully applied by Kell in the coolness of the lab. In a moment, they would swarm out of the nest, heading in all directions. None would return until they had found something edible. The foragers never made this decision on their own, as individuals. It was a decision made by chemicals, timing, and numbers. Gordon ants on this planet behaved exactly as harvester ants did on Earth.
He waited. His prediction was rewarded by the sudden emergence of dozens of foragers, their huge mandibles clacking loudly enough for Kell to hear.
Gratified, he sat back against the worn seat of the lab, tapped the results with his fingerDroid, and took a thinkbreak.
Overhead, the sun shimmered. One more day and he would be freed from this assignment. He thought of Yuye Wauk, safe in his village. He thought of the desert valley that separated Yuye from the interlopers who had at first built only isolated huts, nonthreatening, merely interesting. But their numbers had soon multiplied. Yuye, of course, had welcomed them, taught them, even took one to wife. Kell did not trust them, with their blunt teeth and droning voices, wingless and weakened versions of the Salixeum. Their temples had already fallen into the sand.
The robot rattled as if pelted by stones. Kell looked up to see foragers tapping energetically on the windscreen. He cursed. Obviously, the worn seals had leaked his scent and the foragers had linked onto it as a source of food. He increased the tesla feed by a notch, and the foragers leapt off the screen. He wouldn't wait to see if they were angry yet, when nothing would stop them from finding, shredding, and carting his body back to the nest. With a nearly human shiver, the robot lifted, shaking off the last of the foragers, and Kell headed back to BaseCamp for the last time.
____
Listen to Deborah Gordon talking about ant behavior:
http://www.ted.com/talks/deborah_gordon_digs_ants.html
Monday, December 27, 2010
answered prayer
smoke carries prayer up
in north and south america
wind carries prayer up
with ribbons loosed from trees
east, north, west, south
from untamed colors and bells deep and gleaming
go prayers up
fervent wishes, frank desire, hope,
from everywhere in the human world
to the burning sun, the moon that never turns its face,
to stars, gas giants, the black echo
of heaven
stone, earth, cloud, within
the answered prayer (
culture-changer, world-changer,
messenger sent to chastise and renew)
alarms the faithful
seemingly arrested: falsely burdened with earthly sins,
shattered, imprisoned, hanged,
bastinadoed, bladed, chained, exiled
and still the fearful pray,
give their god another chance
to get it right
while all around the very atoms glow
and endless day hath ended endless night
_____
"Thou beholdest, O my God, how every bone in my body soundeth like a pipe with the music of Thine inspiration, revealing the signs of Thy oneness and the clear tokens of Thy unity." (Baha'u'llah, Prayers and Meditations by Baha'u'llah, p. 111)
in north and south america
wind carries prayer up
with ribbons loosed from trees
east, north, west, south
from untamed colors and bells deep and gleaming
go prayers up
fervent wishes, frank desire, hope,
from everywhere in the human world
to the burning sun, the moon that never turns its face,
to stars, gas giants, the black echo
of heaven
stone, earth, cloud, within
the answered prayer (
culture-changer, world-changer,
messenger sent to chastise and renew)
alarms the faithful
seemingly arrested: falsely burdened with earthly sins,
shattered, imprisoned, hanged,
bastinadoed, bladed, chained, exiled
and still the fearful pray,
give their god another chance
to get it right
while all around the very atoms glow
and endless day hath ended endless night
_____
"Thou beholdest, O my God, how every bone in my body soundeth like a pipe with the music of Thine inspiration, revealing the signs of Thy oneness and the clear tokens of Thy unity." (Baha'u'llah, Prayers and Meditations by Baha'u'llah, p. 111)
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
bamboo sestina
There is no bamboo sestina.
But surely there is bamboo.
Somewhere
And surely there is a sestina.
This is not a sestina.
It is more like haiku without regard to syllables or length.
Which is not haiku.
Although surely there is haiku.
Somewhere.
And.
If a word weir catches fish made of syllables.
A catch
May
Float
Float
On a bamboo sestina.
Monday, November 29, 2010
ocean
the only way to keep the ocean out of my ears
is to keep my mouth open
the wind blows all day in the back of my throat
it is trying to tell me something
something that all shells know when they
wash up on the sand
all the way down to my heart
the way is rocky
great webs of flesh
have grown around my interior spaces
like coral laid down over centuries
my lungs are involved in a great
conspiracy
there is a rebellion brewing
some mutiny
I want to say, I am the captain
and nobody leaves this ship
but I am talking to the ocean
and the crew won't hear
Friday, November 26, 2010
stone fish weir
"Don't you hear it, Bucky boy?"
Mama was standing in the creek, her pants rolled up to her knees and the cool cool water tenderly washing over her bare ankles like the clear tongue of a dog glistening over the smooth stones like cellophane and lapping lapping against Mama and the muddy pebbly shore.
She was looking upstream toward the bend where sycamores dropped their shiny leaves into the water to float towards them like little boats, where something plopped into the water, frogs maybe or little swimming mice trying to get somewhere.
"Hear what?" Bucky said. He was five or so, slapping the mud with a stick, hoping to dislodge something, a quarter or a diamond or a salamander. Something. He suddenly bent down and picked up a lump of black stone and washed it in the creek.
"What's this, Mama?" he said showing it her.
She glanced at his outstretched hand. "Magnetite," she replied. "It's like a little magnet."
Her attention was pulled away then by the thing she was listening to. She peered up the creek, her eyes squinting against the sun.
"They're coming," she said, almost to herself.
Bucky tossed the magnetite into the water and went back to slapping at the mud. Then he stood up and looked at his mother.
"Can I go in?" Bucky asked. His voice was a little whiny, like he had already asked this a few times and been told no.
"Not yet," Mama said. "Wait 'til they get here. Then you'll see." She turned toward him long enough to bestow a smile upon him. She took a step further into the water.
Bucky responded with a vicious poke at the mud, then another and a third, gouging and lifting slices of the shoreline. Mud flew up in little clots and splattered his knees and pinged into the water like miniature bombs.
"Pew!" Bucky said each time he jabbed the stick into the ground.
The water had begun to arrive in small waves, lapping more generously at Mama's legs.
She giggled. "Here they come," she said and motioned for Bucky to come to her.
"Come on Bucky, they're coming. Step in. Step in," she said. "Hurry!"
Bucky threw down his stick and jumped into the water both feet at once, sending a splash up over his legs that fell like a sudden rain into the creek. He stomped over to Mama, both of them grinning wide. Then she lifted him up and hugged him to herself.
"Here they come!" she said. "Hold me tight!"
Suddenly the waves were a flood, washing over Mama and Bucky and sending them reeling, Bucky hanging on to Mama and squealing with delight. They fell into the flood and it carried them downstream. And in the flood were other living things -- schools of fish and frogs and salamanders and turtles and otters and ducks --- and uprooted bank ivy and baby trees and stones -- and all of them rolling over and together.
Then they came on either shore with shouts and sticks banging and clapping and crashing through the woods: dozens of people chasing the flood or maybe they had built it up out of some kind of magic, running with and behind the water downstream, downstream.
And finally, Bucky and his Mama washed up into the stone weir, the flood subsiding into the humble creek there. They tumbled over the V of stones to the other side, rolling into the calm shore holding tight to each other. They stood up and shook themselves off and Mama made Bucky sit on the bank with her, hidden behind the big trees. The half-water creatures, the otters, the ducks, the turtles, were climbing over the stones to safety. But in the stone V of the weir the fish swam around and around in the water and the people came into the water from the shores and blocked them in standing hip to hip and throwing their spears into the pool.
That night the people ate well and Bucky and Mama watched them from the woods.
"You see, Bucky," Mama whispered. "That's what the people do after they gather the fish."
"Can we do that too?" Bucky asked.
"Oh, yes, we will," Mama replied. "When we're hungry enough, we'll gather the people in our own stone weir." She giggled.
________
(This story owes its genesis to Rain by Daniel Alamia and to what I've learned about the stone fish weirs used by Native Americans in the northeast part of the US)
Mama was standing in the creek, her pants rolled up to her knees and the cool cool water tenderly washing over her bare ankles like the clear tongue of a dog glistening over the smooth stones like cellophane and lapping lapping against Mama and the muddy pebbly shore.
She was looking upstream toward the bend where sycamores dropped their shiny leaves into the water to float towards them like little boats, where something plopped into the water, frogs maybe or little swimming mice trying to get somewhere.
"Hear what?" Bucky said. He was five or so, slapping the mud with a stick, hoping to dislodge something, a quarter or a diamond or a salamander. Something. He suddenly bent down and picked up a lump of black stone and washed it in the creek.
"What's this, Mama?" he said showing it her.
She glanced at his outstretched hand. "Magnetite," she replied. "It's like a little magnet."
Her attention was pulled away then by the thing she was listening to. She peered up the creek, her eyes squinting against the sun.
"They're coming," she said, almost to herself.
Bucky tossed the magnetite into the water and went back to slapping at the mud. Then he stood up and looked at his mother.
"Can I go in?" Bucky asked. His voice was a little whiny, like he had already asked this a few times and been told no.
"Not yet," Mama said. "Wait 'til they get here. Then you'll see." She turned toward him long enough to bestow a smile upon him. She took a step further into the water.
Bucky responded with a vicious poke at the mud, then another and a third, gouging and lifting slices of the shoreline. Mud flew up in little clots and splattered his knees and pinged into the water like miniature bombs.
"Pew!" Bucky said each time he jabbed the stick into the ground.
The water had begun to arrive in small waves, lapping more generously at Mama's legs.
She giggled. "Here they come," she said and motioned for Bucky to come to her.
"Come on Bucky, they're coming. Step in. Step in," she said. "Hurry!"
Bucky threw down his stick and jumped into the water both feet at once, sending a splash up over his legs that fell like a sudden rain into the creek. He stomped over to Mama, both of them grinning wide. Then she lifted him up and hugged him to herself.
"Here they come!" she said. "Hold me tight!"
Suddenly the waves were a flood, washing over Mama and Bucky and sending them reeling, Bucky hanging on to Mama and squealing with delight. They fell into the flood and it carried them downstream. And in the flood were other living things -- schools of fish and frogs and salamanders and turtles and otters and ducks --- and uprooted bank ivy and baby trees and stones -- and all of them rolling over and together.
Then they came on either shore with shouts and sticks banging and clapping and crashing through the woods: dozens of people chasing the flood or maybe they had built it up out of some kind of magic, running with and behind the water downstream, downstream.
And finally, Bucky and his Mama washed up into the stone weir, the flood subsiding into the humble creek there. They tumbled over the V of stones to the other side, rolling into the calm shore holding tight to each other. They stood up and shook themselves off and Mama made Bucky sit on the bank with her, hidden behind the big trees. The half-water creatures, the otters, the ducks, the turtles, were climbing over the stones to safety. But in the stone V of the weir the fish swam around and around in the water and the people came into the water from the shores and blocked them in standing hip to hip and throwing their spears into the pool.
That night the people ate well and Bucky and Mama watched them from the woods.
"You see, Bucky," Mama whispered. "That's what the people do after they gather the fish."
"Can we do that too?" Bucky asked.
"Oh, yes, we will," Mama replied. "When we're hungry enough, we'll gather the people in our own stone weir." She giggled.
________
(This story owes its genesis to Rain by Daniel Alamia and to what I've learned about the stone fish weirs used by Native Americans in the northeast part of the US)
thinking through the process of change
I have too many things, she said, looking around her little townhouse. That's my problem. Too much furniture and too many books.
She touched her bookshelves lovingly, scanning the titles. Maybe I could sell some of these and make room. But no, each book had been carefully selected for its contents or its cover or how it opened when balanced in the hand. Why make room? She thought. I would only buy more books.
She glanced at the furniture in the living room. New, and not very comfortable. But now that she had it --- she had bought it for company, though she seldom had any -- she didn't want to get rid of it. Her more comfortable furniture, well, that had sentimental value. And her desk was an antique, almost. She had painted it herself, when? Fifteen years ago now. She remembered painting it black and then moving it to her new apartment after the divorce. No, she couldn't get rid of the desk. It was a sign of independence.
Maybe I just need a bigger place, she said, and then remembered how she loved this little townhouse on the edge of town, close by the mountains and nearly hidden from the highway. If I moved to a house, I might be too far from the neighbors. What would happen then if I got sick or injured? And I would never feel safe.
No, she said. I probably need to be more organized. Satisfied with that decision, she picked a book off the pile on the floor and leafed through it. Then she gazed out the window, watching a hummingbird darting at the wild flowers. The sun was bright and the sky a lovely blue. She turned back and looked around her living room. It seemed crowded. She frowned. I have too many things, she said.
She touched her bookshelves lovingly, scanning the titles. Maybe I could sell some of these and make room. But no, each book had been carefully selected for its contents or its cover or how it opened when balanced in the hand. Why make room? She thought. I would only buy more books.
She glanced at the furniture in the living room. New, and not very comfortable. But now that she had it --- she had bought it for company, though she seldom had any -- she didn't want to get rid of it. Her more comfortable furniture, well, that had sentimental value. And her desk was an antique, almost. She had painted it herself, when? Fifteen years ago now. She remembered painting it black and then moving it to her new apartment after the divorce. No, she couldn't get rid of the desk. It was a sign of independence.
Maybe I just need a bigger place, she said, and then remembered how she loved this little townhouse on the edge of town, close by the mountains and nearly hidden from the highway. If I moved to a house, I might be too far from the neighbors. What would happen then if I got sick or injured? And I would never feel safe.
No, she said. I probably need to be more organized. Satisfied with that decision, she picked a book off the pile on the floor and leafed through it. Then she gazed out the window, watching a hummingbird darting at the wild flowers. The sun was bright and the sky a lovely blue. She turned back and looked around her living room. It seemed crowded. She frowned. I have too many things, she said.
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