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XXVI:3 |
LYNX
A Journal for Linking Poets |
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GHAZALS
*title and opening line by David St. John
THE WORLD'S SCRIPTURES In the Paleozoic, hidden hands redacted the world’s scriptures. Stone masons chopped raw granite with imaginary chisels. Adam calculated the curve of Eve’s thigh and buttock. Hardly any gods bothered to read or write or do arithmetic. Alphabets and ideograms give Archimedes a fulcrum.
READING ON THE NATURAL HISTORY OF DESTRUCTION The true goal of war is to pile body on body; Rats clamber over the rubble of the world, Warm ash shoveled into a bucket: Punishment your sole inheritance; Ruth survives and learns to forget
Haiga by Emily Romano
THE LIGHT KEEPER It is too clear and so it is hard to see. A spiral stairway encloses the point of light Among the fossil fires Beached with driftwood relics In a tidal pool mirror Wing-fingers stretch open above And decimated shells remain Every vision quest has a secret cost.
SYMBIOTIC POETRY ALWAYS I've always had this unceasing desire of changing the meaning of words and verbs in such a way that they will act on the mind of the reader always. Last night I decided to start. I went to the cellar that I haven't got and lighted two small candles that I had lost, one made with red wax, the other with green. Though pale, the candles provided enough expanding space for my project. I started changing the action of words and verbs at once.
single chair
A CONVERSATION WITH ZUGGRYDIAN AT THE LAST PORT IN THE SOLAR-SYSTEM
Yes, I know. But there is a subtle difference and lines two and three now end with a slant rhyme. Haiku were originally meant to be spoken, you know! I’m sorry. Yes of course I’ll give you a "moment".
What about haibun? I know. Now that I think about it, haibun really do sound contradictory too but they are also poetry even though they’re composed of both prose and poetry in juxtaposition. You are not alone, most folk don’t get it either. No I’m sorry, I have never written one.
simply haiku, winter 2009, vol 7 no 4
ANIMATED MOVIE HAIBUN ttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZGXaTqzO7zM&feature=related from the distant south,
TAKE THE WEATHER ...a form of insinuation, always yet never, humming not singing, no, hints of grey, ghosts, extensions, black, broken, as far as possible, hell, a relic, a ceremony, a cure, beaten, brought back, it’s happening, definitely coming, yes, dark nights, hidden days, vagaries, no one knows, armpits, a steaming vat, leading to this moment, contact, frustrated, no matter, the door, relationship, desire, distance maintained, much distance, rare these days, do you see, look don’t see, look for, look after, looking forward, yes, positive attitude, valuable contribution, discussion, a prayer, make voice heard, brass, cynical, a world of good, doubts tested, that’s the key, face it, face to face, fantastic, fascinating, conclusion, might be possible, don’t buy it, too late, none shall sleep, more than one, none, a voice, don’t think I heard, disappointed, catastrophic, practice, go ahead, wait, just like that, driven, give it a go, the lyrics, like that, sad, write them down, what’s it called, all night, keep out, forget about them, no help, passing, now, not the first time, I have the first, right, running, blowing, slower, I think, right, it is, not that bad, not too bad, the same, over and over, leave, not many have heard, where are they now, commemorate, celebrate memory, play it by ear, excited now, suppose, ping, pong... the walls ...that’s the business, sound better, used to think, a partnership, grief, we’ve all got it wrong, inherent infallibility, system isn’t working, novelty, give up now, defeatist, sure it’s good, now live, exciting victory, eager to start, hands together, rugged, dream small first, young dreams, poet, fool, spin to light, lifted, do now, in time, do what, plan, hold on, get it, silence, celebration, the answer’s simple, costs too much, sound plausible, I feel it’s time, move up, experience the challenge, a potential story, hidden from the rest, walk in the sun, coming at me, no choice now, did you see, quick, you see it, nothing there, does it have a name, how about, no, wait got one, perfect, what, it’s not working, who’s this, it’s alright, shut up, make it quick, any reason why, doubts, a friendly ear, a strange story, it must have burrowed, connection, no others, wild, company, out of the way, seconds, give up on the idea, see it, before it moves, hairy, a plague resting, away, pursuing conventions, it gives off a smell, connected, somewhere safe, together, in chains, caring, mind at rest, easy, in the vice, won’t feel a thing, sure, a few minor modifications, rope, this is new, green, chew through it all, better, more appropriate, still fire, rocks, struggle, listen, icy wind, take in some air, breathe... counselling ...question, leave it, just curiosity, spared the experience, that’s where it grows, somewhere safe, a place you‘d never think of, the last place you’d think, rocking, shaking, falling now, can’t move, rest, yes, fine now, tell you, not here, where, guess, far as possible, working controls, wires, doors, just a dream, crocheted blades, some man speaking, solemn time, an atmosphere of serenity, very special, no more, no sacrifice if easy, won’t be beaten, understood, oh yes, make a vow, deep, somewhere safe, this is easy, not even thinking, not thinking, rocking, do you think, I certainly do, circling Euclid, 3.14159265, doesn’t impress, hold it down, sleep, relent, give in, temptation, punish myself, used to be happy, it wasn’t enough, admit it, Ave, Ave Maria, relentless, holding, seeing things as they are, visions are back, normal, still here, all coming back, I remember, want fun, good miserable time, never think that, imagine that, to disintegrate, on fire, blue, ah yes, my particular vice, willpower, basic things, get rid of pride, obstacles, fulfilment, burn the bricks, red, tonight, I miss the rain, knocking loudly, sound and light, I’m back, didn’t think ahead, a whole head, old habits, day in, day out, oaths, I just wait, counting the days, stories, his not mine, told over, confessional, recounted in silence... fashion victim
THE FISHER POETS i've come to know many of them by name autumn moon tossed about in ocean swells the empty trawler
When I dream of the sea I wake up with no words left in me. Is it like having them washed away? Jumbled. Even the alphabet is stirred into a soup. Crabmeat and abalone? When the tide turns to recede, it draws out the ideas in sleeping minds. All along the coast the petal-fragile consciousness of the unaware slips in one great dark direction. Perhaps that is why people often die at low tide in the night. The silver cups of moonlight in the waves become boats. No boatman as on the river Styx? It seems the tide is so filled with deep knowledge that it alone knows the way. To where? Back to the stars. Our true homes. The navels of our beginnings. the open sea
SALOME AND AVIVA No more refined news on oily Arabian screens? Salome, they’re only trying to suck up the sand’s milk, kneeling Oh, like me? I am a nurse, patiently cashing in at night-services Wow, are you the winner of blessings on corporations’ surplus? Like a flying hostess’ sister not spilling rosé leaning by screaming Ah, is there hope that helps the shades of energy not to melt again? Guess it hurts, Aviva, watching cold skin going out with a riptide Hot on the rock, the father of uncontrolled thoughts named Nobel Look at hybrids, “Otto-engine and the currents” make quiet babies By gum, do you praise the bubbles of share traders in dark hollows? Rubbing my eyes, honey- I guess bait lifts trout staying wild online
wireless dated and yet still two figures not likely close enough to share one shadow
NOTES ON A BUTAN SCULPTURE A miniature man slumbers on the deck of a pewter ship that is his life. A dagger rests beside him. He obviously does not feel threatened, yet his ship balances on the back of an elephant with jeweled ears and pointed teeth. He may dream of victories to come, a confident warrior. While dragons curve in the ocean below, still the man sleeps. He is designed to sleep, to go blindly through the walls of nothing and the threat of dragons, carved by the artist who also made the waves, the ship, the dagger; he is designed to fit this journey where no bird will ever dare to sing and thus embody the courage of the human being. Perhaps in dreams he knows that this is where he was meant to be for he does not seem afraid of what lies below or ahead. And unaware of the glass case and its edges that surround him, the man sleeps. We stare at him, his ship, his dagger, the elephant, and the dragons. Meanwhile, the man, the warrior, sleeps.
it will have to be enough...
She was a bright student, Phi Beta Kappa. Married before graduation. Has her first child six months later. Three more children follow in rapid succession. She moves to a She, with husband and children, move to Florence, Italy, where he continues his art studies. She writes that she is happy. Upon their return she teaches high school English and writes that she is not happy. She and the children move to a commune in California where she grows vegetables, bakes bread, has a lover, changes her name to Sunflower and writes that she is happy.
dried roses
NOTHING SACRED The Poulnabrone Dolmen, the Portal Tomb. A six foot high structure of two slender limestone portal stones supporting a 12 foot flat table-like capstone. High on a hill in the Burren in County Clare, Ireland. The name means “hole of sorrows.” Dating back from 4200 BC – 2900 BC, it is the sacred burial tomb of Celtic tribes. Silhouetted against the lowering sun, it is impressive, especially from a distance I hang back from the group and look again. six foot cairn
LIFE AND LIVING IT
So small a room you have. It’s like the walls are closing in on you. When we argue it breaks my heart and the tears flow. I think of you in such a small room alone at night when there is no one around to embrace you. I love you more than anyone I can think of and you are my closest friend. How could they put you in a small room and leave you to yourself when I am not around. We talk for hours when I’m there, but when I leave you my heart breaks once again. the rain from the bough slowly falling into my heart
A DREAMER first dawn To write in English requires a different way of thinking and focuses more on the expressivity and innovation of words and phrases. During the course of my adjustment to English writing, I have slowly begun to squeeze the Chinese literary mentality out of my mind. As Chinese American writer Ha Jin said emphatically,” it was like having a blood transfusion, like you are changing your blood.” slapped hard Five years have slipped away. I have had limited success in improving my English writing, but I keep on writing. As the poet Robert Louis Stevenson once stressed, "Our business in this world is not to succeed, but to continue to fail in good spirits." For me now, to write in English is to make an attempt without knowing whether I am going to succeed in the unfamiliar world of the alphabet. Maybe, at some point, my English writing will arrive back where I started, and I will know what English writing means to me for the first time. New Year dream
NOBLEBORO BRANCH There’s a dock with a FOR SALE sign on it across the lake, raw land where no cottage was ever built. But for a small clearing at the water’s edge, the rest of the property looks like virgin forest. What lies behind that realtor’s sign? We dive in, swim the channel, and after a decade away, I’m thankful to taste sweet Maine waters again; to feel its tingle resurrect a half-second’s worth of youth. Near the opposite shore, there’s a cluster of lily pads with several buds and one pink blossom. Treading water, I cup the flower, its long and slimy stem descending through my fingers to the leaf-muck below; I sink my nose into it: its scent is brief, nearly transparent but exquisitely fragrant, like nothing I’ve ever smelled. I hold it for my sister. We climb ashore beside the sign. A footpath leads through cedars, pine and hardwoods and ends at a flattened turnaround; beyond it, a gravel road rises and snakes upward through the thick woods, lined with ferns on both sides and weeded up the center, all of it virtually quivering with morning sunlight. No one has driven on it for some time for there are no tire marks in the leaf-moil. The woodlands are shot through with sun-shafts; the air is sprinkled with blue jays. Stone fences climb the easy rise until the land plateaus at a tarred county road—it’s then that my sister sees it: an old cemetery. Its grounds are enclosed by stone fences that maintain their arrow-straight courses through the woods. It has a small gate with wooden tines still attached to a frame, with iron hinge pins keyed to unworked granite posts. But what is most remarkable is that the grounds within are covered entirely by an unbroken quilt of foliage: the headstones float on a lake of ivy, and not even a single stem grows outside its precincts. Under an enormous oak that stands inside the enclosure, a shaft of sunlight pours down through the foliage and like a lamp illumines the smallest headstone: we step carefully into the graveyard, and kneeling, sink down into the depth of ivy around it. Her name was Amanda, and she’d died at five years eight months old in 1865. But when I read her family’s name, I find it’s also our mother’s! I comb the ivy carefully back from the stone and rub the lichen and moss away with my palm enough to read the last four lines near the bottom: She was a child of earth, Who wrote these lines? I read them again, this time aloud to my sister. We move on to her brother’s and lastly, her mother’s and father’s stones. We later learn that what were once only names and dates in the pages of our aunt’s genealogy, a labor of love she’d painstakingly prepared years before the internet, now reaps ivy and poetry, and the Nobleboro branch of our family. The cry of a loon begins and ends a channel swim
EARLY MEMORY, DAVENPORT, IA Reddish squirrel on Brady Street, next to the park, lying on its stomach in the near lane, front legs outstretched as if in flight, a pool of drying blood around its mouth. Traffic passes; no one runs over it a second time. The calm purr of cars passing back and forth.
follows me home
Memorial Day
CRAZY ARROW I’ve stumbled through industrial holes all over the eastern seaboard for years and it’s an uncontested fact that they never get pretty. The miles of lurid floodlights, smokestacks, gauges, domes and tangled pipes weigh heavily on the psyche like expressionistic stage sets for Wozzeck: apparently America feels no need to apply its makeup anymore (if it ever learned). We decide to leave even though we’re dead tired and would be content with any anonymous pillow. My right hand, my associate, is a good sleeper, already snoring as soon as the city’s lampposts have disappeared. So you start feeling your way along the little roads of the night by landmark, a farm here, a huddled enclave there, the lights of a rundown gas station that closes at dusk, a courthouse, a diner, a hill, a shine of water, a bridge. In most any small town there’s always somebody up at four AM with their yellowy lamplight trickling out over their sills and onto Main Street. Somewhere on it float their stories. And you look forward and trust in the terrain to bring you the wide Tennessee and an iron bridge whose metal grates will sing you across it to the mountain road it keeps on the other side, the one that edges you closer home. I like the tire-roar of a van which is often a kind of music, but sometimes you need the real thing. Climbing up the steep grade of the mountain, I poke the ON, and then the SEEK. And out of the air come slivers of country music, evangelistic hoots, soft rock and then—sharp as a laser, buoyant, perfect: Mozart! I swear I have never loved him as much as I do at this moment: brilliant, crystalline, his whole calamitous century marching and dancing behind him like a Fellini procession, though at the lead, Mozart himself is ageless, dressed however floridly. Ah, the Jupiter! And what a master of second winds he is! You wake up and stand at attention. There is no Sisyphus rolling an ungodly boulder up a slope in Mozart’s pantheon, no, only an inexhaustible lightness where even the darkest contrabass is but light turned blue instead of silver, green, orange, or crimson. I once read that the painter Rothko listened to him incessantly while he worked, and to this day I cannot fathom why Mozart didn’t erase a bit more of the painter’s despair, but then I’ve always asked too much of music… and now a brand new day is sneaking up over the mountain like a cow-licked child and into your bed on a Saturday morning, a giggling, sweaty panther ready to pounce and eat you alive with snarls of kisses: Mozart brings all this and as his Jupiter ends, my sleeper smacks his lips in dry-mouth, yawns, grunts and stretches, while our oldest companions, the stars, take their leave as if to say, “good-bye to all that.” until tonight. With this first step, I’ll take one of infinitely many paths to the shifting target, another of which the arrow has never heard
SEQUENCES FOR JAPAN shaken reflection of the lamp spring philodendron little bottles from their departure the blue of the cloud his limbs curtains drawn over distant slumber
NEW ORLEANS spicy crab with eggplant little league oyster artichoke soup approaching gale hazy afternoon heads out the moon roof lakeside restaurant turtle soup play kitchen gala reception blackened redfish causeway drive wrong turn chef's aria levee romp
FROM THE FRONT draft notice separation bare bulb dangling Victory Garden mail call Movie Tone News
PASCAL’S PARADOX It is not certain that everything is uncertain. Out of the pearl grey sky The long headland Appaloosa horses In the geometry of oceans, Never divide by zero
SUNSET SCENE FROM YOUR MEMORIAL BENCH opaline skies netting of vines zig-zagging a Great Horned Owl guiding her owlets owls drop to the lawn a wallflower a plaque underfoot—
HORNET NEST a deserted hornet nest what if what if the nest now paper ashes had they been ancient Romans we pull the nest down we give it to the forest
TANGLED VINES distilled perfumed dust a lotus moon tanka corked fears climbing the walls
RAGGED WINGS a crow the woman to each
TANKA scanning for dawn as the birch the gingko soft rain
BETWEEN AUTUMN AND WINTER pulling up the blind she's gone forever alone a handful of sand the ebb autumn
Haiga by Emily Romano
THAT SHINING SUMMER DAY walking out fearing she laughed I walk alone
ITHACA we linger afterward, tangled I dive into the chill as you sing along
SEASONAL ROMANCES melting snow – pondering wedlock walking barefoot spring’s end gathering shells – winter mist
SINGLE POEMS Im Regenlicht - in rain light
zwischen den Lippen between the lips Gerd Boerner am Rande des Sommers at the edge of summer auf der Wäscheleine on the wash line
a summer's eve
mossy steps ayaz daryl nielsen
a kindergartner
THE MIND'S SHADOW a bar of wet soap—the mind eludes the hand's grasp, rides on bubblees
die Finger fingers
Weggabelung
a forked path spätes Licht
evening light Michael Denhoff Januar - January - Orchestertutti full orchestra with the rag top down
Haiga by Razvan Pintea
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GHAZALS SALAMANDERS SWARM ALONG THE STREAM IN YOUR JAPANESE GARDEN* THE WORLD'S SCRIPTURES READING ON THE NATURAL HISTORY OF DESTRUCTION Haiga by Emily Romano THE LIGHT KEEPER SYMBIOTIC POETRY ALWAYS A CONVERSATION WITH ZUGGRYDIAN AT THE LAST PORT IN THE SOLAR-SYSTEM AGE DOESN'T COME ALONE Animated with music TAKE THE WEATHER SO THE FLESH REARS UP THE FISHER POETS TONGUE-TIDE SALOME AND AVIVA NOTES ON A BUTAN SCULPTURE FRIENDS NOTHING SACRED LIFE AND LIVING IT FOR SARAH BRENNER A DREAMER NOBLEBORO BRANCH EARLY MEMORY, DAVENPORT IA TAPS CRAZY ARROW
SEQUENCES FOR JAPAN NEW ORLEANS FROM THE FRONT PASCAL’S PARADOX SUNSET SCENE FROM YOUR MEMORIAL BENCH HORNET NEST TANGLED VINES RAGGED WINGS TANKA BETWEEN AUTUMN AND WINTER Haiga by Emily Romano THAT SHINING SUMMER DAY ITHACA SEASONAL ROMANCES
SINGLE POEMS Gerd Boerner ayaz daryl nielsen hannah mahoney THE MIND'S SHADOW
Michael Denhoff Johnny Baranski Haiga by Razvan Pintea |
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Back issues of Lynx:
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Next Lynx is scheduled for February, 2012.
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